The Price of Temptation Read online

  Charles was less circumspect. “If you’re worrying about the expense of another servant, may I remind you of what a costly mistake missing Aunt Matilda’s party was? Especially if she remains annoyed with you?”

  Stephen bit his lip and drummed his fingers on the table for a few seconds. “Can you write a fair hand?” he asked Jamie.

  “Oh yes, my lord.” Through his shock, Jamie was daring to hope.

  “Keep track of dates, appointments, and the like?”

  “Of course, my lord. I am a historian, after all. We do rather specialize in keeping track of—”

  The earl interrupted. “Suppose it had just been brought home to you that you had greatly annoyed a very wealthy relation. Do you think you could compose a suitable letter of apology?”

  “I suppose I could, my lord.”

  “Well? How would you go about it?”

  Jamie thought, pulling his mind together with effort. “I suppose—I suppose it’s best to keep as close to the truth as possible. And grovel abjectly, of course.”

  “Of course,” the earl agreed. “Well, in this case the truth is I happened to be out of town with... a very particular friend. One she used to find rather amusing, in an appalled sort of way, but since I’ve come into the title she doesn’t think I should be consorting with people like that. She’ll assume I was with him, there’s no getting around that. I think it’s why she’s so angry.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “To a prize-fight in Hampshire. Aunt Matilda hates boxing, too.” He sighed. “This is not an exercise she would approve of in the least.”

  Jamie nodded. “And is there anything in Hampshire your aunt would approve of you doing?”

  “What?” The earl looked confused, so Jamie clarified.

  “What are her interests? What can you tell her you saw or did there that might interest or amuse her? Does she care for racing? History? Architecture?”

  “Oh. Oh. I get you.” Stephen’s dark brows creased in thought. “Well, Aunt Matilda does fancy herself a patroness of the arts. But is there any art of note in Hampshire? If there is, I certainly didn’t notice it.”

  Jamie stared. “Not notice Castle Ord? Not only is it architecturally unique for this part of England—the round tower is a feature almost never found outside of Ireland in the eleventh century— but Lady Gregg has a collection of medieval religious paintings that’s quite enormously famous. One couldn’t possibly have passed through Hampshire and not heard of the Saints Gallery at Castle Ord.”

  “Yes, but one couldn’t possibly know me and think I would visit such a place.”

  “How well does your aunt know your particular friend?”

  “They’ve met, but I wouldn’t call them cozy.”

  “Well then? Try something like this: My dearest Aunt Matilda, I was absolutely devastated when I realized I had missed out on your birthday party.”

  “Your eightieth birthday party,” the earl added glumly.

  “Oh, dear.” Jamie paused. “You must know me well enough to imagine my chagrin that I was not in attendance to give you my felicitations on such a glorious occasion. Lay it on thick, then be honest enough so you aren’t insulting her intelligence. You also know me quite well enough to imagine that instead I was up to no good with someone who should remain nameless in polite company, much less to someone I cherish as I do you. Is cherish too much, do you think?”

  “Oh, no. Auntie M. will eat it up. And the truth is, I really am very fond of the old bi—er, besom. We get along quite well. Usually.”

  “Good. That will help. Where were we? I meant to return in time for the celebrations, of course, but instead found myself dragged against my will to Lady Gregg’s Saints Gallery. I expected to be bored out of my mind, but was quite diverted instead. Did it never occur to you that Van Lorn’s St. Sebastian is the very image of Member of Parliament Burdett? Assuming one can imagine him stuck quite full of arrows, something I feel sure is well within your powers.”

  “Now that, Mr. Riley, is brilliant,” the earl said with awe. “However did you deduce Auntie’s opinion of Francis Burdett?”

  Jamie shrugged. “She’s a rich, elderly aristocrat—what would she think of a radical MP?”

  “Go on. Please.”

  “All right. It wasn’t until I saw Paoli’s—hmm, better make it that Italian bloke’s St. Joan lit up like a birthday candle that it occurred to me that I was missing your party. If you would deign to allow me to apologize in person, I could tell you who I think St. Catherine’s face reminds me of, but it isn’t something I would write in a letter, so please, please don’t beg. Your own favorite saint, if in name only, St. Joseph. How’s that?”

  Stephen looked impressed, Charles smug. “Mr. Riley, I do believe you are hired,” said the earl. “How much was my brother going to pay you?”

  “Fifty pounds, my lord.”

  “Fifty per quarter?” The earl frowned. “That seems a bit high.”

  “Oh no, my lord, not—” Jamie hastened to correct the mistake, but Charles was quicker.

  “— Not when you consider he was to have three charges, after all, and is, of course, a historian of note.” The valet shot a warning glance at the confused young man. “But perhaps since he’s only got you to worry about now, and is untried as a secretary, we might persuade him to accept forty per quarter?”

  The earl turned to his new employee. “If that’s not an insult, Mr. Riley?”

  Jamie swallowed. “Not at all, my lord.”

  Chapter Two

  There was something unsettling about this household.

  Jamie looked around his new room, finding little to fault here. The iron bedstead was narrow, but so was he, and the mattress, when he tested it, was thick and soft. A colorful rag rug warmed the wood floor. There was a sturdy wooden wardrobe for his meager clothing, and a washstand with a pretty flowered ceramic bath set on it. He pushed his spectacles up his nose and peered at the latter, thinking it looked rather fine for a servant’s room. The wash basin was intact, but a large chip in the rim of the pitcher told the story: once damaged, the set was unsuitable for family use, but still too good to be thrown away. He nodded approval at the economy.

  A small desk and chair of simple design completed the furnishings, and above them, facing east, was a window with a panoramic view of London spreading out before him. First, Hanover Square, quiet and dignified, with its stately town homes and newfangled gas lamps. To the north, Jamie could see the bustle of Oxford Street, lined with elegant shops, and in the other direction steady maritime traffic thronged the Thames. The never-ending pall caused by thousands upon thousands of coal fires was thick today, but through the autumn haze he could just make out the turrets of the Tower of London, not two miles to the east.

  London. He shivered in excitement to be living here, and in such relative comfort. But such a strange household! A rude, haughty butler. An over-familiar valet, who calls his employer by his first name. And the housekeeper! White of hair and pleasant of feature, a smile on her face would have made her the very image of a kindly grandmother. But she was as sour-faced as the butler, and he was not surprised when Charles introduced her as “Mrs. Symmons.”

  She had sniffed loudly when presented with the latest member of the household. “Oh, this one’s to live here, is he? Personal secretary, my eye.”

  “We do have a room, don’t we, Mrs. Symmons?” Charles had asked.

  Why is everyone so tolerant of these unpleasant people? Jamie wondered. Surely an earl’s staff could be held to a certain level of civility.

  “Aye, not that it’ll see much use, will it?” grumbled the woman. “Up the stairs here, I’m putting you at the top. ” Mrs. Symmons paused for breath on each landing. On the first she shot a glare at Jamie. “His lordship’s rooms take up the east side of this floor, with the guest rooms across the hall. You’re to keep away unless you’re specifically called for, understand?”

  “Yes, of course.” Jamie stiffened to think he mi
ght be suspected of snooping, or worse—theft.

  The housekeeper nodded and continued up the stairs, pausing again at the second landing. “The upper servants have always had their rooms here, up with the—the nurseries.” Her bottom lip quivered with the last words, and Jamie felt another stab of pain for the loss of the Clair family. How much worse for those who had known them well, served them daily. Watched the boys grow. “We’ve since moved the rest of the staff here, to save from heating the attics, but I’ll not have our sleep disturbed by any of your shenanigans.”

  His sympathy fled. Shenanigans? This was too much. “I beg your pardon?”

  Mrs. Symmons tightened her lips. “You come down these stairs at night, you creep like a mouse, hear? Assuming you use the room much at all.”

  What in Hades was going on? Obviously Mrs. Symmons had serious reservations about his character, and didn’t expect him to stay long. What could cause her to think so? The question niggled at him as he followed her up the last flight of stairs and into his new room. He set his valise on the floor and looked around. “This isn’t so bad,” Jamie said in relief.

  “Chimney smokes,” Mrs. Symmons reported with dour satisfaction. “Should you ever light the fire.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” It just burst out of the bewildered Jamie. “It’s already getting cold at night, why wouldn’t I light the fire?”

  The housekeeper fixed him with her steely gaze. “Mayhap you’re as innocent as you pretend to be, and mayhap you’re not. But if you are...” she paused for dramatic effect. “Lock your door. And that’s all I have to say on the matter.” With a swish of skirts, she was gone.

  Jamie stared after her, open-mouthed. Mrs. Symmons’ taste in literature must lean toward the very worst of the popular gothic novels. “What evil walks the corridors of St. Joseph House at midnight? Headless monk, displaced banshee, or the devil himself?” he droned to himself, attempting a sepulchral tone. Too bad, of course, that this was a thoroughly modern town house, not thirty years old, and if it was haunted by anything, it was memories of warmth and laughter.

  Jamie unpacked slowly, drawing out the task. He hung his second-best jacket, another woolen hand-me-down from the vicar, in the wardrobe, added two rather shabby white linen shirts, an extra pair of trousers in practical black, and a comfortably-worn flannel dressing gown. In the drawer at the bottom he placed a few pairs of well-darned stockings, two pairs of gloves, some undergarments and neckerchiefs. Jamie’s six remaining books he set with reverence in a row on the desktop, then he frowned and moved them to the broad mantle above the fireplace. If the chimney really did smoke, he would have to have the window above the desk open frequently, and it wouldn’t do to expose his meager library to the London weather.

  The last item in the valise was a small portrait of his mother, taken on the occasion of her come-out. Jamie touched the painted face gently with one finger. Such a lovely face, full of hope, eager to please. Too eager, as it turned out. All at once Jamie felt overwhelmed with sadness, for his mother, for the previous earl and his lost family, for himself and the post he had looked forward to with such anticipation.

  “Life rarely turns out as we expect, does it, Mama?” he said. Just then there was a tap on the door, and his lordship’s valet poked his head in.

  “Mr. Riley? Is there anything you need? I brought you some flowers.” In his plump hands was a small bowl of roses. Jamie flushed with pleasure.

  “Thank you, Mr. West. Do come in.”

  “Charles—please.” The valet transferred the bowl to one hand, extending the other, and Jamie shook it gratefully.

  “I’m James. Most people call me Jamie, though.”

  “Well, Jamie, we dine in the kitchen at six. Unless you’d prefer a tray tonight? You must be tired from your journey.” Charles was looking around with avid curiosity, and Jamie was embarrassed at the shabbiness of his things.

  “No, I’ll be happy to join you downstairs. I’d like to meet the rest of the staff.”

  The other man moved to set the flowers down on Jamie’s desk. “Not that there are many of—oh! How lovely!” He picked up the miniature and tilted it to better catch the light from the window. “Your mother?” Charles looked from the painted features back to Jamie. “You must take after your father.”

  “I suppose I must,” Jamie agreed. “I fancy a quick wash before dinner. Do you think I could have some water sent up, or should I fetch it myself?”

  Charles put the painting down reluctantly and moved toward the door. “I’ll have some sent up. Six o’clock, then, and don’t be late, or Alex will have all the potatoes.”

  Jamie paused with his hand on the kitchen door half an hour later, gathering his courage. What would the rest of the servants be like? Charles had been nice to him, and Betsy, the twelve-year-old maid who’d brought his water, was cheerful enough. But the Symmonses... He shuddered, and opened the door.

  Despite its considerable size, the kitchen was warm to the point of stuffiness, heated not only by a fireplace large enough to stand up in, but by a modern coal-burning cook stove. Hanging copper and iron pots filled one entire wall, and the others were lined with cabinets and work tables. By the hearth, an enormous iron cauldron and folded drying racks awaited laundry day. He had never seen the item next to them, but thought it might be Mr. Beetham’s celebrated patent wringer.

  In the center of the room, the huge rectangular kitchen table, old and scarred from decades of use, was more than adequate for the insufficient staff that gathered around it. Mr. Symmons had the head, with his wife to his right. The seat to his left was empty: no one else, apparently, dared claim worthiness enough to sit next to the haughty butler.

  Charles rose from his chair, halfway down one side of the table. “Come sit by me, Jamie. I’ll introduce you. I believe you’ve met the Symmonses?”

  Jamie nodded to the elderly couple, receiving frosty stares in return.

  The valet waved at the person sitting next to Mrs. Symmons, a hawk-faced woman whose long, grey-streaked black hair was confined in a tidy braid down her back. “May I introduce Mrs. Sawtell? She and her son Alex look after the stables.”

  “Abby,” the woman said, holding out a large hand. Jamie shook it, surprised at her strength. She looked competent, indeed, capable of handling any livestock smaller than a water buffalo. But still, a woman in charge of the stables? It seemed very odd. Her son Alex, although only ten years old, was similarly craggy of face and dark of hair, and looked well on his way to outstripping her height. Jamie bowed to both of them.

  “Pleased,” Alex mumbled. Neither he nor his dam seemed much in the way of conversationalists.

  “And our cook is Rebecca Wyss.”

  Cook? From her youth, Jamie had assumed the woman setting out the meal was a kitchen maid. She appeared to be no more than twenty, and was as truly stunning a girl as he had ever seen. Pale gold hair, flawless skin, wide sky-blue eyes. “Hullo, Mr. Riley.” Her smile was warm.

  He smiled back. “Mrs. Wyss.”

  “Please, just Rebecca.” She rolled her eyes as she slipped into her seat across from Charles. “Mrs. Wyss sounds like a sneeze.”

  There was only one other place set at the table, presumably for the still-absent Betsy. Jamie counted: just eight servants, including the stable hands? Surely an earl’s establishment should be much grander. A few footmen at the very least, some scullery maids. How odd. Unless—Charles had emphasized what a costly mistake the earl’s missing his aunt’s birthday had been. Could his lordship be having financial difficulties? Jamie felt another qualm of conscience over the enormous salary he was to be paid. But the Earl of St. Joseph’s finances were not his concern, and he should keep to his own affairs.

  Betsy arrived just slightly late, rosy-cheeked and out of breath from running an errand. “Well hullo, Charles. I thought you’d be over to Sam’s. Himself coming home again tonight, is he?”

  “I suppose it depends on how things are going with-ah—” a swift glance at Jamie�
� “on how things go this evening. But I’ll wager half-a-crown he’s back by midnight.”

  “Does the earl spend much time away?” Jamie asked.

  More glances were exchanged. “Not so much as he used to,” offered Charles.

  Betsy piped in, “That’s because he’s getting tired of —”

  “Late nights,” Rebecca cut in smoothly. “Mr. Riley, would you care for some more bread?”

  “Yes, thank you. It’s excellent.” He wished he could praise the young cook’s other efforts, but the roast was overdone to his taste, while the potatoes roasted with it had a distinct crunch of rawness in their middle. Alex Sawtell didn’t seem to mind: true to Charles’ prediction, he was methodically working his way through every unclaimed comestible on the table. Well, it’s not like he stopped to talk. He and his mother Abby barely spoke throughout the entire meal, but seemed taciturn by nature, not unfriendly.

  “Sam made the bread. He’s the finest baker in town,” Betsy said. “He made me a cake for my birthday. Oh, it was lovely! And so big even Alex couldn’t finish it all. First birthday cake I ever had. When’s your birthday, Mr. Riley?”

  “October twenty-seventh,” Jamie admitted.

  “But that’s just a few weeks away! Charles, do you think Sam will make a cake for Mr. Riley?”

  “That’s really not—”

  “Of course he will, poppet,” said Charles with a smile. “And there’ll be Christmas puddings in December, and a Twelfth Night cake after that. You’ll be so fat by Easter we’ll have to roll you to church.”

  Betsy giggled. “That’s what happened to you, Charles. I bet you were a scarecrow before you and Sam—”

  “Sam is Charles’ best friend, Mr. Riley,” Rebecca interrupted.

  “They both used to work for the Duke of Enderton, until— Ow!” Betsy, within kicking distance of Rebecca, rubbed her leg beneath the table and changed her mind about what she was going to say. “Cor. A duke. What was that like, Charles? Is they much richer than earls?”