Grace Burrowes - The Heir

“Traveling does give one a thirst, and it is hotter than blazes, even at Morelands. Speaking of flowers, though, your establishment has benefited from the warmer weather.” He nodded at the flowers around the room.

“My housekeeper,” Westhaven said, going to the door to order tea. “Mrs. Seaton is…”

“Yes?” Westhaven saw Val was watching him closely, as only a sibling alert to the subtleties might.

“One can keep a house tidy,” Westhaven said, “and one can make it… homey. She does both.”

He’d noticed it, after his mishap with the fireplace poker earlier in the week. If he looked closely, the details were evident: The windows weren’t just clean, they sparkled. The woodwork gleamed and smelled of lemon oil and beeswax; the carpets all looked freshly sanded and beaten; the whole house was free of dust and clutter. And more subtly, air moved through the rooms on softly fragrant currents.

“She must be feeding you properly, as well,” Val noted. “You’ve lost some of that perpetually lean and hungry look.”

“That is a function of simply having my own home for the past few months. His Grace wears on one, and our sisters, while dear, destroy a man’s peace regularly.”

“His Grace sets a very childish example.” Val put his empty glass back on the sideboard. “I think you do well being both brother and earl, and you did better getting the damned power of attorney from him and corralling his ridiculous impulses where they can do little harm. That was particularly well done of you, Westhaven.”

“At too high a price.”

“But you didn’t end up marrying the lady,” Val pointed out, “so all’s well.”

“All will not be well until I have presented His Grace with several legitimate grandsons, and even then, he’ll probably still want more.” He went to the French doors overlooking his terrace as he spoke.

“He’ll die eventually,” Val said. “Almost did last winter, in fact.”

“He was brought down more by the quacks who bled him incessantly than by lung fever itself.” Westhaven glanced over his shoulder at his brother and scowled. “If I am ever seriously ill, Valentine, you must promise to keep the damned quacks and butchers away from me. A comely nurse and the occasional medicinal tot, but otherwise, leave it in the hands of the Almighty.” He swiveled his gaze back to the terrace and watched as Mrs. Seaton appeared, baskets and shears in hand while she marched to the cutting garden along one low stone wall.

“You put me on the spot.” Val smiled. “Do you honestly think I wouldn’t do everything in my power to keep you alive, despite your wishes to the contrary?”

“Then pray for my continued good health.” Mrs. Seaton was bareheaded today, her dark mane pulled back into a thick knot at her nape. By firelight, he knew, there were red highlights in that hair.

Lemonade arrived, complete with fat muffins, fresh bread with butter, sliced meats and cheese, sliced fruit, and a petite bouquet of violets on the tray. Nestled in a little folded square of linen were four pieces of marzipan, glazed to resemble fruit.

“This is tea at your house of late?” Val arched an eyebrow. “No wonder you look a bit more the thing. I will move in directly, provided you promise to tune the piano.”

“You should, you know,” Westhaven said. He was putting together a plate, but his words had come out far less casually than he’d planned. “I know you don’t like staying at the ducal manse, and I have more than enough room here.”

“Wouldn’t want to impose,” Val said, reaching for his own share of the bounty, “but that’s generous of you.”

“Not generous. The truth is… I could use the company. I miss your music, in fact. There’s a neighbor, or somebody, who plays late at night, but it isn’t you, for all that I enjoy it. I thought I’d have a harder time keeping track of His Grace were I to set up my own place, but I’ve been surprised at how little effort he makes to elude my scrutiny.”

The door opened without the obligatory knock, and Mrs. Seaton marched into the room.

“I beg your pardon, your lordship, Lord Valentine.” She stopped, her basket of flowers bouncing against her skirts. “My lord, I thought you’d be at your appointment until this evening.”

Twiddling my mistress’s bubbies, Westhaven thought with a lift of an eyebrow.

“Mrs. Seaton.” Val rose, smiling as if he knew he was viewing the source of his brother’s happier household and healthier appearance. “My compliments on the offerings to be had here for tea, and the house itself looks marvelous.”

“Mrs. Seaton.” The earl rose more slowly, the display of manners hardly necessary for a housekeeper.

“My lords.” She curtsied but came up frowning at Westhaven. “Forgive me if I note you rise slowly. Are you well?”

The earl glanced at his brother repressively.

“My brother is not in good health?” Val asked, grinning. “Do tell.”

“I merely suffered a little bump on the head,” the earl said, “and Mrs. Seaton spared me the attentions of the physicians.”

Mrs. Seaton was still frowning, but the earl went on, forestalling her reply. “You may tend to your flowers, Mrs. Seaton, and I echo my brother’s compliments: Tea is most pleasant.”

“I’ll dice you for the marzipan,” Val said to the earl.

“No need,” Mrs. Seaton offered over her shoulder. “We keep a goodly supply in the kitchen, as his lordship favors it. There are cream cakes and chocolates, as well, but those are usually served with the evening meal.” She busied herself with substituting fresh flowers for the wilted specimens as the fragrance of roses, lavender, and honeysuckle wafted around the room.

Val eyed his brother. “Perhaps I will avail myself of your hospitality after all, Westhaven.”

“I would be honored,” Westhaven said absently, though he noted the speculation in his brother’s eyes. Mrs. Seaton was humming a little Handel; Westhaven was almost sure it was from the Messiah. She turned to go but flashed them a smile and a little curtsy on her way.

“Oh, Mrs. Seaton?” The earl stopped her two steps shy of the door.

“My lord?”

“You may tell the kitchen my brother and I will be dining in tonight, informally, and will continue to do so until further notice.”

“Lord Valentine will be visiting?”

“He will; the blue bedroom will do.” Westhaven turned back to the tray, still counting four pieces of marzipan.

“Might I suggest the green bedroom?” Mrs. Seaton rejoined. “It has higher ceilings and is at the back of the house, which would be both cooler and quieter. Then too, it has a balcony.”

The earl considered castigating her for contradicting him, but she’d been polite enough about it, and the back bedrooms were worlds more comfortable, though smaller.

“As you suggest.” The earl waved her on her way.

“That is a very different sort of housekeeper you have there,” Val said, when the library door had closed behind her.

“I know.” Westhaven made a sandwich and checked again to make sure his brother hadn’t pilfered the marzipan. “She’s a little cheeky, to be honest, but does her job with particular enthusiasm. She puts me in mind of Her Grace.”

“How so?” Val asked, making a sandwich, as well.

“Has an indomitable quality about her,” Westhaven said between bites. “She bashed me with a poker when she thought I was a caller molesting a housemaid. Put out my lights, thank you very much.”

“Heavens.” Val paused in his chewing. “You didn’t summon the watch?”

“The appearances were deceiving, and she doesn’t know I’d never trifle with a housemaid.”

“And if you were of a mind to before,” Val said, eyeing the marzipan, “you’d sure as hell think twice about it now.”

“And what of you?” Westhaven paused to regard his brother. Val shared the Windham height and green eyes, but his eyes were a darker green, while Westhaven’s shade was closer to jade, and Val’s hair was sable, nearly black.

“What of me?” Val buttered a fat muffin.

“Are you bothering any housemaids, lately?”

“Doing an errand for Viscount Fairly earlier in the season, I met an interesting woman out in Little Weldon,” Val said, “but no, I am more concerned with misleading His Grace than in having my ashes hauled.”

“Don’t mislead him too well,” Westhaven cautioned. “There are those who are not tolerant of left-handed preferences.”

“Well, of course there are,” Val said, “and they’re just the ones wondering what it would be like to be a little adventurous themselves. But fear not, Westhaven. I mince and lisp and titter and flirt, but my breeches stay buttoned.”

“It appears,” Westhaven said, frowning as he reached for the marzipan, “mine will be staying buttoned, as well.”

He bit into a plump, soft confection shaped like a ripe melon and stifled a snort of incredulity. His breeches would be staying buttoned, and the only thing he’d be twiddling would be his… thumbs.

THREE RULES, ANNA REMINDED HERSELF WHEN SHE reached the privacy of her own little sitting room. There were three rules to succeeding with any deception, and old Mr. Glickmann had drilled them into her:

Dress the part.

Believe your own lies.

Have more than you show—including an alternative plan.

Today, she was remiss on all three counts, God help her. A housekeeper wore caps, for pity’s sake. Great homely caps, and gloves out of doors, and there she went, sailing into the library, bareheaded, barehanded, for the earl and his brother to see.

Believe your own lies—that meant living the deception as if it were real, never breaking role, and with the earl she’d broken role badly ever since she’d brained him with a poker. He had to have seen her, arms around Morgan, even as he lay bleeding on the floor. And then, curse her arrogant mouth, she’d as good as informed him she was raised as a bluestocking—fluent in three languages, Mother of God! Housekeepers read mostly their Bible, and that only slowly.

Have more than you show, including second and even third plans. On that count, she was an unmitigated disaster. She had a small stash of funds, thanks to her wages here, and Mr. Glickmann’s final generosity, but funds were not a plan. Funds did not guarantee a new identity nor safe passage to foreign soil, if that’s what it took.

“So what has you in such a dither?” Nanny Fran toddled into the kitchen, her button eyes alight with curiosity.

“We’re to have company,” Anna replied, forcing herself to sit down and meet Nanny Fran’s eyes. “His lordship’s brother will be staying with us, and as it’s the first company since I’ve started here, I’m a little flustered.”

“Right.” Nanny Fran smiled at her knowingly. “Lord Val’s a good sort, more easygoing than Westhaven. But these two”—she shook her head—“they weren’t the ones who gave me trouble. Lord Bart was a rascal and spoiled, for all he wasn’t mean; Lord Vic was just as bad, and didn’t he get up to mischief, and nobody but Westhaven the wiser?”

“No carrying tales, Nanny.” Anna rose, unwilling to start Nanny gossiping. “I’m off to warn Cook we’ll have company, and their lordships will be dining informally at home for the foreseeable future. Have you seen Morgan?”

“She’s in the stillroom,” Nanny supplied, coming to her feet in careful increments. “Smells like lemons today, and limes.”

Anna did find Morgan in what had become the stillroom, a portion of the large laundry that took up part of the house’s understory. The girl was humming tunelessly and grinding something to powder with her mortar and pestle.

“Morgan?” Anna touched Morgan’s shoulder, pleased to find she hadn’t startled her. “What are you making? Nanny said it smelled like lemon and lime.”

Morgan held out a large ceramic bowl with dried flowers crushed into a colorful mixture. Anna dipped her face to inhale the scent, closing her eyes and smiling.

“That is lovely. What’s in it?”

Morgan lined up a number of bottles, pointing to each in turn, then took a pencil and scrap of paper from her apron pocket, and wrote, “Needs something. Too bland.”

Anna cocked her head and considered the pronouncement. Morgan’s nose was sophisticated but unconventional.

“Whose room is it for?”

Morgan made a supercilious face and arched a haughty eyebrow.

“The earl’s,” Anna concluded. “It does need something, something subtly exotic and even decadent.” Morgan grinned and nodded. She reached for a small vial and held it up for Anna’s consideration.