Fascination -and- Charmed (97 page)
Read Fascination -and- Charmed Online
Authors: Stella Cameron
“And you?” He regarded her over his shoulder. “Who are you and where are you supposed to be?”
Her gloves discarded on the vast scrubbed table in the center of the room, she paused in the act of untying frayed ribbons that closed the pelisse. “I’m, er—” A smile formed charming dimples in her cheeks but didn’t dispel shadows in her luminous eyes. “You must know who I am, sir. I’m, er, Ber-the. Sarah’s maid.”
She was a poor liar. Hawkesly frowned, oblivious of her reason, but convinced the chit was in the way of inventing a story. “Quite. You’re Berthe. And what are you doing at this house if you’re Sarah’s maid at the vicarage?”
The painful rush of pink suffused her face once more. “Sarah shall hear of this. As she should have made clear, the reason for asking you to come to Tregonitha and wait in the stables was so that her papa—” She tiptoed conspiratorially closer. “Reverend Winslow is kind but quite old-fashioned about affairs of the heart, you know. Anyway, Sarah felt that if you were to come here and wait in the stables, she could come to you without her papa guessing the nature of her visit.”
“I see. And did we—I mean, did Sarah warn you that this was to be the day of our meeting?”
“Oh, no. No.” She appeared to glance into every cranny of the kitchen before dropping to her knees and working the broken corner of a flagstone free. This she set aside while she reached below and hauled out a bundle tied inside an old shawl. Puffing, the girl stood and dropped her bounty into his lap. “We must make haste. Sarah merely told me that it was likely you would come one day and we must be on the lookout. It was chance—a most happy chance—that I happened to see you arrive today. Here. There’s game pie and cheese and apples. They should help fortify you for your wait in the stables. I’ll bring you some ale when I can.”
“You’re too generous,” he told her gravely, wondering if Latchett had any idea that his servants filched supplies from his larders to stock their own. Roger Latchett wouldn’t hear it from Lord Hawkesly.
Shrugging, Berthe removed the heavy pelisse, rolled it carelessly and thrust it on a chair. Then she knelt to replace the broken flagstone.
Hawkesly drew in a sharp breath. This maid was dressed like none employed at his estate or the several other properties he maintained. Without the pelisse, his impression that she was small was verified. Small, yes. Childishly built, no. A muslin gown of palest lavender color offset her creamy skin. The unbound blond curls brushed about flawless shoulders and touched the tops of high, lush breasts in a manner that caused Hawkesly to shift in his chair. The dress had been well worn, as faded satin ribbon attested, but that ribbon circled her slender body in a caress that hugged thin fabric tightly over tantalizing curves.
“Why aren’t you in uniform?” she asked. Brushing her hands together, she leaned over to check the stone, and soft smooth flesh threatened to entirely escape the confines of a too-small bodice. When she sat on her heels, the filmy straight skirt settled on gently rounded hips.
Hawkesly stirred himself with effort. He was not in the way of lusting after ladies’ maids and serving girls.
“I expect you thought you’d be less conspicuous,” she continued.
He realized he hadn’t answered her question. “I expect so.” He got up. “And I expect you’d like to return to the, ah, vicarage.” He decided not to ask if she made a habit of journeying to Tregonitha every day on the off chance that Sarah, whoever Sarah was, had received a visit from her brave officer.
Another thought dawned. What was a maid from someone else’s household doing hiding food in the kitchens here?
Berthe scrambled, none too gracefully, to her feet and stepped close. “There’s something I ought to tell you.”
Hawkesly was confronted by the delightful vision of dewy skin, shining eyes and tremblingly ripe young womanhood... near enough for him to see a pulse in the throat and the rapid rise and fall of tender breasts. A subtle scent of roses reached him. He momentarily lost his ability to speak.
“I would tell you,” Berthe murmured. “I will. But I must make sure Sarah won’t be angry with me first.”
He swallowed. “Indeed. You must do nothing to offend your mistress. And now—”
She rested a hand on his arm. “Just let it be enough that everything isn’t exactly what it seems. However, I’m certain that once you and Sarah are together again, all will be revealed.”
“Undoubtedly.” He restrained the urge to laugh. Instead he allowed himself the luxury of a light touch to her perfect cheek. His gaze flickered over her but she appeared not to notice. “Leave now. I’ll find my own way.” He wouldn’t tell her where he planned to go or that he had no intention of mentioning to anyone how he came to be wandering from the nether regions of Tregonitha.
“No.” She shook her head and her hair swished back and forth. “Sarah would never forgive me if I didn’t take care of you.”
A stimulating notion, Hawkesly thought. Immediately he set her hand gently from him. “I insist—”
The slamming open of a door stopped Hawkesly in mid-sentence. A paunchy blond man strutted into the room.
“What is this?” Thinning hair, swept carefully forward, cupped the edges of a round and florid face. Bulbous, moistly red lips held a pout while pale eyes embedded in puffy flesh took account of Hawkesly then Berthe. “Speak up, sir. What do you mean by intruding into my kitchens?”
His kitchens?
So, this ... this cockroach was Hawkesly’s opponent, his unknowing quarry. “Good afternoon,” Hawkesly said very softly. At the same time he rose slowly to his feet and set the bundle of food on the chair.
The man’s small eyes narrowed to slits. His chins, stained a shiny puce by excess, wobbled against his stiff collar. “Who is this person? How long has he been here?” Latchett addressed Berthe and Hawkesly didn’t fail to note how his attention lingered at the level of her breasts.
“He... I—”
“Enough!” Latchett raised a hand. “I’ll deal with you later.”
Hawkesly swallowed against acid hate. “I believe it is I whom you should take to task, sir.” The man was a visible lecher and the manner in which he might prefer to deal with the girl took little imagination. “I fear I took a wrong turn coming here. This young woman was kind enough to set me on the right path.” Whatever happened, he must not lose his head and move a moment sooner than would accomplish his purpose.
Latchett drew himself up on spindly, yellow-clad legs. His considerable girth strained against a rose brocade waistcoat. Hawkesly knew the other’s age to be three and thirty. Excesses in living had made him appear many years older.
“Who did you want to see?” Latchett demanded.
“He rode the wrong way!” Berthe’s clear voice burst from her. She wrung her hands. “You know how easy it is to take the wrong path from Fowey and come here rather than the village. I’ll be glad to show him—”
“Silence!” Latchett’s chest puffed up even higher.
An overblown country dandy, Hawkesly thought. Weak, self-indulgent, greedy ... and deadly. How appealing was the thought of squeezing the life from Latchett this very moment. Appealing, but entirely too quick and merciful.
Hawkesly smiled at Berthe, who shook visibly. “I’ll deal with this, my dear.” To Latchett he said, “There’s been somewhat of an error, sir. I assume you are Mr. Roger Latchett?”
With a sniff Latchett said, “I am.”
“As I thought. In that case I believe we have business to conduct.”
“Hush,” Hawkesly told Berthe quietly. “It will be all right, my dear. Mr. Latchett, I assume you received my letter.”
“Letter?”
“In which I expressed an interest in leasing Point Cottage—the property mentioned to me by my friends the Trevays of Mevagissey?” He heard Berthe’s intake of breath but didn’t look at her.
The stunned transformation of Latchett’s face brought Hawkesly considerable satisfaction. “Point Cottage,” he sputtered, taking a step backward. “Yes, yes, of course. Then you are...” His raised hand circled in a vague parody of a courtly flourish and he attempted a bow made difficult by his belly. “You are...”
“Viscount Hawkesly,” he supplied, and clasped his hands behind his back. The Trevays of Mevagissey were, in fact, Bertram Trevay, private investigator. Thanks to Trevay, Hawkesly knew enough to make this sorry peacock squirm when the time was right. “I hope the property in question is still available.”
“Ah... well, that is indeed a most desirable spot... my lord. But come, we’ll have refreshments and discuss the matter.” He fairly jiggled on the balls of his red-velvet-slippered feet. “Please, my lord, if you’ll honor me with your company in my library?”
Muscles in Hawkesly’s jaw cramped. “Of course.”
Latchett gestured toward the door and Hawkesly inclined his head but paused in the act of following the other man to smile at Berthe. She stood as if frozen, her eyes dark with distress.
In that instant Latchett also fastened his gaze on her. “This,” he announced, “is the Viscount Hawkesly of Hawkesly Place in Devon.”
Berthe’s regard shifted to the floor and she dropped another awkward curtsy.
“My lord,” Latchett intoned. “Allow me to present my stepsister, Miss Lindsay Granville.”
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Stella Cameron
Stella Cameron is the New York Times best selling author of the acclaimed Court of Angels Series, the Bayou Books and many others. There are fourteen million copies of her books in circulation worldwide. She is the recipient of the Pacific Northwest Achievement Award for distinguished professional achievement and for enhancing the stature of the Northwest Literary community. She lives in Washington State.