Frovtunes’ Kiss (6 page)

“Oh, now, Miss Moira, you're as sensible a girl as ever were born, but this plan of yours is foolhardy. What if the family should discover you?”

“The only one who might recognize my face is Lord Monteith. The rest of the family has never met me. And I understand most of Papa's staff has left. Is there anyone working above stairs who might recognize me?”

“Well…” Mrs. Higgensworth tapped her chin. “There's Stanley the groom, but you wouldn't cross paths much with him, I don't suppose. You're right, nearly all the old staff was either let go or left on their own as soon as new positions became available. As I told you, things haven't been the same around here, though better since the new Lord Monteith's arrival, I must admit.”

“So, then.” Moira held the other woman's gaze and her breath at the same time, and ignored her jolting pulse as she acknowledged how close she would be to Graham Foster during the next few days. “Will you help me?”

“Well…forgive me for having to ask, my dear, but…” Mrs. Higgensworth appraised her with a doubtful air. “Can you handle a mop and duster?”

“Of course.”

“Carry large trays stacked with china and silverware?”

“Child's play.”

“Be willing to treat this family with the utmost respect?”

The thought of Graham Foster's impertinence stiffened her spine. “Rather more vexing, but for a worthy cause, yes.”

“Then you're hired, my dear. And may heaven preserve us both.”

       4      

S
he dreamed of Nigel. Nigel as she best remembered him—galloping his horse across the countryside, jumping hedgerows and streams, and sending her heart into her throat as she watched from her vantage point by the lake. Later she would scold him, tell him he'd break his neck one of these days…

Oh, Nigel
.

A pounding at her bedchamber door scattered the memories. Beside her, Trina the scullery maid sat up, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and delivered a hardy thwack to Moira's shoulder, still huddled tight beneath the blanket.

“Rise and shine, Your Highness. Sleepin' away half the morn won't wash round ‘ere. You'll find your sorry arse in the street by luncheon.”

Moira peered at the bedside clock. Four thirty in the morning—in the
morning!
Oh, what
had
she gotten herself into?

By day's end her aching back, sore muscles, and throbbing feet provided the answer, not to mention a new appreciation for the length and depth of the service staircase.

By the close of her second day in the Fosters' employ, she'd shaken out and rehung the velvet curtains in the drawing room, set and cleared stack upon stacks of dishes, and hauled linens from the laundry to the bedding closet and back. This morning she found herself on hands and knees scrubbing the hardwood floor in the morning room.

Mrs. Higgensworth hadn't intended for her to scrub floors. But minutes ago, after that dratted tray of porridge, scones, and clotted cream upended in her tired hands, the housekeeper reluctantly set her to work with scrub brush and bucket.

Miss Letitia Foster had insisted. Red-faced with fury, the sullen young woman had bewailed her ruined frock and threatened Moira with immediate dismissal if she didn't dispose of the mess instantly. Miss Foster had behaved like a spoiled child and really, only the smallest drops of porridge had spattered her pale muslin over-skirt. Nothing the laundress couldn't set to rights.

Moira certainly understood now why Mrs. Higgensworth had warned her to stay clear of Miss Letitia.

So far she had managed to avoid Graham Foster, for Mrs. Higgensworth carefully timed her duties before and after he occupied any particular room. Once, however, while traipsing from the kitchen to the conservatory with a brimming watering can in hand, she'd had to detour into the ladies' parlor as he strolled down the corridor. An ill-placed armchair—which would not have been set so close to the doorway in her mother's day for fear of a draft—had been the unhappy recipient of splashing water. The mishap resulted in a watermark on the fine moiré, which only a strategically placed pillow could conceal.

But not once in all this time—marked by arduous toil and near disaster—had she gained access to either the library or the master's study. The latter had been locked tight both times she had tried. The former presented a different sort of difficulty, one she hadn't counted on.

Upon tiptoeing into the library the first evening, she had been surprised to discover the same dark-haired man she'd seen in Mr. Smythe's waiting room—a man certain to recognize her should he get a close enough look at her. Graham Foster's friend and houseguest, as Mrs. Higgensworth identified him, seemed unfortunately fond of reading in the evenings.

The thought produced a pang. Everett Foster had enjoyed reading in the evenings, as well. Throughout Moira's childhood, they'd shared wonderful adventures, reading aloud from the novels and histories he loved. Moira had adored the stories, though sharing Papa's spacious wing chair and hearing his voice rumble against her ear had provided as much if not more delight.

“What on
earth
do you think you're
doing?”

Oh, dear. The pointed toe of a delicate silk house slipper rapped an angry tattoo practically beneath Moira's nose. Attached to it, the person of Miss Letitia Foster loomed above, her pale blue eyes positively glacial.

Moira hadn't seen the girl steal back into the room. Nor had she noticed the soapy rivulets coursing along the floorboards and soaking the rug beneath the breakfast table. Her heart sank. The crimson dye from the now-sodden needlework roses had stained the fringed tatting a bright pink.

“I'm so terribly sorry, miss. Perhaps I could…”

“Sorry? Yes, you'll
be
sorry when my brother hears about this.” With a whirl that sent the hem of her gown flouncing into Moira's face, Miss Letitia stormed from the room.

Moira sat back on her haunches and, with another glance at the rug, admitted the girl could not be blamed entirely. She flung the scrub brush into the bucket, only to send another sudsy wave splashing onto the floor. She stared at this newest puddle and felt exhausted. Empty. Defeated. Then she gathered her weary legs beneath her and hefted the bucket. She supposed she might as well go pack her things.

“We must dismiss her at
once
, Monteith. Before she destroys something else.”

Graham scowled at his sister but didn't bother correcting her on his name. She'd stormed into his study moments ago, figuratively but not literally dragging the housekeeper in behind her. Letty had delayed her tirade long enough to toss a pointed glance at Shaun, who took the hint and exited through the connecting door to the library.

“I fail to see why
we
need do anything,” Graham replied. “The girl is Mrs. Higgensworth's charge.”

The housekeeper folded her arms across her chest and gave a gratified nod. Graham responded with a little wink.

“But Mrs. Higgensworth
refuses
to sack her.” Letty stood with hands on hips, chin in the air, feet anchored firmly to the floor. Her outrage had quickly consumed all her ladylike affectations; oddly, Graham rather preferred her this way.

“Perhaps she sees no reason to sack her,” he said with feigned patience. “I respect Mrs. Higgensworth's judgment.”

The housekeeper's self-satisfied grin faded when Letty narrowed her eyes in her direction.

“Pardon me, but in this instance Mrs. Higgensworth's judgment isn't worth a wooden
farthing.”

“Be nice, Letty.”

“Have you
seen
what that chit of a maid has
done
these past few days? The drawing-room curtains are all awry—”

“So straighten them.”

“The luncheon china is chipped—”

“Buy new.”

“She just now threw the remains of breakfast all over the morning-room floor—”

“Were you planning to eat the leftovers?”

“And the lovely rug Mama purchased only two weeks ago is reduced to rubbish.”

“Bother the rug.”

“Monteith, how
can
you make light of this?”

“Because for one thing, it is no small matter to let go a servant. Even with a letter of recommendation, she could very well end up on the street. Secondly, I trust Mrs. Higgensworth. She has run this house for nearly two decades.” He turned to the waiting housekeeper. “Mrs. Higgensworth, is the girl worth retaining? Is she salvageable?”

The woman stepped forward, her capable hands clasped at her waist. “I believe so, sir, for all she makes the occasional mistake. Ah, but she's a sweet lamb with an elderly mother to support. She means well and tries her best—”

Letty squeaked. Graham issued a warning glare and gestured for the housekeeper to continue.

“And I think in time she'll do quite nicely, my lord.”

Graham nodded. “Good. Perhaps you might curtail her duties a bit, set her to some simpler tasks for the time being.”

“Yes, sir. She could fluff pillows, dust—though not the fine porcelain—and I could send her to market each day.”

“And trust her with
money
?” Letty gave a snort.

“We purchase on credit and pay the accounts monthly, miss,” the housekeeper calmly pointed out.

“There, then, it's settled.” And none too soon, as far as he was concerned. Just prior to this interruption, Shaun had been about to confide some newly discovered detail about the mysterious Moira Hughes.

“Monteith, had you no servants at all in Egypt? Do you
not
know they're supposed to
earn
their keep?”

“Mrs. Higgensworth,” he said quietly, “would you leave us, please?”

The woman curtsied and closed the door behind her. Graham allowed his gaze to bore into his sister until the self-righteous spark faded from her eyes and a mottled blush crept into her cheeks. Then he said evenly, “Tell me, what of family members who insinuate themselves upon one's generosity? Should they also be made to earn their keep?”

Her brow puckered, and her bottom lip slipped uncertainly between her teeth. She might have been nine again and caught stealing sweets from the kitchen. His question clearly perplexed her, so much so a watery sheen obscured her blue eyes just before she blinked and looked away.

“It was a rhetorical question, Letty, one you might wish to ponder. That will be all.”

With something between a grimace and a nod, she swept to the door and was quickly gone. That door had no sooner closed behind her, when the one to the library opened. Shaun sauntered in, his features pinched with concern.

“I suppose you heard most of that,” Graham said.

“Had my ear pressed to the door.” Shaun settled into a wing chair. “Don't you think you were a bit hard on the girl?”

“After that sort of impudence?”

Shaun waved away the notion as he would a fly. “She's growing up, becoming a young lady, and experimenting with new ideas.” He leaned forward, looking a good deal too animated for Graham's liking. “She needs some free rein, room to explore.”