Ménage a Must (5 page)

Like a magpie, Priscilla was always seeking the bigger and shinier bauble. She would never be satisfied.

Outraged on behalf of her absent mistress, Molly blurted out without choosing her words, “You don’t know anything about this man. At least you made inquiries about the earl’s habits and found out he wasn’t a dissolute rake.” Too late, Molly realised her grave misstep. She bit her unruly tongue and mentally kicked herself.

The glitter of I-have-you-by-the-short-hairs triumph in Priscilla’s eyes filled Molly with the panic of a rabbit cornered by a hound.

“How would you know that I commissioned a report on the earl?”

“It would seem the prudent thing to do, ma’am, to see if he was a suitable match for your stepdaughter.” Weak, but it was all she could think of in a pinch. Shit, shit, when would she learn to keep her tongue behind her teeth? Annabelle was the one who’d found the stack of reports in Priscilla’s writing desk.

“You’ve been snooping into matters that are not your concern. You’ll report everything Annabelle does to me. If she so much as sneezes at the wrong time I want to know. I’ll have the housekeeper move a cot into the dressing room for you. She is not to be alone with the earl. Do we have an understanding?”

The unspoken threat hung in the air. There’d be hell to pay for Molly if she didn’t follow the edicts Priscilla laid down.

Molly’s sense of self-preservation warred with her loyalty to her mistress. For all her sophistication, Annabelle needed help to stop the woman from offering her up like a golden- egg-laying goose to catch the man with the highest title.

She gave Priscilla a curt nod, knowing full well she’d never betray Annabelle.

“Don’t think you can pay me lip service and go your merry way.”

Annabelle skipped into the room, her face animated. The smile on her face died as she noticed the tension between her stepmother and maid. “Overseeing my wardrobe choices, Priscilla?”

“Look at the state of your skin, you’re as tanned as a cow-herder.”

“I thought I looked rather fetching with a bit of colour in my cheeks, as opposed to being pasty white.” The unspoken
like you
in Annabelle’s treacle-sweet reply drew an outraged gasp from Priscilla.

Molly shook her head to caution Annabelle not to ruffle her stepmother’s feathers.

Mrs Calder’s face reddened to an unattractive puce. “A lady does not go in the sun. But then, you seem to work at looking as close to a strumpet as you can get away with. The cut of your habit borders on the indecent. Any additions to your wardrobe have to be approved by me.” She turned her back on Annabelle to face Molly. “You’ll use the enamel face paint to make her look pale.” With a final warning glare, Priscilla sailed out of the room.

“What is going on?” Annabelle demanded as soon as the doors snapped shut.

Molly shook her head and tiptoed over to press her ear to the door. She tapped her lips when she didn’t hear the muffled patter of Priscilla leaving. Annabelle nodded and they moved into the anteroom.

“More importantly, how did you get on with the earl? Your hair is a mess and your lips are swollen as if you’ve been thoroughly kissed.”

“He was very circumspect at first. Then, out of the blue, he asked me if I practised at being an empty-headed ninny or did I come by it naturally. I was nonplussed, and gaped at him like a guppy. We laughed. It was easy to drop the façade I had created to put him off me.” A pretty blush deepened the pink of Annabelle’s sun-flushed cheeks.

“I hope you didn’t allow more than a kiss,” Molly stated. “Nothing less than a courtship will do for the pair of you.”

“You’re a fine one to talk, Molly, considering what you suggested earlier.” Annabelle removed her hat and pulled off her gloves.

“Hmmph, what are you not telling me?”

“His lordship has potential.” Annabelle’s purr was purely female, one Molly had heard in her own voice a time or two at the inception of an affair when everything was new and exciting. Molly remembered how her heart had danced and her blood had raced, her sex growing hot and hungry just hearing her lover’s voice, catching a whiff of his distinctive scent or a brush of his fingers over her skin.

Molly hated to rub some of the shine off her young mistress’s burgeoning hopes. “We have troubles, Miss Annabelle. Your stepmamma has set her sights on a bigger rooster in the coop. Seems there’s a mucky-muck looking for a wife.”

All the colour bled from Annabelle’s face, she turned as pale as the fish she had disdained earlier. “A marquis?”

“Uhmm, yes.”

“Oh my God, it’s Haversham. She wouldn’t be so vindictive. He’s forty if he’s a day and poxy to boot. He frequents the stews to satisfy his unnatural proclivities.” Annabelle closed her eyes and shuddered.

“I don’t remember reading about him.”

“No, I intercepted the report and tossed it into the grate before it reached Priscilla.” A look of desperation filled Annabelle’s eyes. “I am without funds. Molly, you have to find a way to get us some money. We may need to take refuge with one of my relatives, even if for a short time.” Annabelle moaned and sank down on the stool in front of the dressing table. She opened her jewellery case and drew out a small brooch. Set with seed pearls, it was a nice piece but not valuable enough for Priscilla to notice it was gone. “Sell this.”

“Miss Annabelle, I hate to point this out to you but pawnshops are thin on the ground.” Molly set the pin back in the velvet case and snapped it shut.

“Oh God, Priscilla is going to find a way to leg-shackle me to that rotter to make me a marchioness.”

“Don’t you fret, I always travel with some of the ready.” Molly unbuttoned her bodice, pushed down her chemise and slid four gold sovereigns from the sleeve built into her corset.

She knew just who to ask for help. Not that she’d have to use much persuasion—they were ready lads, and her gratitude would have no boundaries.

Chapter Eight

Molly jabbed her needle into the delicate weave of the silk stocking and drew the thread through the gossamer-fine material with a vicious tug. True to her word, Priscilla had found a way to monitor her activities. She’d sent Bess, her slavishly devoted maid, with a pile of darning for them to complete by the midday meal.

Since she was distracted, Molly jammed the needle she plied into her finger. “Oh shit.” Molly stuck the digit into her mouth. When she made her fortune, she’d never darn another thing again as long as she lived.

Hearing a soft rap on the outer door, she jumped up. Molly hoped that deliverance from the hated chore waited for her on the other side of the panel. She pulled it open. Phoebe stood on the threshold with Annabel’s garments draped over her arm. She stepped back to let the girl enter.

“I’ll put these away.” The young maid brushed her fingertips over the satin and Valenciennes lace of the undergarment. “I’ve never seen or touched anything so fine. It must feel lovely against the skin.”

“I’ll do it, thank you.” Molly relieved Phoebe of the freshly laundered clothes, brushed past Bess, and set them in the lavender-scented drawers in the armoire.

“There’s tea and buns in the kitchens if you want a cuppa,” Phoebe offered with a shy smile.

“She’s not thirsty.” Bess’ gruff refusal on her behalf set Molly’s back up and fuelled a small revolt. She’d pay for it later and she didn’t care.

“Actually, I feel a little parched.” Molly hooked her arm through Phoebe’s, pulled Phoebe out of the room, and pretended she didn’t hear Bess’ sputters.

“I need you to get a message to Logan or Graeme for me. Tell them I need to speak to them on an urgent matter,” Molly whispered as they all but skipped down to the kitchen.

A gap-toothed grin spread across Phoebe’s face. “I’ll see to it for you, miss.”

“Deliver my message to them, Phoebe, and I’ll see to it you get a pair of silk drawers worthy of the Duchess of Devonshire’s noble behind.”

Phoebe let out a merry laugh, hiked up her skirts, and took off running. Her ankles flashed as she raced through the busy kitchen and out of the back door.

“What’s got into that girl?” the cook groused, her arms elbow deep in the dough she was kneading. “Tea’s fresh and the buns just came out of the oven.”

“Thank you, I’m suddenly ravenous.”

* * * *

It was a very subdued Annabelle whom Molly helped into a tea-gown just before four.

“You’ve been as tight-lipped as a sinner at confession, what happened?” Molly demanded.

Her mistress lifted her head to meet Molly’s stare in the mirror she stood before. “It’s much worse than you can imagine. Priscilla’s face lit up when she got to the castle. The marquis is a slug, and twice as slimy, but Priscilla acted like an abbess showing her Haymarket wares.”

A little shocked but amused by her mistress’s words, Molly worked to stifle her laugh. “Miss Annabelle, where did you pick up such talk?”

“I’m not deaf, Molly.” Annabelle shuddered with distaste. “He grasped my hand, slipped a finger into my glove and caressed my wrist. It was embarrassing how Priscilla fawned over him, and he used it shamelessly. He dangled his title and reeled her in like a trout.” Annabel got up and paced around the room, her movements agitated.

“Did the earl see what happened?” Molly mumbled around the hairpins she held between her lips.

Annabelle’s grim mouth softened. “He gave Haversham one steely glare which quelled any further improprieties.” A pleased smile spread across her face.

“Did he now?” Well, well, what a fine turn of events. “We should take him into our confidence,” Molly suggested.

“His regard couldn’t be any lower. My dear stepmamma was so obvious in her ambitions,” Annabelle moaned. “Given time I could grow fond of him.”

“Fond? The earl didn’t strike me as a man with a mild disposition. If all else fails, you could seduce his lordship,” Molly advised, afraid that Priscilla would squeeze an invitation from the marquis.

“He’d see that as an act of desperation and he’s too much of a gentleman to take advantage of me.”

“Sex makes the wisest man a fool and a foolish one brave. He might not resist, much.” Molly prayed he wouldn’t.

Chapter Nine

The woman had gone too far. She’d locked them in like a pair of jailbirds. Molly had been helping the young miss into her night rail when Bess had showed. She’d smirked, daring them to voice a protest as she’d proceeded to lock the door to Annabelle’s bedchamber and the narrow door off the dressing room leading out into the corridors.

Molly thumped her thin pillow into a mound, shoved it under her head, and fumed. Still dressed, she lay on the uncomfortable cot and waited for the household to settle down. As a lark, her Uncle Mick, who’d been a cracksman, had taught Molly how to pick locks. She intended to slip down to Graeme’s cottage to spend an hour or two in bed with those two virile, inventive rogues. That social-climbing harpy needed a proper set-down.

Molly sat up when Annabelle poked her head into the dressing room. “Molly, help me get dressed.” She lit the stubby candle on the dressing table, marched over to the armoire and tossed garments out willy-nilly.

Used to Annabelle’s fit and starts, Molly swung her legs off the bed and shoved her feet into her shoes. She picked up the discarded garments and set them over the back of a chair. “What madcap idea have you come up with now?”

“I need to talk to the earl.” Pulling her nightgown over her head, Annabelle drew on a chemise and a pair of drawers.

“Now?”

“Yes, now.” A combative light burned in Annabelle’s eyes. The mood she was in, there’d be no talking any sense into her hard head.

“I’m almost too afraid to ask what brought this on?”

“Priscilla had a self-satisfied look on her face like she’d got the better of someone after the marquis gave her a tour of the rose garden. They’ve come to some sort of agreement, I’d bet my best pair of earbobs on it.”

Molly was torn, and she’d do anything to send Priscilla’s schemes off the rails, but she didn’t want the reckless Annabelle to ruin her reputation beyond redemption with these stiff-bottomed English.

“What does the earl have to do with your plan?”

Annabelle slipped on a pair of house slippers. “I am going to strike a mutually beneficial bargain with him.” Her face was bright with hope and determination. “I am going to ask him to marry me.”

Not much shocked Molly, but she stared at Annabelle slack-jawed. “Are you addled?” She was a forward-thinking woman but a man still did the asking.

“Priscilla now has her heart set on me being a marchioness and the marquis is practically salivating at the prospect.” Desperation dimmed the light in Annabelle’s eyes. “My marriage to the earl will be a fair exchange of goods or services. My money to save his estate and I’ll acquire a husband to free me from Priscilla’s machinations.”

“And swap one warden for another,” Molly felt forced to point out, even though she believed the earl was a reasonable sort. “I thought you were waiting for love.”

“A girlish dream, Molly. He treats his tenants, staff and horses well. I’m sure we’ll rub along adequately.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t put his horses first.” Molly’s dry assertion earned her a grin. “We can always find a way to stall Priscilla.”

Annabelle’s expression changed. It was one of mischievousness and sexual curiosity mixed with a bit of yearning. Well, hell, the girl was half in love with the man and she didn’t even know it. Molly prayed the earl felt something akin to what Annabelle did. She deserved to be loved and cherished. “He kisses well, and knows what to do with his hands.”

Oh Lord, the girl needed a permanent keeper, she was too adventurous by far. “How many liberties did you allow him to take with you?”

“Not as many as I would have liked and not as many as I’m going to if he agrees to my suggestion.” Annabelle grabbed a gown and slid it over her head. “Come on, Molly, button me up.”

With the ease of practice, Molly fastened the back of the dress. Knowing Annabelle would raise a ruckus if she didn’t help her, she plucked a hairpin from her hair and twisted it to snap it in two to fashion a lock pick. She knelt and manipulated the inner works of the lock until she heard the tell-tale snick when it disengaged.