The Lady’s Secret (15 page)

The tension went out of her. “Thank you,” she said.

“Don’t thank me,” he replied. “If I discover you’ve lied to me, I will come after you—wherever you may be—and drag you before a magistrate myself. Do I make myself clear?”

There was a pause then she nodded once. “Perfectly, my lord.”

27 December 1810

“Can you get the other side, Bert?” Georgy said.

Bert was an outdoor servant who’d been sent up to Harland’s bedchamber to help take the orrery down to the coach. He stood in the doorway, his greasy grey hair clinging to his scalp, a faintly resentful expression in his rheumy eyes. At Georgy’s words, he slouched forward to take his place opposite her.

“Right, up we go, one two…
three
.”

They heaved the crate up together. Bert didn’t seem to be putting in much effort. Georgy felt as though she was taking most of the weight.

They shuffled to the door.

“Tilt to the left,” she gasped. They lugged the crate through the dressing room door and into the bedchamber. A bit more shuffling took them to the bedchamber door and out into the hall.

“Right, downstairs we go, then,” Georgy said. “You first.” Bert looked resentful at that but she didn’t care. He’d let her bear all the weight till now and already her arms were burning. The orrery crate was perhaps four by four feet and its contents were not precisely light.

“What on
earth
are you doing, Fellowes?”

Harland. He stood at the top of the stairs, glaring at them.

“My lord! I was just taking the orrery down to—”

“Where are the footmen? This is not your responsibility! Put that crate down instantly!”

Georgy glanced at Bert, gesturing to the floor with her eyes. They both squatted down to rest the crate on the floor. Harland turned to Bert. “Go and fetch a footman to help you with this, there’s a good chap. My valet has other things to do.”

Bert tugged his forelock at Harland and mooched off.

Harland turned his attention back to Georgy. “Why didn’t you call for the footmen?”

Pointless to try to explain the complex little games of power and control of servants. She’d asked for two footmen to come and help her and had been sent a sullen gamekeeper.

“You said you wanted to be off as early as possible. I couldn’t get anyone straightaway so I decided to do it myself.”

“Well don’t. I don’t want you—doing things like that.”

She frowned, puzzled. “Like what?”

“Lifting things. Heavy things.”

She stared at him, astonished. “But—my job. You said you wanted me to continue. And this is part of what I do. When we get to Camberley I will have to help get your luggage in.”

“Nonsense. You are an upper servant. The coachmen and footmen can deal with that.”

She couldn’t help it—she laughed. “Oh, they will love me,” she murmured. “To act like that, and me a mere youth and new to the house. They will be spitting in my food!”

He didn’t even smile. He just kept frowning at her, his dark eyes troubled. “You will do as
I
say,” he said at last. “I am the master.”

Her smile faded. And didn’t she know it? She’d spent half yesterday and the whole night locked in his bedchamber with him. He’d been so silent and moody she’d been on tenterhooks the whole time, wondering if he might drag her before Dunsmore after all.

Harland walked past her to stand in the doorway of the bedchamber and survey the interior.

“Everything else has been taken down?” he asked.

“Yes. Once this crate is strapped in place, we’ll be ready to go.”

“Good. I want to reach Camberley before dark.” He consulted his watch. “We will leave in ten minutes. I’ll see you downstairs.”

Bert returned a minute after Harland’s departure, with a footman in tow this time. Georgy watched them heft up the crate and begin to manoeuvre it carefully downstairs. She followed them out of the house and down the front steps to where Nathan’s carriages waited. The coachmen were securing the other crates and valises in place.

“Hullo, Mr. Fellowes!” John called out. “Is that the last of it, then?”

“Yes, once this is in place, we can be off.”

“Put it down here,” John instructed the two men. Bert dropped his side a couple of inches from the ground.

“You idiot!” Georgy cried as it clunked down. “That’s a fragile object!”

Bert muttered an apology, sounding not the least bit sincere, and shambled away.

The footman tutted. “Don’t mind him. Monk’s like that with everyone, he’s a right moody bugger.”

Monk?

Georgy stared after the departing servant, her heart galloping. “Monk” was the name used by her uncle in the letter. The man who’d been sent after her mother.

“Don’t fret yerself, Mr. Fellowes,” John said, interrupting her thoughts. “I reckon the thingy’s all right. I didn’t hear anything break. He just bumped it. Moody bugger is right, eh?” He grinned at Georgy, then turned away. “Arthur! Help me get this up on the roof.”

Georgy tore her gaze away from the diminishing figure of Monk. It would have to be enough to know where he was for now.

“I’ll help too,” she said, in defiance of Nathan’s orders.

She was in the middle of the job, supporting the lowest side as John and Arthur heaved it up to secure it in place, when Nathan appeared again.

“Fellowes,
what
are you doing!” She nearly dropped her corner when she heard his voice but managed to keep hold until the coachmen had it in place.

“My apologies, my lord,” she murmured a moment later. “I was just helping the coachmen.”

He gave her a long, hard look. “They are quite capable of securing that crate without your assistance. Come with me now. I wish you to travel in my carriage today. I have important matters I wish to discuss with you.”

Having delivered that order, he turned on his heel and stalked over to the travelling carriage, climbing inside.

John cast her a sympathetic look from his position on the roof of the luggage coach. “Never off the job, eh?”

“Too right,” Georgy said, with feeling. She followed Harland to the other carriage and got in beside him.

He lounged in the far corner, his booted feet propped up on the crimson velvet seat opposite. Georgy selected the corner nearest the door she had just climbed in, diagonally opposite from him. She sat as close to the wall as she could, her body rigid with tension as she tried to keep herself from even brushing against his boots. But there was no getting away from him. Harland seemed to take up all the space, his legs stretching right across the carriage interior.
I am the master.
The man was a bloody tyrant.

Unwilling to look at him, she stared instead at the seat opposite. It was plush and comfortable looking. She let her left hand drop away from her lap to rest on the fabric of the seat she sat on, brushing the short dense pile of the velvet with knowledgeable fingertips. She could tell its quality from the mere touch.

“The journey to Camberley will take us the full day,” Harland said.

A whole day in a carriage with Harland? Why? What did he want from her?

Georgy was suddenly aware of how she was sitting. Her back was rigid and her jaw was clenched. She was tense and uncomfortable, hunched into her small corner. Unlike Harland, who was stretched out, lean and handsome, the very picture of relaxed indolence. And why not? Wouldn’t she be like him in his place? Nothing to worry about but the cut of his coats.

She closed her eyes. God, she hated this feeling. Resentment, fear and foreboding all mixed up. The awful sense of powerlessness. And still she felt that foolish pull towards him, fuelled now by the memory of their kiss.

John appeared at the window. “Are you ready, my lord?”

“Yes, let’s be off.”

John disappeared from view and a few moments later, the carriage lurched forward. The horses began slowly, walking down the pristine drive to the gates. The luggage coach driven by Arthur would bring up the rear. The gatekeeper opened the gates for them and a few minutes later they turned onto the public road, the horses picking up speed now. Georgy kept her gaze fixed outside the window.

After a few moments, Harland said, “Feel free to put your boots up on the seat opposite. Make yourself comfortable.”

It was a crime to put boots on that velvet, but she lifted her feet anyway and placed them on the seat, forcing herself to sink back against the upholstery and feign relaxation.

“How long is it since you wore a gown, Georgy?” Harland asked after a few minutes had passed.

Her name on his lips was still as shocking as it had been that first time. She looked up and his gaze was fixed squarely upon her. Her own slid away again.

“Since before I took employment with you.” She pretended absorption in the state of her cuffs.

“Quite a long time, then. Do you miss dressing as a woman?”

“Not much.” In truth, she missed pretty feminine things a great deal, but she wasn’t about to admit that sort of weakness to him. It would be a mistake to admit any weakness to this man.

He looked interested. “You
prefer
dressing as a man?”

Childishly, she wanted to shock him.

“Of course.” It was true, in a way.

“Of course? Why ‘of course’?” He looked at her as though fascinated, those midnight eyes fixed, raptor-like, on her. A tiny part of her was stupidly flattered by that interest; it fluttered to life inside her, basking in his attention. All these months of being invisible, and now, suddenly, he
saw
her. She had to guard against this hunger to open herself to him. She was far too vulnerable to his interest.

“It’s liberating,” she said. “I can do anything dressed as man. So many things you take for granted.”

“Such as what?”

“Everything. Move, stride, run, jump.”

He smiled. “Of course. I’d forgotten, but you’re quite the athlete, aren’t you?” When she sent him a puzzled look, he added, “Don’t you remember when I saw you with Lily Hawkins?”

She immediately thought of the kiss he’d witnessed and felt heat rush into her cheeks. “Athlete?”

“You were jumping over fences like a young blood. Not the sort of thing I’d have thought a young woman would be up to—except maybe one who performs at Astley’s Amphitheatre. Is that where you’re from, Georgy? Are you a circus performer?” He arched his brows, his eyes amused.

“No,” she said shortly.

“Some sort of performer? An actress?” Harland guessed, eyeing her. “You know Lily Hawkins, after all, and you’ve acted the part of a man without being discovered—except by me.”

Georgy said nothing, alarmed by the connections he was making. How was she going to deal with all his questions? Was that why he wanted her in his carriage? So he could interrogate her for the whole journey? At some point she might let something important slip—and Dunsmore was his friend. Harland might not have delivered her into Dunsmore’s hands so far, but she wasn’t out of the woods yet. He was interested in her now. The question was, why?

She didn’t flatter herself that it was a physical interest. Oh, he had enjoyed her kiss, but she suspected it was the novelty of the situation that had intrigued him, more than her particularly.

“Am I close?” he prompted.

She shrugged again, non-committal, and he laughed in acknowledgement of her evasiveness. His unexpected good humour made her wary. When he’d discovered her coming out of Dunsmore’s study yesterday he’d been furious with her, though he’d taken no steps to try to force her story out of her. All last night he’d brooded and even this morning he’d been withdrawn. Now, suddenly, he was wreathed in smiles. He looked as though he was enjoying himself.

Was this how a cat looked at a mouse?

“All right then, let me try another question. How are old are you? Surely you can tell me that at least?”

She considered for a moment. “Three and twenty.”

He mulled that over.

“Are you married?” he asked at length. She couldn’t hide her surprise at that question—it came so out of the blue—and he chuckled. “Ah. At last, an ungoverned reaction. A ‘no,’ I think?”

“Correct.” The word emerged firm, almost fierce. Harland raised an eyebrow.

“Why such vehemence? Is it because—” He glanced up at the ceiling of the carriage as though considering the precise words to use. When he looked back down, his expression was sly. “Is it because you prefer females, Georgy?”

She wondered if she had misheard him at first. It seemed such an absurd question. A few moments passed during which he merely waited for her answer. She laughed—an exclamation of disbelief.

“Are you serious?” she said.

“I think you’ve just answered my question,” he replied. “But, yes, I had wondered. I’ve seen you with women in your male persona. They like you. I could barely coax a smile out of Lily Hawkins, but she was vastly charmed by you. She
kissed
you.” He frowned, as though something new had occurred to him. “Does
she
know what you really are? I’d assumed so, but—”

She laughed again, astonished, even as her mind raced. Lily and Max had impressed upon her that she should stick to the truth as far as possible, but Harland’s rapid barrage of questions was unnerving her. She decided to go back to his first question and lure him away from the second.

“I prefer men.”

He smiled then, looking well satisfied with her response. Resentment at his good humour warred with the pleasure she got from looking at him. God, but he undid her. That smile was pure wickedness, leavened by the sort of dimple a grown man ought not to possess.

“What kind of men?”

Was she to be subjected to this all day? She prevaricated.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Do you like tall men, short men, fat or thin? Fair? Dark? Rich? Poor?” He counted the list off on his elegant fingers, then looked at her questioningly.

“It is not so easy as that,” Georgy said. “No one is merely the sum of those sorts of parts.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Think of the last man you kissed—besides my good self, I mean. What was he like?”

She knew exactly who that was. Michael McCall at a party at the Camelot. She’d been wearing her favourite violet silk and her hair had been down. She’d drunk too much punch and they’d danced together till her feet hurt. And then he’d pulled her into a scenery cupboard and kissed her soundly. Eventually she’d pushed him away.

Why had she done that? He was lovely. Good-looking and uncomplicated. And he kissed very nicely.