The Lady’s Secret (8 page)

Nathan felt distinctly…odd. He should really announce his presence. He should stride in there and demand to know what Fellowes thought he was doing, undressing in his master’s room. But something kept him rooted to the spot. Made him, in fact, step back further into the shadows of the bedchamber. To watch.

Fellowes’ hand went to his cravat next. He undid it carelessly and it slithered to the floor. Now his shirt gaped at the neck, revealing his pale throat. In one swift movement, he pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor to join the breeches and cravat.

Nathan frowned at what he saw: Fellowes’ torso was bound in linen, from breastbone to waist. His first thought was that it must be an injury. Fellowes loosened something underneath his left arm and began to unwind the linen. Even in the dim light, Nathan could see how slender Fellowes’ arms were, how hairless he was, how fine his clavicle bones. His skin was creamy and soft-looking. Nathan’s brain struggled to process what his body had already realised, but by the time Fellowes unwound the final layer of linen and let it drop, Nathan had finally worked it out and managed not to gasp aloud when soft, pink-tipped breasts were revealed.

He swallowed hard, eyes riveted on the surprisingly lush female body that had been unknowingly uncovered to his gaze.

This woman—
Fellowes!
—had beautiful breasts, a little handful each, with dusky nipples. Nathan’s hands clenched at his sides and he felt his cock grow painfully hard. The question of why she was pretending to be a man was dancing around the edges of his brain but he couldn’t deal with that yet. He was still struggling with the drastic shift in his perception. For how could he ever have thought that this—this—person—was a
man?
He drew back still further into the shadows of the bedchamber. Fellowes—it seemed ridiculous to think of her thus but he had no other name—was struggling to undo the knot that held her drawers up, her bright head bent over the task. Were they men’s drawers? He thought they must be. They were plain and white like his own and they rested on her gently curving female hips as she struggled with the knot. Below the waist, her stockinged legs were shapely, above, she was all soft breasts and alluring lines.

Suddenly the knot was undone. She let go of the waistband and the garment fell away, leaving her naked but for her stockings, which she quickly stripped away and discarded.

God, she was lovely! Delicately wrought wrists and ankles, firm smooth legs, teacup breasts. Nathan’s mouth was dry, his heart pounding. And then she turned a few degrees more to get into the bath and the round peach of her bottom nearly made him groan aloud.

How?
How
could he not have seen this?

As he watched her climb into the bath and ease into the water, his mind raced. When he thought about it, she had been clever. She had not tried to be particularly masculine. Instead, she had tried to be invisible; a little ghost who only spoke when spoken to and even then used the minimum of words.

She sighed with pleasure as the water swallowed her up.

She was sharing his bathwater.

She smiled, closed her eyes and slid backwards till her head went right under. Moments later she emerged again, her hair streaming, to reach for the bar of soap and start working it into a lather.

He thought of the letter he’d found, from
H
. And good lord! That kiss with Lily Hawkins!

Time to go.
He knew he must leave. A footman could come up any minute to rap at the door and announce that the carriage was ready, betraying Nathan’s presence. And he wasn’t ready for that to happen. What precisely he was going to do with this surprising new knowledge, he didn’t yet know, but it was something he wanted to consider.

Time to go
. But still he stood there, watching with fascination the game of peek-a-boo her nipples were playing with the surface of the bathwater.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so mesmerised. He had always liked petite women and she appealed to him physically with her slight curves and her cool little face. He felt a pulse of acquisitive desire. And then there was the delicious intrigue of it all. He wanted to know the why of this strange story very badly. And he felt eager to see her in her valet’s garb again and watch her act out the pretence of being a man.

He backed away, slowly, his eyes still fixed upon her. She had finished soaping her hair and was sliding back under the water, submerging herself. He waited until she was fully under, then opened the door and slipped silently away.

20 December 1810

Georgy had been out of London only once before in her life, when she was about six or seven. Her mother and father had taken her and Harry to the Kentish coast for a few weeks. Papa did not live with them all the time so it had been an immense treat to have him with them every day. There had been no hint then of the consumption that would kill him just a few years later. He had been tall and broad, as Harry was now, sandy-haired and blue-eyed. For a few weeks they had been a real family.

Sitting in Harland’s travelling coach, Georgy remembered that journey to Kent, almost two decades ago now, as though it were yesterday. It had seemed to take forever but that was all right. She’d been allowed to sit on Papa’s lap for hours, playing cat’s cradle with a loop of string woven between her small fingers. The carriage had rocked and bumped over a bad bit of road and they had laughed every time she jogged on his knee. She remembered chattering away about something, Papa’s strong arms about her, his chin resting warmly on top of her head, and the rumble of his laughter in his chest reverberating behind her. She’d glanced at her mother—Harry drowsing on her lap—and seen her parents exchange a look. It was one of her favourite memories.

The carriage journey to Dunsmore Park with Harland was proving to be quite a different undertaking. She was travelling alone in the luggage coach, for one thing, surrounded by a mountain of crates, valises and boxes. After his stay at Dunsmore Manor, Harland planned to continue on to his own estate in Derbyshire, Camberley. It would be his first visit to Derbyshire in months so he would have estate business to attend to and various friends and neighbours to see, not least his sister, who was married to his nearest neighbour. As well as the vast array of clothing Georgy had packed, there were other things Harland wanted to take home—two boxes of books, a variety of items intriguingly wrapped in muslin and buried in straw, a painting, toys for his sister’s children and several crates marked Fragile, one of which was too big for the interior of the carriage and had to be strapped to the roof.

Amongst all of this, the only thing that belonged to Georgy was a single valise that contained two more sets of male clothes, one badly crumpled gown and a crushed bonnet.
Just in case
, she told herself. Dunsmore Manor would be the very worst place to be discovered. If she sensed any suspicion from anyone she had to be ready to take off. She prayed she would not be made to share a chamber.

Despite the crush, the luggage coach was surprisingly comfortable. True, it lacked the cushioned velvet upholstering that Harland’s faster, sleeker carriage enjoyed, but it was a stout vehicle and Georgy was able to make a cosy nest out of the two blankets that had been placed inside. Mrs. Sims had provided a basket of tasty victuals for the journey—just as well, since Harland wasn’t minded to wait for refreshments while the horses were changed. The coachman said Harland was always like this with journeys, itching to be on the move until he reached his destination. He wanted to be at Dunsmore Manor in time for tea.

Georgy ate the cold chicken, fresh-baked bread and Madeira cake that Mrs. Sims had packed, but drank only sparingly from the bottle of ale. She had developed quite a taste for ale since joining Harland’s household, enjoying a mug or two at the end of the day at the kitchen table with the footmen. Today, however, she couldn’t afford a full bladder.

So far in her masquerade, she’d had no difficulty in finding privacy when she needed it. The solitary nature of her occupation and her private bedchamber at the London house gave her all the isolation she needed. Today was the first time she’d had to worry about something so basic as how she would deal with needing to urinate. And she worried about it endlessly, terrified of discovery. She was sure she could make it to Dunsmore Manor without needing to go—but what then? When would she be alone again? Would she be alone at all?

In an attempt to distract herself from the state of her bladder, she watched the passing scenery with scrupulous attention. London was a sprawling beast and it was some time after they began the journey that the bustle of the city finally started to lessen and thin, until it finally straggled away to nothing and they were at last driving deep into the countryside.

She looked out of the carriage window at the ploughed-up winter fields and the jagged shapes of the leafless trees against the cloudy sky. Staring at that cold, peaceful view, she felt her hard city edges begin to relax.

In the middle of the afternoon, a little after changing horses for the last time, she fell into a doze. When she woke, she rubbed her stiff neck and yawned, leaning forward to gaze out of the window.

They were driving up a long, sweeping drive towards a house that couldn’t have been more than a few decades old, a great Palladian villa surrounded by an enormous park on which a number of sheep and cattle picturesquely grazed. Dunsmore Manor. Her father’s childhood home.

It was huge.

She stared at the vast, classical façade of the house with its countless windows. So many rooms! She felt an odd rumble and glanced downwards to see they were going over a wooden bridge that breached a grassy ditch. This was the “ha-ha” her father had told her about! An ingenious ditch that kept the sheep and cattle away from the house without spoiling the pastoral picture they presented. She felt a little thrill of excitement, recognising this thing her father had described to her so long ago.

Lord, in a few moments her coach would be drawing up at the front door! She hastily tidied her appearance, straightening her cravat and running her fingers through her mussed hair before putting her hat on again. When the coach came to a stop, she saw that Harland had already arrived and was speaking with a man whom she assumed was the butler of the house. His dignified yet deferential air spoke of long years in service.

“Ah, Fellowes,” Harland said as Georgy leapt down. She walked over to him.

“Yes, my lord.”

“I have just been telling Mr. Jenkins here that I have a number of items I am taking on to Camberley that will require to be securely stored, but it appears that the house is quite crammed. So I’ve told him that they can go in the dressing room next to my bedchamber, provided you sleep in there. That’s all right, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my lord,” Georgy agreed quickly, struggling to hide her relief. Thank god, she wouldn’t have to share a room with another servant.

Harland smiled at her, a warm, disarming smile. “There’s a good chap,” he said, then turned to Mr. Jenkins, who was eyeing the large crate strapped onto the roof of the luggage coach with dismay.

“I will arrange for a truckle bed to go in the dressing room for Mr. Fellowes,” Jenkins said, frowning. “I am afraid, though, that with the bed and the crates it is going to be very confined.”

Harland waved the objection away with one elegant hand. “That is of no consequence. The wardrobe can doubtless be moved from the dressing room to the bedchamber if need be—I shall not be inconvenienced by being more cramped than usual.”

Typical, Georgy thought wryly, for Harland to think of his own convenience, and not of the servants who would have to cart the boxes and crates up to his rooms and then move furniture, as well. No doubt they’d be roasted if the floors got so much as a scratch on them in the process. But she couldn’t bring herself to feel any real irritation with him. Thanks to his whims, she would have some much-needed privacy. She could have kissed him when he’d suggested it. Sharing such close quarters with him would be something of a challenge but she would have her own small room—it was much better than sharing a bedchamber with a strange male.

Nathan left Fellowes, as he still thought of her, with the butler and two footmen who had emerged to help with the luggage. He walked towards the front door as Dunsmore—in unrelieved black as usual—emerged with his mother. He strolled forward, smiling at them both.

“Good day to you, Dunsmore. And Lady Dunsmore.”

Lady Dunsmore was as haughty as they came. She smiled at Nathan in a wintry way and extended her hand. He’d come here once before, almost a decade ago, and he recalled her as a coldly polite and rather charmless hostess.

“We are pleased you could come, Harland,” Dunsmore said as Nathan bowed over his mother’s hand. “A few other guests have arrived and are presently taking tea in the green drawing room, if you’d care to join us.”

“That is rather a large item you have strapped to your carriage, Lord Harland,” Lady Dunsmore said before he could answer her son. “What on earth is it?”

“It is an orrery, ma’am. I bought it some months ago and have been meaning to take it to Camberley. I am going on there after I leave Dunsmore Park.”

“An orrery?” She raised one eyebrow in question.

“It is a mechanical device, ma’am. It represents the positions and motions of the planets.”

“Are you still interested in all that then, Harland?” Dunsmore asked. “I thought that was just a schoolboy fascination.”

“It is a lifelong fascination, I fear.”

“An expensive one, by the sounds of it,” Lady Dunsmore added in a faintly disapproving tone. Nathan smiled tightly.

She turned and led the way back into the house. Nathan sneaked a glance over his shoulder to see Fellowes emerging from the luggage coach carrying a precarious looking tower of three hatboxes. Reluctantly, he turned to follow his hostess into the house.

There was already a number of ladies and gentlemen in the green drawing room taking tea. Nathan was introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Hodge and their two daughters, a rather dull family who happened to be Dunsmore’s nearest neighbours. The two daughters were pretty enough girls, but one could see from the faded looks of Mrs. Hodge how they might appear in a decade or two.

Nathan escaped from the deadly dullness of the Hodges after a few minutes, crossing the room to speak to Osborne, who was deep in conversation with a lady who was not nearly as pretty as the Hodge girls but ten times more attractive with her knowing smile and sparkling eyes. Dunsmore, who had followed Nathan, introduced them.

“This is the beautiful Mrs. Marshall, Harland,” Dunsmore said with heavy gallantry.

“Mrs.
Marsh
,” the lady in question corrected irritably. Nathan had the distinct feeling it was not the first time Dunsmore had got her name wrong. He sent her a sympathetic smile and turned his attention to Osborne.

“Hello, old man. That waistcoat is quite extraordinary.”

Osborne grinned. “I suppose you think it too colourful.”

“On the contrary. It is exquisite.” Nathan leaned forward to admire it. The silk, of a superlative quality, was a vivid peacock blue that shimmered with jewel-like intensity. He felt a brief covetous pang then looked up again, smiling. “It is your coat that offends me.”

“You can’t mean it!” Osborne exclaimed.

“If ever a waistcoat called for black evening clothes, Osborne, it is that waistcoat,” Nathan pronounced.

Mrs. Marsh laughed. “I told you, Adam.”

“You are both blind,” Osborne said and flicked a non-existent speck from the shoulder of his pale grey coat. “What do you think, Dunsmore?”

Dunsmore merely scowled, as though he suspected Osborne was laughing at him. But then Dunsmore dressed as though his mother chose his waistcoats.

“I think I like you, Lord Harland,” Mrs. Marsh told him. Her eyes were inviting. Perhaps he might have been tempted by the sly humour in her gaze, were it not for the woman who would be sleeping in his rooms tonight. The thought of Fellowes—
her
—moving about his rooms tugged insistently at his intention. He hadn’t had the chance to look at her much in her male garb with his new knowledge. He wanted to watch her, relishing the secret. He wanted to look for chinks in her armour.

“Would you like some tea, Lord Harland?”

He turned towards the voice; it came from Lady Dunsmore, who sat at the tea table a few feet away. A footman placed an urn of hot water before her. Nathan sighed inwardly. There would be no escape from this drawing room for a while yet.

“Thank you, ma’am. Yes, I will.” He smiled at his companions. “Please excuse me.”

“I am just making a fresh pot,” Lady Dunsmore informed him as he approached, waving her hand at the chair opposite. He sat obediently.

She opened the tea caddy which sat to her right, a very fine rosewood box, inlaid with a geometric design in ebony. It was somewhat larger than the usual sort of caddy, with four compartments instead of two. With unhurried grace, Lady Dunsmore opened one compartment and scooped out a spoonful of small black leaves, spilling them into the small crystal bowl that nestled in the middle of the caddy. From a second compartment she took two scoops, larger leaves this time, of a grey-green colour. She stirred the dry leaves lightly then spooned them into the teapot and nodded to the footman, who poured the water in from the heavy urn then replaced the teapot lid.

“Good tea is worth waiting for, don’t you think, Lord Harland?”

“All good things are, ma’am, in my experience.”

“Indeed. And you—like your father, as I recall—are plainly a man who enjoys the finer things.” She sniffed. “Your orrery, for example.”

“I am in the fortunate position of being able to indulge my admiration for beautiful novelties,” he agreed. She inclined her head but did not return his smile. She was a cold fish; it was plain where Dunsmore got his lack of humour. Nathan watched as she lifted the teapot lid and peered inside. Evidently satisfied, she replaced the lid and lifted the pot to pour.

The tea was a clear greenish brown, a beautiful colour against the pale blue-white of the porcelain teacup. Reluctantly seduced by all the pretty accoutrements of this peculiarly female ritual, Nathan lifted the teacup to his nose, sniffing appreciatively. There was a hint of smoke in it, a touch of pine on the nose. He sipped. The tea was delicate and delicious.

“Would you like sugar? Milk?”

He shook his head. “No, this tea needs no embellishments.”

“It is good, is it not? It is my own special blend.”

“A secret one?” he asked.