Frovtunes’ Kiss Page 4

  Stout hands encased Moira’s shoulders as Mrs. Higgensworth drew her into the kitchen.

  Moira indeed felt like a sneak. Having concealed herself in the laundry yard until dusk, she’d approached the house and peeked in through the kitchen windows, ducking whenever one of the servants passed by. It had taken a colossal effort of patience to wait until she finally glimpsed the housekeeper alone before tapping on the garden door. She drew a breath now to begin her explanation but Mrs. Higgensworth spoke first.

  “You poor lamb, abroad this time of evening and all alone. Why I’ve never heard of the like…” Cradling Moira’s hand in both her warm, ample ones, the older woman brought her into the servants’ dining hall. “Have you had your tea? You sit yourself down while I ring for Susan to bring some.”

  Emitting little puffs of breath, the housekeeper waddled to the bell pull. “You’re such a dear to visit me like this. We’ve missed you and your mother dreadfully these many months, and your stepfather, too, God rest his kindly soul. I daresay, things have not been the same since he left us. Dear me, not at all the same…”

  “Mrs. Higgensworth, I need to speak with you.”

  “Not until I’ve seen a hot meal go into you. You’re as thin as a scarecrow, you poor little thing.” She returned to the table and plunked down beside Moira. “I suppose I should bring you upstairs and announce you, though I confess I’d rather keep you to myself for a while, give us time to catch up and all. But, Mrs. Foster—oh, can you believe the woman ordered me to call her my lady, as if it were her birthright. No, it’s her oldest son who’s inherited the Monteith name, and all the rest of ‘em are Missus, Miss, and Mister Foster as far as I’m concerned.”

  She went on, but Moira heard little after mention of the son who’d inherited Monteith. The very thought of him incited an infuriating flurry in her stomach. Her wrist still tingled, occasionally, where the rogue’s lips—and tongue—touched it the night of the ball.

  She suppressed a shiver.

  “Please, Mrs. Higgensworth. I’m here because I need employment. As a maid.”

  Mrs. Higgensworth’s mouth dropped open. Something between mild amusement and abject horror flickered across her face.

  “Can you hire me, Mrs. Higgensworth?”

  Moira’s question roused the woman from her stunned silence. “Well, I…I don’t know…I can’t imagine…whatever do you mean, Miss Moira?”

  “I wish to work here as a maid.”

  “But…you’re a gentlewoman.” Her voice plunged to an undertone. A wash of crimson stained her face. “You couldn’t possibly. Oh, what on earth’s happened, my dear, to drive you to such lengths?”

  How Moira wished she could explain, yet to do so would only burden a kind soul who had no means of offering the financial assistance she and her mother so desperately needed. “I don’t mean permanently. Just for a short time. You see, I believe my stepfather left something behind here, and I need to find it.”

  “Is that all?” The woman released the corner of apron she’d balled in her hands. “Why don’t you just ask the new Lord Monteith for it, whatever it is?”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t. You see, I don’t believe he wishes me to have it, though it belongs to my mother by rights. Please, Mrs. Higgensworth, couldn’t you fit me in as a parlor maid or the like? I need access to the library and study, and perhaps the master’s private rooms, as well.”

  “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.”

  CHAPTER

  4

  She 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 he
r. 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.”

  “And what would you know of my sister, Shaun?”

  “Nothing.” He sniffed, affecting a disinterested air.

  “Then why don’t you talk about Miss Hughes and leave Letty to me.”

  Shaun’s mouth curved to a sly grin. “Did some snooping around that boardinghouse of hers. Miss Hughes hasn’t been back to her rooms for the past couple of days at least.”

  “You don’t say.” Graham walked to the window. Above slate rooftops, London’s constant haze presented a sickly contrast to the startling azure skies of Egypt. He stared past his own faint reflection to the carefully swept street below, again so unlike his adopted nation’s sandy, ever-changing thoroughfares. A coach and four ambled by, rumbling along the cobbles. The gilt crest on its door caught the weak sun and tossed a glint in his eye. “Moira Hughes came to London for a reason, Shaun. An important one. I’m sure of it.”

  “Yes, but what? And why would Smythe lie about not knowing where she was staying?”

  “Good questions, both.”

  Down below, a woman walked past the house, her steps raising a crisp echo along the foot pavement. Graham watched her until she disappeared around the corner. Something about her graceful posture and imperious stride seemed familiar, and utterly contrary to the white linen cap, dark blue frock, and low-heeled boots that declared her a maid. With a shake of his head, he turned from the window. “And my brother? Have you discovered his whereabouts?”

  “The Lazy Hound.”

  “God knows you’re right, Shaun, but that is my brother you’re talking about.”

  “No, the Lazy Hou
nd Tavern. Over on Cheapside. That’s where he is.”

  “Ah. Come along, then. Let’s go and collect him.”

  “Oh…roll your leg over, roll your leg over, roll your leg over…it’s better that way! Oh, roll—”

  “Stop it, Freddy. I’m warning you.” Graham tugged his brother’s arm for emphasis, producing the desired effect, but at the same time causing Freddy to stumble over his own feet. He’d have skidded face-first onto the graveled path if not for Graham and Shaun each having one of his arms slung across their shoulders.

  “Pardon, your lordship. Don’t like my singing, eh? Miss Ruby Rousseau liked it well enough. Want to know how she liked it, Graham, old boy?”

  Graham turned his face to avoid a waft of secondhand whiskey fumes. Earlier, he and Shaun had discovered Freddy thoroughly cup-shot, lying facedown across a littered table in the Lazy Hound Tavern. Red satin dress hitched to her thighs, the famed Ruby Rousseau, in little better condition herself, had sat perched beside him, running her fingers through his tawny hair and humming the same sordid tune Freddy currently seemed so fond of.

  After tossing down a shilling for Miss Ruby’s pains, Graham and Shaun had hefted Freddy by shoulders and legs and carried him out of the dank, putrid-smelling establishment. He passed out during the ride home, regaining consciousness once and only briefly, to hang his head out the carriage door. The street sweeper would be far from pleased when he reached the corner of High Holborn and Oxford.

  Upon arriving home, they bypassed the house and proceeded to the garden, where Graham and Shaun were presently walking Freddy back and forth in the hopes of establishing some measure of sobriety before their mother saw him.

  “You’re a disaster,” Graham murmured as all three men struggled to remain upright where the path circled a birdbath. “Where’s Baxter with that coffee?”

  Shaun squinted over his shoulder. “Looks like refreshments are on the way.”

  Graham followed his friend’s gaze. A small square table had been placed just beyond the terrace doors, and two footmen were now placing chairs around it. “About bloody time.”