A Lady Never Tells Page 4

  “Perhaps.” Mary grimaced. “But I have no desire for that—that rake to know our business.”

  “Rake!” Rose looked at her sister with raised brows. “But I thought he acted the perfect gentleman.”

  Mary felt a flush rising in her cheeks. She wasn’t about to tell her sisters about the incident in the hall. “Well, perhaps not a rake. But he certainly isn’t anyone we know. I have no desire to go about telling everyone our life story. I am sure that I will be able to find the earl’s address somehow or other.” She paused, then went on, “I think that I should go by myself tomorrow morning to find him. It will be easier than having all of us present ourselves on his doorstep.”

  “But I want to meet the earl, too!” Lily protested.

  “You will meet him. Don’t be silly. As soon as I explain everything to him, I am sure he will welcome us all into his home,” Mary told her with more conviction than she felt.

  One reason she wished to see the man by herself first was that she feared his reaction to the news that he had four granddaughters he had never known existed. She did not want her sisters to hear what he might say when she told him.

  “Mary is right,” Rose put in, backing up Mary, as she could be counted on to do. Several years older than Camellia and Lily, with only a year between them in age, Mary and Rose had always had a special bond. “It might overwhelm the poor man for all of us to show up at once.”

  “But what are we to do while Mary’s gone?” Lily argued.

  “It will be deadly dull,” Camellia agreed. “But no doubt it will be even duller to visit some old earl. At least here we can go down to the stables and see the horses.”

  “Oh, who cares about the horses?” Lily replied somewhat sulkily.

  “There might be shops close by,” Camellia pointed out, and Lily brightened.

  “No!” Mary’s eyes widened in alarm. “You mustn’t go out walking. What if you get lost? What if something happens?” She turned an appealing eye to Rose. “Rose, you must see that they stay here while I’m gone.”

  “You are such a mother hen.” Lily rolled her eyes. “Camellia and I can take care of ourselves.”

  “At home, you can. Even out in the wilds, I wouldn’t worry. But it’s different here. The people are different. Promise you will not.”

  The girls argued for a bit more, but the serving girl’s arrival with a tray of food put an end to their protests. It had been some hours since they had eaten, and the prospect of a fresh meal after the days of shipboard fare was mouthwatering. They sat down and fell to eating with relish. When at last they were sated, all arguments had long since flown from their heads, and they were more than ready to follow the innkeeper to their rooms.

  Lily and Camellia shared one room, and their two older sisters were next door to them. Mary was pleased to see that the door locked from the inside. She turned the key, and beside her Rose let out a sigh of relief.

  “I was afraid we wouldn’t be able to lock the door.” Rose sank down onto the straight chair that stood beside the door. “This place frightens me.”

  “The inn?” Mary asked, a trifle surprised. “It seems quite respectable, I thought.”

  “No. The whole place. The docks. London. It’s so big. So dirty and … squalid.”

  “It’s been a difficult day.” Mary hopped up onto the bed. “It is very different from home. But I am sure the docks are worse than the rest of it. Things will be different tomorrow. You’ll see.”

  Rose gave her sister a faint smile. “You are always so full of confidence.”

  Mary shrugged. “I never like the alternative.”

  “You must wonder sometimes how we could be sisters. I feel as though I am frightened by everything.”

  “Don’t be silly. You sat there on the docks all alone, guarding our bags. That’s hardly the act of a coward.”

  “Well, yes. I mean, I had to. But I was scared the whole time.”

  “But that’s the whole thing about being brave, isn’t it? Standing your ground even though you’re afraid.” Mary leaned toward her sister, frowning a little. “Rose, what is all this talk about? What’s bothering you?”

  Rose shook her head. “It’s just all so strange. What if our grandfather turns us away? What if we can’t find him?”

  “Don’t think that way.” Mary slid off the bed and went to her sister, slipping a comforting arm around her shoulders. Rose had always been the most tenderhearted of them, ever willing to offer sympathy, but just as easily hurt and far more likely to worry than any of the others. “You’re just tired, so it all seems worse. But things will get better now. You’ll see.”

  She watched as Rose got up and began to get ready for bed. Mary was not about to admit to her sister how much the events of the day had shaken her as well. It chilled her to think what an awful situation they would be in if Sir Royce had not stopped that thief. She should have been more careful, Mary told herself. More watchful. She would have to learn how to deal with the dangers of a new city and country.

  And that included men like Sir Royce Winslow.

  How silly it was to even think of Sir Royce. The kiss had meant nothing to him—any more than it had to her, of course. She would never see him again. It had been foolish but utterly harmless.

  Still, as she unbuttoned her dress, she could not help but remember the way his lips had felt on hers—the soft, insistent pressure … the heat … the promise of further delights.

  Flushing a little, Mary yanked her plain white cotton night rail over her head. Firmly she pulled her mind back from its wayward path. She would not think about him, she promised herself. She would not let her thoughts drift to his thick hair, the color of wheat in the sun, or his grass green eyes, or his strong, competent fingers as they curled around her arm.

  No. Definitely. She was done with Royce Winslow.

  Mary set off the next morning for her grandfather’s house in far better spirits than she had enjoyed the evening before. A good night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast had done much to chase away her troubling thoughts, including those relating to the handsome Sir Royce.

  She was certain that her fortunes had turned when she asked the innkeeper if he knew the address of the Earl of Stewkesbury and, after a quickly suppressed look of surprise, he had told her that Stewkesbury House lay on Bariston Crescent and any hack in the city would know where it was.

  A few minutes later, dressed in her best day dress and bonnet, her hands encased primly in ladylike gloves, and wearing the dainty silver earbobs she had inherited from her mother—for she was determined not to look like the impoverished relative that she was—she set out from the inn. It was easy to hail a vehicle here to take her to the earl’s house, and she settled into the seat with some satisfaction. It did not have the elegance of last night’s conveyance, of course, but she had at least managed it on her own. She thought that it boded well for the project before her.

  It was not until the hack stopped in front of an imposing gray stone building and Mary climbed down from the carriage that she realized with horror that the only coins in her purse were American. The driver had jumped down and stood waiting expectantly as Mary tucked the case containing her papers under her arm and dug in her reticule.

  “I-I’m sorry!” Mary stammered, a flush rising in her cheeks. She pulled a few coins from her coin purse and held them out to him. “I haven’t any English money. Will these do?”

  The driver stared at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. “No money! ’Ere, wot’s this? Tryin’ to gull me, are ye?”

  “No! No, truly—though I’m not sure exactly what that means. But I am not trying to deceive you. I just arrived here from the United States, you see, and I haven’t any money except American coins. I haven’t had time to—to exchange it. Indeed, I don’t really know how to do that. But if you could just wait, I am sure—”

  “Wait? Wait for what?” The driver eyed her suspiciously. “Don’t try any of your stories on me, missy. I’m no Johnny Raw.”


  “No, indeed, I am sure that you are not. But my grandfather is inside, and he will have some British money to—”

  “In there?” The man nodded toward the grand house behind them. “Aye, and I’m cousin to the Duke of Clarence.”

  “You are?” Mary asked, taken aback for a moment. “But why—oh, oh, I see. You are being facetious.”

  The driver grimaced. “I don’t know about that. But I’m telling you, I’m not leaving ’ere ’til I get my blunt!” He narrowed his eyes. “If you ain’t got coin, I reckon I’d take them little earbobs.”

  “No!” Mary’s hands rose instinctively to cover the tiny silver loops that hung from her ears. “Those were my mother’s!”

  The man continued to argue, and Mary noticed that a passing couple had paused to stare, then hurried on, and the boy sweeping the crossing at the intersection had strayed down the street to watch them. Soon, she thought, they would attract a clot of onlookers, and her grandfather would not appreciate that.

  “Here!” she said finally, in desperation taking out a silver coin and thrusting it toward him. “It’s silver! Even if it is American, it has to be worth far more than a mere ride across town. It wasn’t even that far!”

  The driver grumbled and examined the coin, even biting it, then finally pocketed it with a bitter remark concerning mutton-headed Americans and climbed back onto his seat. Mary closed her purse and thrust it back into her reticule, letting out a sigh of relief. Her hands were trembling from the confrontation.

  She turned and walked up the front steps, then paused to set her case down and smooth her skirts. She reminded herself that she was the earl’s granddaughter and he was bound to take her in. Picking up the satchel once more, she raised the large brass ring that ran through the lion’s head knocker and brought it down sharply against the plate.

  The door opened only seconds later to reveal a man dressed in old-fashioned blue breeches and coat, with a powdered wig on his head. He had a long narrow face centered by a long narrow nose, down which he stared at her coldly.

  Mary, somewhat startled by his rudeness as well as his odd attire, stood silent for a long moment, gazing back at him. The person who answered the door must be a servant, she thought, yet why was he dressed in the sort of wig and clothes that were usually seen only on very old gentlemen?

  “The service entrance is to the side,” he said, and stepped back, starting to close the door.

  “No!” Mary cried, recovering her voice, and she reached out to grasp the edge of the door. “No, wait. I am here to see the earl.”

  “The earl?” The man’s brows rose comically, but he pulled his expression back into its former cool blankness. “I fear you are much mistaken. Now take yourself off.”

  “I must see him!” Mary said quickly. “I have very personal business with him. He will wish to see me, I swear. I am here from the United States. I know I should have written first, but there wasn’t time, and a letter would not have arrived before I did anyway, and—”

  The man took her wrist firmly and pulled her hand from the door, thrusting her back. “Take your stories elsewhere, you doxy, and stop dirtying the earl’s doorstep.”

  With that, the man closed the door in her face.

  Chapter 3

  Mary stared, mouth open, at the smooth expanse of the closed door in front of her, too astonished to speak or even move. A saving fury washed through her, and she grabbed the knocker, bringing it down several times. She paused, and when there was no response, she began to hammer again.

  At long last, the door opened. The same man stood before her, his face red now with anger. He came out, pulling the door shut behind him, and Mary was forced to move back and down onto the top step, almost dropping her satchel.

  “Cease that noise this instant!” the man exclaimed. “I told you to take yourself off. The earl doesn’t have time for bird-witted hussies cluttering up his doorstep.”

  “Hussies!” Mary faced him, eyes flashing and her free hand planted pugnaciously on her hip. “How dare you! I am no hussy!”

  The man cast a sardonic glance down her form and let out a snort. “Aye, ’tis certain you don’t dress like one. Well, he has no use for dowds harassing him, either. Whatever you’re collecting for, try around the side, like I said, or get you gone altogether.”

  “I am not collecting for anything!” Mary retorted, stung by his comment on her best dress and bonnet. “I told you, I am here to see the Earl of Stewkesbury. I demand that you tell him I am here.”

  The man crossed his arms over his chest. “No one sees the earl without Mr. Hooper’s say-so.”

  “Then let me see this Mr. Hooper, whoever he is.”

  “He’s the butler. And I already told you—go around to the side.”

  Mary regarded the man for a long moment. She had not expected this obstacle to her plans. She had known she would have to convince her grandfather of the truth of her claims. It had never occurred to her that she would have to convince some strangely dressed servant merely to let her see her grandfather. But it was obvious that she could not shove her way past him.

  Turning on her heel, she descended the steps and went around to a narrow path along the side of the grand house. At the end of the walkway, a few steps led down to a door of much less grandeur. Mary trotted down the steps and, tucking the case under her arm, rapped sharply upon the door. Her nerves had long since vanished, burned away by her righteous indignation, and she was eager to launch into battle with Mr. Hooper.

  A young girl in a mobcap opened the door and gazed blankly at her. Even after Mary demanded to see Mr. Hooper, the girl continued to look equally unknowing.

  “We’re not ’iring,” she said at last, turning to speak to a tall woman with muscular arms who was stirring a pot. “Are we, Cook?”

  The woman thus addressed frowned at the girl. “Course not. Wot are ye doin’, Millie? Get back to the pots.”

  The girl nodded, saying, “Yes, ma’am,” and started to close the door.

  “No!” Mary was faster this time than at the front door, and she jumped inside, bringing up her forearm to stop the closing of the door. “I am not here looking for employment. I am here to see the earl.”

  Both the cook and the girl regarded her doubtfully.

  “The man at the front door said I must speak to Mr. Hooper,” Mary went on. “At this door. Now, will you kindly inform Mr. Hooper that I am here and wish to speak to him?”

  Something in her voice must have convinced the girl, or at least the cook, for after a nod from the tall woman, Millie turned and headed off into the recesses of the house. Mary waited for an interminable time, during which she found herself the object of all eyes in the kitchen—and that, she realized as she glanced around the cavernous room, was a very large number indeed. The kitchen could easily have held two or three of their tavern’s kitchen back home, and the number of people working in it was daunting. Was this not a private home? How could it need such a large kitchen? And what could all these people possibly do? She noticed two or three other men dressed in the same way as the man at the front door.

  A very tall, very thin, very elegant man with snowy white hair strode into the room. In his black jacket and trousers and starched white shirt, he looked so imposing that Mary knew at once that this must be the earl himself. Millie must have misunderstood and had fetched Mary’s grandfather herself.

  Mary’s stomach quivered at the thought of meeting her grandfather, but she faced him squarely. He halted in front of her and regarded her with an unwavering gaze.

  “Yes?” he intoned at last, drawing the word out and investing it with a decided frostiness.

  The apparent contempt on his features raised her hackles, but Mary kept a firm grip on her temper and bobbed a polite curtsey. “How do you do, my lord?” She had quizzed her fellow passengers aboard ship about the correct way to address an earl. “I am Mary Bascombe, and I have come to see you on a very important matter.”

  The man’s e
yebrows shot up, disturbing the careful reserve on his face. “I fear you are mistaken. I am Mr. Hooper. The butler of Stewkesbury House.”

  Mary flushed, aware of the titter that was running around the room. “Oh. I-I see. I beg your pardon.” She straightened her shoulders; she was not about to let her mistake intimidate her into forsaking her mission. “I am here to see the earl. It is quite important.”

  “His lordship is not receiving,” the man answered shortly. “And I cannot conceive of any business that you might have that would necessitate speaking to the Earl of Stewkesbury.”

  “My business with the earl is not your concern.”

  “I am afraid it is. I do not allow strange young women access to his lordship whenever the whim strikes them. I can take care of whatever ‘business’ you think you have with his lordship.”

  “I fear you cannot.” Mary set her jaw and regarded him steadily. “My business with the earl is personal. I do not think he would appreciate my sharing it with anyone else, including his servants.”

  They stood, eyes locked, as the room around them settled into a hush. Mary suspected that few had ever dared stand up to this tyrant. Finally, in a carefully uninflected tone, the butler said, “If you will leave your card, I will make sure that his lordship receives it. If he wishes to make contact with you, I am sure he will.”

  “My card?”

  “Yes. Your calling card.”

  Mary remembered the small white card Sir Royce had tried to hand her last night. No doubt it was another mark against her that she did not have one to produce.

  “I don’t have a card. I shall simply wait for the earl.”

  “I think not. It could be hours before he returns from his club.”

  “Then I shall go there. Where is this club?”

  This announcement sent a ripple of horror across the man’s face. “You cannot go to his club!”

  “I don’t see why not. Just tell me where it is, and I—”

  “Young woman!” The butler’s voice cracked like a whip. “It is time that you left this house. I suggest you go back to”—he cast a disparaging glance at her dress—“whatever village you came from and cease this nonsense.”