Harlequin Historical May 2021--Box Set 2 of 2 Page 4

  ‘Oh.’ That would be an adventure. To climb right up to the top of the building and hunt for this window. And imagine someone waving back to her. She waved. Perhaps there was someone up there right now looking this way. She waved again to her unknown friend. It was better than nothing and she’d never had a real friend. The house slaves in Jamaica had not allowed her to play with the younger slave children, the older slave children were working, and the white children had not been allowed to play with her.

  Sarah was mending again.

  ‘May I help you?’

  Sarah started. ‘Help me?’

  ‘Yes. Help you sew.’ She wasn’t fond of sewing, but she liked to help and it would be something to do.

  Sarah spoke stiffly. ‘I’m sure that’s very kind of you, but—’

  ‘I’m bored.’ It was out before she had thought and terrified guilt swamped her. She was living in this beautiful house, eating good food every day, although some of it was strange to her after Jamaica. But she ate it all without a fuss and said thank you as Mam had taught her. Only now she’d been insolent and ungrateful.

  But Sarah smiled. ‘You must be bored if you want to mend sheets! And I’m thinking you might be lonely, too, with no other children about. All right, let’s see what you can do.’ She pointed to a chair. ‘Bring that over and sit beside me.’ Rummaging in the basket of mending, she brought out a pair of stockings. ‘Can you darn?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’

  Psyché took the stockings, threaded the darning needle and bent her head in utter concentration, feeling a ridiculous burst of delight when Sarah approved her efforts.

  ‘Someone taught you proper.’

  Warmth spread through her. ‘My mam taught me.’

  Sarah nodded. ‘Did she, now? Well, you’re a credit to her.’

  She thought of Mam, her needle flashing as she worked on some piece of mending, telling stories of her childhood in her soft voice as they sewed. The knowledge of being a credit to Mam glowed inside her.

  After that it was better. She had something to do and over the next two days some of the fear left her. She was useful. If she kept being useful, did her very best, perhaps she might be allowed to stay and mend the clothes and sheets. She might even, although she scarcely dared to hope, be paid.

  Sarah, she had known at once, was not a slave. She was white. But when asked about slaves, Sarah had stared. According to her, no one was a slave. You couldn’t be a slave in England. All the servants were paid and they could leave if they wished. She learned from Sarah that Lord Staverton’s employ was enviable. That he was a kind master and no one wished to leave. So she allowed herself to hope a tiny bit.

  ‘Hard to find a better place,’ Sarah declared, snipping off a thread. ‘And the mistress is a good soul, too. Why—’

  ‘Thank you, Sarah.’

  The quiet voice was a new one—a woman—and Psyché looked up from the sheet she was turning sides-to-middle. The silver-haired lady—Psyché knew she must be a lady from the fine clothes she wore—came further into the room, Lord Staverton behind her.

  She had not seen him since the night the father died and she had fallen asleep on his lap. Sometimes she had fallen asleep in Mam’s lap, but she doubted such a thing was permitted with my lord.

  Perhaps she should apologise? But he smiled at her and she found herself beaming back.

  ‘Carried you up himself, the master did.’

  Sarah had told her that when she asked how she’d got to bed that night. So perhaps he hadn’t really minded or he would have handed her to one of the servants, or woken her up to walk.

  ‘This is Psyché, my dear. Jack’s daughter.’ He smiled again. ‘Psyché, this is your Great-Aunt Grace—’

  ‘That is yet to be decided, sir!’ the lady snapped. ‘Good God, Theodore! Have you lost your mind? Have you any idea what will be said if you insist on this course? She is Black.’

  Fear crawled inside her. ‘Only...only mulatto, my lady. Or...or mulatta, the governess said. Because I am a girl.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath. Psyché gulped. She should have held her tongue. If my lady was like Lucius—

  ‘I think we will simply acknowledge that you are a girl, child.’ There was something odd in my lord’s voice and he held out his hand to her. ‘Would you like to come downstairs with us for a little, my dear?’

  She hesitated. ‘I am helping Sarah, you see. There is a very great deal of mending. I promised.’

  He nodded. ‘And a promise must always be kept. But I think Sarah will spare you for an hour.’

  Sarah nodded. ‘Of course, my lord. And—if I might speak?’

  ‘Certainly you may, Sarah.’

  ‘The child—Miss Psyché—she’s been right helpful. Mends and darns beautifully, she does.’ Sarah took a deep breath. ‘And, if I might make so bold, she’s very nicely spoken. Ladylike.’

  My lord nodded. ‘Thank you, Sarah. You confirm my own observation.’ He still held his hand out. ‘Come, Psyché. I promise you shall come back later to help Sarah.

  Sarah gave her a little push. ‘Go on now, Miss Psyché.’

  Slowly, Psyché laid her hand in my lord’s.

  Miss. She was Miss Psyché. Hope, so long choked, dared to whisper in her heart.

  * * *

  Her hand lost in my lord’s bigger one, Psyché went downstairs in my lady’s wake. My lord chatted cheerfully, pointing out pictures to her. ‘Your namesake,’ he said, indicating a painting of a beautiful, white-skinned girl with golden hair leaning over a dark-haired but equally beautiful white-skinned young man asleep in a bed. The candle she held tilted dangerously and the painter had caught a drop of wax in the instant before it fell on the young man’s arm.

  ‘She couldn’t resist finding out what her lover looked like, so—’

  ‘Theodore!’ My lady turned with a quelling glare. ‘The child is far too young for that story!’

  My lord looked stricken. ‘So she is, my dear.’ But he squeezed Psyché’s hand and smiled down at her. ‘When you are older.’

  This lower corridor was impossibly grand. She’d barely seen it when she arrived, so focused was she on the father who clutched her hand and demanded her presence every waking moment. She stared in wonder. All the picture frames and looking glasses were made of gold. Even some of the furniture had gold on it. And the walls—her fingers itched to touch and find out—were covered in what she was quite sure was silk. Silk of the softest, clearest blue, like the sea in the very early morning before the wind woke up.

  Tables held vases of strange flowers—their fragrance swam in the air. My lord saw her staring, reached out and plucked one of the flowers, giving it to her. Awestruck, she took it.

  ‘You like roses, eh?’

  ‘Is that what they are called?’ She cradled the crimson flower gently. ‘They’re very pretty.’ She sniffed the bloom and smiled at him as the fragrance poured through her. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  ‘You’ve not seen one before?’ He cleared his throat as she shook her head. ‘Well, I’m a lucky fellow to have given you your first rose. Here we are.’ They had halted before a door of white and gold. ‘There is someone in there waiting to see you.’

  A manservant, in the uniform Sarah called livery, opened the door.

  ‘After you, my dear.’ My lord stood back for my lady, then led Psyché in.

  The room was huge and she could see no one. Just the room soaring into a curve of pale pink and blue, with clouds and people in robes. Little fat, pink babies peeped from behind the clouds, apparently spying on everyone.

  A sharp bark was followed by a scurrying of paws and Psyché dropped to her knees with a cry of delight, releasing my lord’s hand.

  ‘Nyx! Oh, Nyx!’

  The little black spaniel scrambled straight into her lap, tail awhirl with joy, and covered her
face with damp affection. She buried her face in the silky coat to hide the rush of tears.

  ‘You are glad to see her, then?’

  She nodded, still with her face hidden.

  ‘Well, then. Well.’ My lord cleared his throat. ‘Come over by the fire—ah, when you are quite ready, child. London is a great deal colder than Jamaica as I recall.’

  She looked up, forgetting her tears. ‘Have you been there, my lord?’

  ‘Briefly, many years ago.’ He lowered himself to a sofa and patted the space beside him. ‘Viens, ma chère. Assieds-toi avec moi.’

  Obediently she went to sit beside him. ‘Voulez-vous parler en Français, monsieur?’

  He chuckled. ‘No. We’ll speak in English. I was merely demonstrating to your great-aunt that you can converse in French.’

  My lady spoke. ‘Look at me, if you please, child.’

  Fighting against every rule that had ever been drummed into her about keeping her gaze lowered, Psyché swallowed, and looked timidly at my lady, who she didn’t think was entirely convinced that she wished to be any sort of aunt to her.

  Please. Oh, please! I promise I will be good! Please let me stay here where there is no slavery! Please.

  She kept silent and fought to meet the ice-blue gaze that bored into her. Her lip wobbled; she bit it. Hard. More tears threatened and she blinked them back. A frown creased my lady’s delicate white brow and Psyché scarce dared to breathe.

  That blue gaze softened. ‘Theo, if the child—if Psyché—remains with us, what is to happen with Henrietta?’

  My lord frowned. Then he glanced down at Psyché. ‘Henrietta, my dear, is your cousin. The daughter of your uncle—’

  ‘Theo, is that quite wise?’

  He sighed. ‘Grace, she may be too young for the tale of Eros and Psyché, but she needs to know about her family.’

  Family? She was to be family?

  He continued. ‘Henrietta is your cousin, the daughter of your Uncle Lucius, a little older than you. Her mama has just died.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She had cried and cried and cried when Mam died. Terrified, lost and numbed by the overwhelming guilt...the knowledge that if only she had been quiet, and unresisting...

  ‘Of course you are. We have agreed to take Henrietta into our household to raise for Lucius. However, that...may not happen now.’

  She nodded. ‘He doesn’t like me. He wouldn’t want his little girl raised with me. Not...unless I was her servant.’ She looked up questioningly. It wouldn’t be family, but... ‘I wouldn’t be a slave, would I?’

  A shocked gasp came from my lady. ‘Certainly not.’ My lady leaned forward, speaking earnestly. ‘As you grow older, you will have household duties to help me, as will Henrietta if she comes to us, as any young lady would. How else is she to learn to manage her husband’s house one day?’ She glanced at my lord.

  He nodded. ‘You are not a servant, Psyché, and certainly not a slave. You are our great-niece.’ He glanced at my lady. ‘Lucius must do with Henrietta as he thinks fit, Grace. There will be any number of relatives happy to take her.’ He patted Psyché’s hand. ‘You had better stop my lording me and call me Uncle Theo.’

  She looked across at my lady, who nodded. ‘And I am Aunt Grace.’

  This time the tears would not be stopped. At first Uncle Theo just put his arm around her and let her cry, but after a moment he lifted her into his lap where she sobbed. All the pent-up terror since the father had died washed away in the outpouring of relief.

  ‘Theo, surely—’

  ‘She needs to cry, Grace,’ Uncle Theo said softly. ‘And soon she’ll be far too big to sit in my lap with propriety. I’m going to indulge myself while it lasts.’ And he held her while she wept and patted her back as he had the other night, murmuring comfort and reassurance. There was a snuffle and an insistent paw, as Nyx, worried by her crying, shoved her head under Psyché’s elbow. Uncle Theo laughed. ‘Here is your little dog come to comfort you. Would you like her to sleep in your room at night?’

  Psyché sat up. ‘May she?’

  ‘Oh, I think so. Best place for one’s dog to sleep, I’ve always thought.’ He chuckled. ‘Your aunt doesn’t agree. At least, not when it’s her bedchamber!’

  Aunt Grace sighed. ‘There can be no harm in it.’

  In that moment Psyché vowed to herself that she would always be good. That she would try her very hardest to be no trouble at all so that they might not send her away. That she would learn her lessons, mend and do whatever she could to repay them for giving her, and Nyx, a place.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Soho, London—January 1804

  ‘Then...you’re Staverton’s Folly.’

  Will could have kicked himself for blurting that out. It had been the summer after that first revelatory year at Oxford and his mother had been full of the scandal... ‘That poor little girl!’ By which she’d meant Lord Staverton’s real great-niece... ‘Being brought up with a blackamoor! Staverton’s Folly, they’re calling the wretched creature!

  Disgusted with himself, Will nudged open the door of Selbourne Books and a bell jangled overhead. All around the walls bookshelves rose to the ceiling. Shoulder-high shelves created bays and in one back corner a couple of sagging leather chairs provided seating by a crackling fire. Beside the fire, a shaggy grey puppy snoozed, its oversized paws twitching occasionally. A large, spectacularly untidy desk stood in the other rear corner with a curtained doorway behind it. Steep, narrow stairs led up to what Will assumed must be living quarters.

  Selbourne was seated behind the desk. He looked up at Will from under his heavy, untidy brows. ‘What’s this? I didn’t order coffee.’

  ‘No, sir. Miss Winthrop-Abeni sent it over. It’s paid for. She was going to put it on your account, but I said I’d deal with it.’

  The brows lifted. ‘Obliging of you. Why would a chap I don’t know from Adam be buying me coffee?’

  ‘You might not remember me, sir, but I’m Barclay—Lord Huntercombe’s secretary.’

  The old man took off his spectacles and squinted. ‘So you are. Eyes aren’t what they were. And where’s Huntercombe?’

  ‘Cornwall, sir.’

  Ignatius Selbourne gave an abrupt nod. ‘Right. Put the coffee here, Barclay.’ He shoved some papers aside, clearing a dusty space and producing a cork mat.

  Will set the pot down on the mat. ‘You do remember my name, then?’

  Selbourne snorted. ‘Fat chance I’d have to forget since he sings your praises. What brings you here, boy? A message?’

  ‘Not exactly. I read your letter, sir. It sounded as though you were quite eager for his lordship to examine that particular volume.’

  Ignatius poured coffee into cups he produced from some fastness in the desk and passed one to Will. ‘I believe you’ve met my niece, eh?’

  Will accepted the coffee and sipped while he considered how to answer that. It sounded innocent enough, but—

  ‘Very briefly, sir. I doubt she would remember me.’ At the time Miss Carshalton had been confronted with the fact that her father and projected mother-in-law had connived at the attempted murder of Huntercombe’s ten-year-old stepson. Miss Carshalton had been too busy breaking her engagement to Lord Martin Lacy to notice the secretary taking notes in the corner.

  ‘Discreet, aren’t you? Heard the rumours?’

  Will took a deep breath. ‘There is servants’ gossip to the effect that Miss Carshalton has either run away or been abducted from her father’s house.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘That you are concerned either way for your niece’s safety and that you are requesting Huntercombe’s help.’

  He gave Will a considering look which Will returned blandly. Selbourne snorted. ‘I’ve no doubt you’re as—’

  The doorbell jangled and Selbourne broke off
to look at the newcomer. His eyes narrowed and Will had the impression that he was summing the man up. He’d noticed the fellow with his obviously expensive, but ill-fitting, clothes in The Phoenix.

  Selbourne looked back at Will. ‘We’ll talk on that volume further.’ He rose to his feet and went to greet his customer.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir. Is there something with which I can help you?’ After the summing up Selbourne had subjected the man to, Will found his tone surprisingly unctuous.

  ‘Oh, well, ah—that is, I was after Mrs Radcliffe’s ah, Romance of the Forest.’ The man’s tones were painfully refined. ‘A present for my...er...wife, you know.’

  Selbourne raised his brows. ‘And you are happy with a used set, sir?’

  ‘Used?’ The man looked shocked. ‘Oh, well—’

  ‘This is an antiquarian bookshop, sir. I do not stock new books. But I have several of Mrs Radcliffe’s works including an autographed set of that one. This way, sir.’

  He led the man to the front of the shop and began taking volumes down. ‘It is in fine condition, sir, and see? All three volumes are signed by the authoress. Your lady wife will like that, I make no doubt.’

  Will browsed, noting that Selbourne’s stock was extensive and catholic. In the background Selbourne continued to show his customer other novels—‘that your lady wife might enjoy, sir.’ Will noted with some amusement that Selbourne made great play with that phrase ‘your lady wife’. It seemed oddly out of character—he’d never thought the bookseller to be obsequious.

  A memory flickered. Sitting by the library fire with Huntercombe once, his lordship reminiscing about a diplomatic mission years back to the Court of Portugal.

  ‘Whenever one of us wanted to warn the others to be particularly careful about what we said, the words “lady wives” would be casually mentioned.’

  Huntercombe still used it occasionally if he wanted to warn Will to be careful...

  The grey puppy by the fire had woken up. Selbourne glanced over.

  ‘Damn. Excuse me, sir.’ He started towards the pup.