A Candlelit Regency Christmas

His Housekeeper’s Christmas WishHis Christmas Countess

Louise Allen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LOUISE ALLEN loves immersing herself in history. She finds landscapes and places evoke the past powerfully. Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favourite destinations. Louise lives on the Norfolk coast and spends her spare time gardening, researching family history or travelling in search of inspiration. Visit her at louiseallenregency.co.uk, @LouiseRegency and janeaustenslondon.com

For the Hartland Quay-istas – Linda, Jenny, Lesley, Catherine and Janet – with love

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

His Housekeeper’s Christmas Wish

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

His Christmas Countess

Back Cover Text

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Copyright

His Housekeeper’s Christmas Wish

Louise Allen

Chapter One

Alex Tempest did not normally trample nuns underfoot, nor anyone else, come to that. Alexander James Vernon Tempest, Viscount Weybourn, prized control, elegance, grace and athleticism—under all normal circumstances.

Skidding round corners on the ice-slick cobblestones of Ghent, however, was not normal, not in the gloomy light of the late-November afternoon with his mind occupied by thoughts of warm fires, good friends and rum punch.

The convent wall was high and unyielding when he cannoned into it. Alex found himself rebounding off the wall and into a nun, dressed all in black and grey, and blending perfectly with the cobbles. She was certainly yielding as she gave a small shriek of alarm and went flying, her black portmanteau bouncing away to land on the threshold of the convent’s closed gates.

Alex got his feet under control. ‘Ma soeur, je suis désolé. Permettez-moi.’ He held out his hand as she levered herself into a sitting position with one black mitten–covered hand. Her bonnet, plain dark grey with a black ribbon, had tipped forward over her nose, and she pushed it back to look up at him.

‘I am not—’

‘Hurt? Excellent.’ He could only make out the oval of her face in the shadow of the bonnet’s brim. She seemed to be young by her voice. ‘But you are English?’ He extended the other hand. Presumably there were English nuns.

‘Yes. But—’

‘Let’s get you up off that cold ground, Sister.’ Her cloak, which seemed none too thick given the weather, was black. Under it there was the hem of a dark grey robe and the toes of sensible black boots. ‘Take my hands.’ Probably nuns were not supposed to touch men, but he could hardly get excommunicated for adding that small sin to the far greater offence of flattening her to the ground.

With what sounded like a sigh of resignation she put her hands in his and allowed him to pull her upright. ‘Ow!’ She hopped on one foot, swayed dangerously and the next moment she was cradled in his arms. After all, one did not allow a lady to fall, even if she was a nun. ‘Oh!’

Alex braced his feet well apart on the slippery cobbles and looked down at as much as he could see of his armful, which wasn’t a great deal, what with her billowing cloak and ferocious hat brim. But even if he couldn’t see any detail, there was plenty for his body to read. She was young. And slender. And curved. He dipped his head and inhaled the scent of her. Plain soap, wet wool and warm, rapidly chilling, woman. Rapidly chilling nun. Pull yourself together, man. Nuns are most definitely on the forbidden list. Pity...

‘I’ll ring the bell, shall I?’ he offered with a jerk of his head towards the rusty iron chain hanging by the door. It looked like the sort of thing desperate criminals clung to when claiming sanctuary, although, judging by the small barred peephole set into the massive planks, the sanctuary on offer might be rather less welcoming than a prison cell. ‘It seems as though you have twisted your ankle.’

Mentioning parts of the anatomy was probably another sin, but she made no attempt to smite him with a rosary, although the body that was already stiff in his arms became rigid. ‘No. Absolutely not. Thank—’

‘I really think I should get someone to come out.’

‘—you. I am due down at the canal basin. Sister Clare is expecting me.’ Crisp, polite and obviously furious with him, but constrained through charity or good manners from saying so, he concluded. An educated, refined voice masking some strain or perhaps sadness. He was used to listening to voices, hearing what was behind the actual words; anyone was who did much negotiating. What are you hiding, little nun?

But the polite irritation was what was on the surface. That was fair enough. He’d knocked her down; the least he could do was to take her where she wanted to go and not to where, from the way her body arched away from the door, she did not want to be. ‘But you should see a doctor. What if there is a bone broken?’ Alex bent, juggled his armful of cross woman as best he could, caught the handles of the portmanteau in his fingers and straightened up. ‘Which canal, Sister?’

‘I am going to Ostend early tomorrow morning. Sister Clare runs a small hostel for travellers down at the port here and I will spend the night with her. But I am not—’

‘This way, then.’ Alex began to walk downhill. ‘It just so happens I can take you to a doctor on the way.’

‘I do not wish to be any trouble, but—’

‘You cannot walk and all the cabs have vanished as they always do when one most needs one. It is not out of my way.’

And they were not actually going to see a doctor, although Grant had virtually completed his medical education at Edinburgh when he’d been forced to give it up.

‘Yes, but I—’

‘Have no money?’ Nuns were supposed to be penniless, he seemed to recall. ‘Don’t concern yourself about that, it is my fault you were injured and he’s a friend. What is your name? I’m Viscount Weybourn.’ He didn’t normally lead with his rank, but he supposed a title might reassure her.

Her body shifted in his arms as she gave the sort of sigh that needed a lungful of air. She was probably mortified at being carried by a man, but if she wouldn’t go back into the convent then there wasn’t much option. He made another valiant, and unfamiliar, effort not to notice the feminine curves pressed against his body. He wasn’t used to getting this close to women unless they both intended to take things considerably further.

‘Teresa—’

‘Sister Teresa.’ Of course, nuns were named for saints, weren’t they? ‘Excellent. Here we are.’ The lights of Les Quatre Éléments glowed though the gathering dusk and he headed for them like a mariner spying a safe, familiar harbour.

‘An inn? Lord Wey—’

‘A very respectable inn,’ Alex assured her as he shouldered through the front door into the light and heat and bustle of a well-run hostelry. ‘Gaston!’

‘Milord Weybourn.’ The innkeeper came hurrying out of the back. ‘How good to see you again, milord. The other gentlemen are in your usual private parlour.’

‘Thank you, Gaston.’ Alex headed for the door on the right. ‘And some tea? Coffee? What would you like, Sister Teresa?’

‘Gentlemen? Private parlour? Lord Weybourn, put me down this—’

‘Tea,’ he ordered for her. Tea was soothing, wasn’t it? His little nun needed soothing; she was beginning to wriggle in agitation like a ruffled hen and, hell, if she didn’t stop she wasn’t the only one who’d need it. Soothing, that was, not tea. He really needed a woman. How long had it been? A month? That was far too long.

Alex kicked the door closed behind him and leaned back against it for a moment while he sought for his usual composure. Nuns apparently did not wear corsets. The discovery was seriously unsettling. The soft weight of a small breast against his forearm was damnably unsettling. He was reacting like a green youth and he didn’t like the feeling.

‘My dear Alex, why the drama?’ Crispin de Feaux lowered the document he was studying, stood up and regarded the scene in the doorway with cool detachment. Possibly if he had erupted into the room pursued by sword-wielding soldiery Cris might have revealed some emotion, but Alex rather doubted it. ‘Have you taken to abducting nuns?’

‘Nuns? Surely not?’ Over by the fireplace Grant Rivers swung his boots down from the fender and stood, too, dragging one hand through his hair. Characteristically he looked responsible and concerned.

‘What do you bet?’ Gabriel Stone dropped a handful of dice with a clatter and lounged to his feet. ‘Although it hardly seems Alex’s style. High-fliers, now...’

Alex narrowed his eyes, daring him to continue stripping her with that insolent gaze. Gabe grinned and slumped back into his chair.

‘I slipped on the ice and knocked Sister Teresa to the ground, injuring her ankle in the process.’ Alex pushed away from the door and carried his burden over to the settle by the fire. ‘I thought you should check it for her, Grant.’

* * *

‘There you are, Sister Teresa, you’re in safe hands now and tea is on the way.’ The infuriating creature deposited Tess on the settee opposite the handsome brown-haired man and sketched a bow. ‘This is Grantham Rivers, a very handy man with a sprained ankle.’ She caught the grin Lord Weybourn sent the doctor and the doctor’s eye roll in return as his friend turned on his heel and sauntered over to the other two men.

‘I am not—’

‘A nun. I know.’ The doctor sat down. He was polite, but didn’t seem too happy. ‘Unlike Alex, I know that nuns wear wimples and do not trot around the streets alone.’

‘Do none of you allow a woman to finish a sentence?’ Tess demanded. She had gone beyond miserable since her interview with Mother Superior a week ago had knocked all her certainties into utter chaos. She’d forced herself into the same state of stoical, unhappy acceptance that had kept her sane, somehow, all those years ago when Mama and Papa had died. Now the shock of being hurled off her feet had sent her into an unfamiliar mood of irritation.

Or possibly this was the effect men had on women all the time. As her association with the creatures since the age of thirteen had been limited to the priest, an aged gardener and occasional encounters with tradesmen, this could well be the case. For the first time in her life celibacy began to sound appealing. But now she was alone with four of them, although they seemed safe enough, sober and respectful.

‘Normally, yes, we have much better manners. Alex is doubtless disconcerted at his very unusual clumsiness in felling you to the ground, but I have no excuse. How should I address you, ma’am?’

‘Miss Ellery. Tess Ellery, Doctor.’

‘Not doctor. Plain Mr Grantham Rivers. But I almost completed my medical training at Edinburgh, so I am quite safe to be let loose on minor injuries, Miss Ellery.’ He regarded her as she sat there looking, she had no doubt, like a somewhat battered crow. ‘May I take your cloak and bonnet? I will need you to remove your shoe and stocking so I can examine your ankle. Shall I send for a maid to attend you?’

He looked serious and respectable. Considering that she had not shed so much as a glove in male company for years, Tess wondered why she was not more flustered. Perhaps being knocked to the ground and then carried by a tall, strong, over-masterful aristocrat might have reduced her capacity for flusterment. Was that a word? More likely the fact that her world was so out of kilter accounted for it.

‘Miss Ellery?’ Mr Rivers was waiting patiently. She searched for normal courtesy and some poise, found a smile and felt it freeze on her lips as she met his eyes. He had the saddest eyes she had ever seen. It was like gazing into the hell of someone’s private grief, and staring felt as intrusive and unmannerly as gawping at mourners at a funeral.

‘No, no maid. I can manage, thank you.’ Tess made a business of her bonnet ribbon and cloak clasp and murmured her thanks. He laid the garments at the end of the settle, then went to stand with his back to her, shielding her from the room as she managed her laces and untied her garter to roll down her stocking. ‘I cannot get my boot off.’

‘The ankle is swelling.’ Mr Rivers came and knelt down in front of her. ‘Let me see if I can remove it without cutting the leather.’

‘Please.’ They were her only pair of boots.

‘Have you any other injuries?’ He bent over her foot, working the boot off with gentle wiggles. ‘You didn’t bang your head, or put out your hand and hurt your wrist?’

‘No, only my ankle. It turned over as I fell.’ Removing the boot hurt, despite his care, so Tess looked over his head at the other three men for distraction. Such a strange quartet. Mr Rivers with his tragic eyes, gentle hands and handsome profile. Her rescuer, Lord Weybourn, tall, elegant and relaxed. Deceptively relaxed, given the ease with which he had lifted and carried her. The blond icicle who looked like a cross between an archangel and a hanging judge and the lounging dice player who seemed more suited to a hedge tavern frequented by footpads than a respectable inn in the company of gentlemen.

Yes, an unlikely combination of friends and yet they were so easy together. Like brothers, she supposed. Family.

Lord Weybourn met her gaze and lifted one slanting eyebrow.

‘Ah, that made you jump, sorry.’ Mr Rivers’s fingers were probing and flexing. ‘Tell me where it hurts. Here? When I do this? Can you wriggle your toes? Excellent. And point your foot? No, stop if it is painful.’

He certainly seemed to know what he was doing. He would bind it up for her and Lord Weybourn must find her some conveyance, given that the collision was all his fault and she wouldn’t be able to get her boot laced again over a bandage. None of these men were behaving in a way that made her uneasy. There were no leers or winks, no suggestive remarks. Tess relaxed a little more and decided she could trust her judgement that she was safe here.

His lordship was half sitting on the edge of the table, laughing at something the dice player had said. Now he had shed his hat and greatcoat she could see that the impression of elegance could be applied to his clothing as much as to his manner. Ten years in a nunnery did not do much for her appreciation of male fashion, but even she could see that what he wore had been crafted from expensive fabrics by a master who could sculpt fabric around broad shoulders and long, muscular legs, and that whoever looked after his linen was a perfectionist.

Unlike his friends, the viscount wasn’t conventionally good looking, Tess thought critically as Mr Rivers rested her foot on a stool and stood up, murmuring about cold compresses and bandages. Mr Rivers was the image of the perfect English gentleman: strong bones, straight nose, thick, glossy dark brown hair and those tragic, beautiful green eyes. The blond icicle belonged in a church’s stained-glass window, giving impressionable girls in the congregation palpitations of mixed desire and terror at the thought of his blue eyes turning on them or that sculpted mouth opening on some killing rebuke. Even the dice player with his shock of black hair, insolent gypsy-dark eyes and broad shoulders had the attractiveness of a male animal in its prime.

But Lord Weybourn was different. Very masculine, of course... Oh, yes. She gave a little shiver as she recalled how easily he had lifted and carried her. And he had a touch of something dangerously other-worldly about him. His hair was dark blond, his nose was thin, his cheekbones pronounced. His eyes, under winging dark brows, were, she guessed, hazel and his chin was firm.

It was his mouth, she decided, focusing on that feature. It was mobile and kept drifting upwards into a half smile as though his thoughts were pleasant, but mysterious and, in some way, dangerous. In fact, she decided, he looked like a particularly well-dressed supernatural creature, if such things ever reached a good six feet in height with shoulders in proportion—one who ruled over forests where the shadows were dark and wolves lurked...

He glanced across at her again and stood up, which snapped her out of musings that probably had something to do with Sister Moira’s frisson-inducing tales of Gothic terror, told at recreation time when Mother Superior was not listening. Only Sister Moira’s fantasy beings never provoked feelings of...

‘Is Rivers hurting you?’ Lord Weybourn came over and hitched himself onto the table opposite. His boots were beautiful, she thought, watching one swinging idly to and fro. It was safer than meeting his gaze. ‘I haven’t managed to break your ankle, have I?’

‘No, you haven’t, fortunately.’ Mr Rivers came back and hunkered down by her feet. ‘This will be cold,’ he warned as he draped a dripping cloth over her ankle. ‘I’ll bandage it up after you’ve had your tea and a rest.’

‘This seems a very pleasant inn,’ she said for want of a neutral topic. Conversation with men was a novelty. ‘Do you use this place frequently?’

‘From a long way back,’ Lord Weybourn said. ‘Even when the war was on some of us would slip in and out in various guises. Very handy, Les Quatre Éléments.’ He grinned. ‘We called ourselves the Four Elementals as our names fit so well.’

‘Elementals? I know the four elements—air, water, fire and earth. So which are you?’

‘Alex Tempest—air.’

‘So you are water, Mr Rivers? That works well with your soothing medical skills.’

He gave a half bow in acknowledgement. ‘Cris is de Feaux, hence the French feu for fire.’

‘Of course.’ She could easily imagine the blond icicle as an archangel with a burning sword. ‘And earth?’

‘Gabriel Stone is nothing if not earthy.’ Lord Weybourn titled his head towards the dice player, who was playing left hand against right hand, dark brows lowered in a scowl of concentration.

Mr Rivers changed the cold cloth on her ankle again. Tess smiled her thanks, then forgot both injury and elements as a maid deposited a laden tray on the settle beside her. Tea, she had expected, but not pastries dripping with honey, little cakes and dainty iced biscuits. Lord Weybourn stole a biscuit and went back to the others.

‘I should—’

‘Eat up. Sorry,’ Grant Rivers said. ‘Interrupting you again.’

‘I fear I will not know when to stop.’ Vegetable soup and wholemeal bread had made a warming midday meal, but they had tasted, as always, of practical, frugal worthiness and sat lumpily on a stomach fluttering with nerves. There was nothing worthy about the plate beside her. Mr Rivers simply nodded and strolled off to join his friends, leaving her to sip her tea—with sugar!—while she contemplated the temptation. Perhaps just one of each? To leave them untouched would be discourteous.

* * *

Half an hour later Tess licked her fingers, feeling slightly, deliciously queasy as she contemplated a plate empty of all but crumbs and a smear of cream.

Mr Rivers strolled back and shifted the tray without so much as a smirk or a frown for her greed. ‘I’ll strap up your ankle now. Let’s put this blanket over your knees and you can take a nap when I’m done. You were chilled and a little bit shocked, I suspect. A rest will do no harm.’

He was almost a doctor, he knew what he was talking about and she supposed there was no great hurry, provided she was with Sister Clare for the evening meal. And this was...interesting. Watching men, relaxed and friendly together, was interesting. Being warm and full of delicious sweets was indulgent. A mild sensation of naughtiness, of playing truant, was definitely intriguing. She knew she shouldn’t be here, but they all seemed so...harmless? Wrong word. Perhaps it was her innocence deceiving her...

Tess blinked, on the verge of a yawn. Last night had been cold and her head too full of churning thoughts, hopes and worries for her to sleep much. Mr Rivers was right—a little nap would set her up for an evening of doling out stew to humble travellers who would otherwise be huddled in their cloaks on benches for the night. Then she would have to try to sleep on a hard bed in a chilly cell alongside Sister Clare’s notorious snores before an even chillier dawn start. Sister Moira always said those snores counted as a penance in themselves, so they would be enough to pay for the consumption of a plate of pastries, Tess decided, as she snugged down in the corner of the settle and let the men’s voices and laughter wash over her. Just a little nap.

* * *

‘Mmm?’ Citrus cologne, starched linen... She was being lifted again by Lord Weybourn. It seemed natural to turn her head into his shoulder, inhale the interesting masculine scent of him.

‘You will get a crick in your neck in that corner, little nun. And we’re becoming noisy. There’s a nice quiet room just here, you can rest.’

That sounded so good. ‘Sister Clare...’

‘I remember. Sister Clare, down at the canal dock. Boat to Ostend in the morning.’

What is all this nonsense the sisters tell us about men? Anyone would think they were all ravening beasts... These four are kind and reliable and safe. And the mattress was soft when he laid her down and the covers so warm and light. ‘Thank you,’ Tess murmured as she drifted off again.

‘My pleasure, little nun.’ Then the door closed and all was quiet.

Chapter Two

Tess swum up out of sleep, deliciously warm and with a definite need for the chamber pot. Too much tea. ‘Ouch!’ Her ankle gave a stab of pain as she hopped across to the screen in the corner, made herself comfortable and then hopped back. It was still light, so she could not have slept long. In fact, it was very light. She pulled aside the curtain and stared out at a corner of the inn yard with a maid bustling past with a basket of laundry and a stable boy lugging a bucket of water. It was unmistakably morning.

She hobbled to the door, flung it open. The four men were still around the table. The dice player and the blond icicle were playing cards with the air of gamblers who could continue for another twelve hours if necessary. Mr Rivers was pouring ale into a tankard with one hand while holding a bread roll bulging with ham in the other. And Lord Weybourn, who she now realised was the most unreliable, infuriating man—regardless of her pulse quickening simply at the sight of him—was fast asleep, his chair tipped on its back legs against a pillar, his booted feet on the table amidst a litter of playing cards.

The fact that he was managing to sleep without snoring, with his mouth mostly closed and his clothing unrumpled, only added fuel to the fire.

‘Lord Weybourn!’

‘Humph?’ He jerked awake and Tess winced at the thump his head made against the pillar. ‘Ouch.’

The other men stood up. ‘Miss Ellery. Good morning. Did you sleep well?’ Mr Rivers asked.

‘I told him. I told him I had to be down at the canal port. I told him the boat left very early this morning.’ She jerked her head towards Lord Weybourn, too cross to look at him.

‘It is early morning.’ He got to his feet and she could not help but notice that he did not look as though he had slept in his clothes. He was as sleek and self-possessed as a panther. What she looked like she shuddered to think.

Tess batted an errant lock of hair out of her eyes. ‘What time is it?’

The blond icicle glanced at the mantelshelf clock. ‘Just past nine.’

‘That isn’t early, that is almost half the morning gone.’ Tess hopped to the nearest chair and sat down. ‘I have missed the boat.’

‘You can buy a ticket on the next one. They are frequent enough,’ the viscount said, stealing Mr Rivers’s unguarded tankard. The ale slid down in a long swallow, making his Adam’s apple move. His neck was strapped with muscle.

‘I do not have any money,’ Tess said through gritted teeth, averting her eyes from so much blatant masculinity. If she knew any swear words this would be an excellent opportunity to use them. But she did not. Strange that she had never felt the lack before. ‘I have a ticket for the boat that left at four o’clock. It arrives in Ostend with just enough time to catch the ship across the Channel. The ship that I have another ticket for. I have tickets, useless tickets. I have no money and I cannot go back to the convent and ask for more. I cannot afford to repay it,’ she added bleakly.

‘Ah. No money?’ Lord Weybourn said with that faint, infuriating smile. ‘I understand your agitation.’

‘I am not agitated.’ Agitation was not permitted in the convent. ‘I am annoyed. You knocked me down, my lord. You brought me here and let me sleep. You promised to wake me in time for the boat. Therefore this is now your problem to resolve.’ She folded her hands in her lap, straightened her back and gave him the look that Mother Superior employed to extract the admission of sins, major and minor. Words were usually not necessary.

She should have known he would have an answer. ‘Simple. Grant and I are going to Ostend by carriage later today. You come with us and I will buy you a boat ticket when we get there.’

This was what Sister Luke would describe as the Primrose Path leading directly to Temptation. With a capital T. And probably Sin. Capital S. No wonder they said it was a straight and easy road. Being carried by a strong and attractive man, eating delicious pastries, sleeping—next door to four men—on a blissfully soft bed. All undoubtedly wicked.

After that, how could travelling in a carriage with two gentlemen for a day make things any worse? She wasn’t sure she trusted Lord Weybourn’s slanting smile, but Mr Rivers seemed eminently reliable.

‘Thank you, my lord. That will be very satisfactory.’ It was certain to be a very comfortable carriage, for none of these men, even the rumpled dice player, looked as though they stinted on their personal comfort. She found she was smiling, then stopped when no one leaped to their feet and started to bustle around making preparations. ‘When do we start and how long will it take us?’

‘Seven and a half, eight hours.’ Finally, Lord Weybourn got to his feet.

‘But we will arrive after dark. I do not think the ships sail in the dark, do they?’

‘We are not jolting over muddy roads all day and then getting straight on board, whether a ship is sailing or not.’ The viscount strolled across to one of the other doors, opened it and shouted, ‘Gaston!’

‘They do sail at night and I am taking one to Leith at nine this evening,’ Mr Rivers remarked. ‘But I am in haste, you’ll do better to take the opportunity to rest, Miss Ellery.’

‘I am also in haste,’ she stated.

Lord Weybourn turned from the door. ‘Do nuns hurry?’

‘Certainly. And you know perfectly well that I am not a nun, my lord.’ The maddening creature refused to be chastened by her reproofs, which showed either arrogance, levity or the hide of an ox. Probably all three. ‘I am expected at the London house of the Order.’

‘The Channel crossing is notoriously uncertain for weather and timing. They will not be expecting you for a day or so either way. Unless someone is at death’s door?’ He raised an interrogative brow. Tess shook her head. ‘There, then. Arrive rested and, hopefully, not hobbling. Always a good thing to be at one’s best when making an entrance. Breakfast is on its way.’

He sauntered out, lean, elegant, assured. Tess’s fingers itched with a sinful inclination to violence.

‘You might as well contemplate swatting a fly, Miss Ellery,’ the blond icicle remarked. Apparently her face betrayed her feelings graphically. He inclined his head in a graceful almost bow. ‘Crispin de Feaux, Marquess of Avenmore, at your service. Rivers you know.’ He gestured towards the third man. ‘This, improbable as it might seem, is not the local highwayman, but Gabriel Stone, Earl of Edenbridge.’

Lord Edenbridge stood, swept her an extravagant courtesy, then collapsed back into his chair. ‘Enchanted, Miss Ellery.’ His cards appeared to enchant him more.

‘I’ll send for some hot water for you.’ Mr Rivers held the bedchamber door open. ‘You will feel much better after a wash and some breakfast, believe me, Miss Ellery.’

Tess thanked him, curtsied as best she could to all three men and sat down on the bed to await the water. It wasn’t their fault. She knew just who to blame, but because she was a lady—or, rather, had been raised to have the manners of one—she would bite her tongue and do her best to act with grace. Somehow. As for breakfast at this hour—why, it was going to be almost noon by the time it was finished at this rate.

* * *

As she had suspected, the carriage proved to be very comfortable. ‘I keep this and my own horses over here,’ Lord Weybourn explained when Tess exclaimed in pleasure at the soft seats and the padded interior. ‘Job horses and hired vehicles are unreliable.’

‘You come to the Continent frequently, my lord?’ Tess settled snuggly into one corner and submitted to Mr Rivers arranging her legs along the seat and covering them with a rug. A hot brick wrapped in flannel was tucked in, too. Such luxury. She would enjoy what good things this journey had to offer, especially as the future seemed unlikely to hold much in the way of elegant coach travel.

‘We all do.’ Lord Weybourn folded his length into an opposite corner while Mr Rivers took the other. They had given her the best, forward-facing position, she noted. ‘Cris—Lord Avenmore—is a diplomat and spends half his time at the Congress and half doing mysterious things about the place. Gabe enjoys both travelling and fleecing any gamester foolish enough to cut cards with him and Grant here buys horses.’

‘I have a stud,’ Mr Rivers explained. ‘I import some of the more unusual Continental breeds from time to time.’

‘And you, my lord?’

‘Alex.’ He gave her that slanting, wicked smile. ‘I will feel that you have not forgiven me if you my lord me from here to London.’

It seemed wrong, but perhaps that degree of informality was commonplace amongst aristocrats. ‘Very well, although Alex Tempest sounds more like a pirate than a viscount.’

Mr Rivers snorted. ‘That’s what he is. He scours the Continent in search of loot and buried treasure.’

‘Art and antiquities, my dear Grant.’ Alex grinned. ‘Certainly nothing buried. Can you imagine me with a shovel?’

Tess noted the flex of muscles under the form-fitting tailoring of his coat. Perhaps it was not achieved by digging holes, but the viscount was keeping exceptionally fit somehow. No, she thought, not a shovel, but I can imagine you with a sword.

‘I am a connoisseur, a truffle hound through the wilderness of a Continent after a great war.’

‘Poseur,’ Mr Rivers said.

‘Of course.’ Alex’s ready agreement was disarmingly frank. ‘I do have my reputation to maintain.’

‘But forgive me,’ Tess ventured, ‘is that not business? I thought it was not acceptable for aristocrats to engage in trade.’ And perhaps it was not acceptable to mention it at all.

‘Social death,’ Grant Rivers agreed. ‘So those of us who cannot rely upon family money maintain a polite fiction. I keep a stud for my own amusement and profit and sell to acquaintances as a favour when they beg to share in a winning bloodline. Alex here is approached by those with more money than taste. Gentlemen are so very grateful when he puts them in the way of acquiring beautiful, rare objects from his collection to enhance their status or their newly grand houses. Naturally he cannot be out of pocket in these acts of mercy. Gabe is a gambler, which is perfectly au fait. It is strange that he rarely loses, which is the norm, but you can’t hold that against a man unless you catch him cheating.’

‘And does he?’

‘He has the devil’s own luck, the brain of a mathematician and the willpower to know when to fold. And he would kill anyone who suggested he fuzzes the cards,’ Alex explained. ‘And before you ask, Cris is the only one of us who has come into his title. The rest of us are merely heirs in waiting. He’s a genuine marquess.

‘And you, little nun? Given that we are being so frank between friends.’

He knew perfectly well that she was not a nun, but perhaps if she ignored the teasing he would stop it. ‘I, on the contrary, have not a guinea to my name, save what Mother Superior gave me for food and the stagecoach fare in England.’ Tess managed a bright smile, as though this was merely amusing. It had been quite irrelevant until Mother Superior’s little discussion a week ago.

Dear Teresa had been with them for ten years, five since the death of her aunt, Sister Boniface. She had steadfastly declined to convert from her childhood Anglicanism, so, naturally, she had no future with the convent as a nun. Equally obviously, she could not go to her, er...connections in England. And then Mother Superior had explained why.

Teresa was twenty-three now, so what did she intend to do with her life? she had asked while Tess’s understanding of who and what she was tumbled around her ears.

I must have looked completely witless, Tess thought as she gazed out of the carriage window at the sodden countryside. She had been teaching the little ones, the orphans like herself, but that apparently had been merely a stop-gap until she was an adult. And, she suspected now she had a chance to think about it, until Mother Superior was convinced no conversion was likely.

But it was all right; even if there was no money left from the funds Papa had sent to her aunt, she would manage, somehow. The dream of a family in England, people who might forgive and forget what Mama and Papa had done, had evaporated. She would not repine and she would try not to think about it. She could work hard and, goodness knew, she wasn’t used to luxury.

Heavy clouds rolled across the sky, making it dark enough outside for Tess to glimpse her own reflection in the glass. What a dismal Dora! This bonnet doesn’t help. She sat up straighter, fixed a look of bright interest on her face and tried to think positive thoughts.

* * *

What was wrong with the little nun? Alex watched her from beneath half-closed lids. Beside him Grant had dropped off to sleep, and he was weary himself after a hard night of cards, brandy and talk, but something about the woman opposite kept him awake. If she was not a nun, what was she doing going to a convent, dressed like a wet Sunday morning in November? Her accent was well bred. Her manners—when she was not ripping up at him—were correct and she was obviously a lady.

A mystery, in fact. As a rule Alex enjoyed mysteries, especially mysterious ladies, but this one was not happy and that put a damper on enjoyable speculation. There was more to it than her sprained ankle and irritation over missed boats, he was certain. Tess was putting a brave face on things whenever she remembered to. No coward, his little nun.

Alex grinned at the thought of his nun. The nunneries he was acquainted with were very different establishments. She raised one slim, arching dark brow.

‘Comfortable, Miss Ellery?’

‘Exceedingly, thank you, my lord...Alex.’ Yes, that smile was definitely brave, but assumed.

‘Ankle hurting?’

‘No, Mr Rivers has worked wonders and there is no pain unless I put weight on it. I am sure it is only a mild sprain.’ She lapsed into silence again, apparently not finding that awkward. No doubt chatter was discouraged in a nunnery.

‘So what will you be doing in London? Making your come-out?’

She had taken her bonnet off and he remembered how that soft, dark brown hair had felt against his cheek when he had lifted her to carry her to her bed. It was severely braided and pinned up now, just as it had been last night, and he wondered what it would look like down. The thought made him shift uncomfortably in his seat and he wrenched his mind away from long lashes against a pale cheek flushed with rose and the impact of a pair of dark blue eyes.

His... No, Miss Ellery laughed, the first sound of amusement he had heard from her, albeit with an edge to it. Her hand shot up to cover her mouth, which was a pity because it was a pretty mouth and it was prettier still when curved.

‘My come-out? Hardly. No, I will stay at the London house until the Mother Superior there finds me position as a governess or a companion.’

‘With a Roman Catholic family?’ That might take a while, there were not that many, not of the class to be employing well-bred young females of her type. Rich merchants were a possibility, he supposed.

‘No. Not only am I not a nun, I am also an Anglican.’

‘Then, what the bl—? What on earth are you doing in a nunnery?’

‘It is a long story.’ She folded her hands neatly in her lap and seemed to feel that ended the discussion.

‘It is a long journey,’ he countered. ‘Entertain me with your tale, please, Miss Ellery.’

‘Very well.’ She did not look enthusiastic. ‘I will make it as concise as possible. My father’s elder sister, Beatrice, converted to Catholicism against the violent disapproval of her parents and ran away to Belgium to join an order of nuns.

‘But Papa, after he came of age, started writing to her. My parents enjoyed travelling, even though there was a war on, and besides, it was often cheaper to live on the Continent.’ She bit her lip and her gaze slid away from his. A prevarication? ‘So just after my thirteenth birthday we were in Belgium and Papa decided to visit my aunt.’

‘And that was when?’ How old is she? Twenty? Alex tried to recall what was happening seven years past.

‘Ten years ago. I am twenty-three,’ Tess admitted with a frankness no other unmarried lady of his acquaintance would have employed.

‘1809.’ Alex delved back in his memory. He had been seventeen, half tempted by the army, finally deciding against it for the very good reason his father would probably have had a stroke with the shock of his son and heir doing something his parent approved of for the first time in his life. ‘Most of the action was towards the east at that time, I seem to recall.’

‘I think so.’ Tess bit her lower lip in thought and Alex crossed his legs again. Damn it, the girl—woman—was a drab little peahen for all the rainwater-washed complexion and the pretty eyes. What was the matter with him? ‘Anyway, it was considered safe enough. We arrived in Ghent and Papa visited the convent and was allowed to see my aunt, who was Sister Boniface by then. But there was an epidemic of cholera in the city and both Mama and Papa... They both died.’

She became so still and silent Alex wondered if she had finished, but eventually, with a little movement, as though shaking raindrops off her shoulders, she gathered herself. ‘When Papa realised how serious it was he sent me to my aunt with all the money he had. I have lived there ever since, but now I do not want to become a nun and the money has run out, paying for my keep, so I am ready to make my own way in the world.’

‘But your grandparents, your aunts and uncles—surely you have living relatives? Cousins?’

‘There is no one I could go to.’

There had to be, surely? Her gaze slid away from his again and Tess stared out of the window. There was some story here, something she wasn’t telling him, and she was too honest to lie. Alex bit his tongue on the questions. It was no concern of his. ‘And the convent was not for you?’

Tess shook her head. ‘I always knew I was not cut out to be a nun.’ She managed a very creditable smile.

There must be relatives somewhere, Alex thought, forcing back the query. Perhaps the runaway aunt had caused the rift, which was hard on Tess. He understood what it was like to be rejected, but he was a man with money and independence, and these days, power of his own. He knew how to hit back and he’d spent more than ten years doing just that. This was a sheltered, penniless young woman.

‘Now I know you better I can tell that you’re not suitable for the cloister,’ he drawled, intent on teasing her out of introspection. ‘Too much of a temper, for one thing.’

Tess blushed, but did not deny the accusation. ‘It is something I try to overcome. You did provoke me excessively, you must admit, although I should not make excuses.’

‘Go on, blame me, I have a broad enough back.’ Alex smiled at her and noticed how that made her drop her gaze. Not at all used to men. A total innocent with no idea how to flirt. Behave yourself, Tempest. But she was a charming novelty.

‘I will spend December and perhaps January at the London convent, I expect. I do not imagine anyone will be looking to employ a governess or a companion just now.’ She fiddled with the fringe on the edge of the rug. ‘A pity, because it would be wonderful to spend Christmas with a family. But still, it is always a happy season wherever one is.’

‘Is it?’ Alex tried to recall the last Christmas he had spent with his family. He had been almost eighteen. His parents had not been speaking to each other, his batty great-aunt had managed to set the breakfast room on fire, his younger siblings had argued incessantly and at dinner on Christmas Day his father had finally, unforgivably, lost his temper with Alex.

There are some things that a mature man might laugh off or shrug aside as the frustrated outpourings of a short-tempered parent. But they are usually not things that a sensitive seventeen-year-old can accept with any grace or humour. Or forgive. Not when they led to tragedy.

Alex had left the table, packed his bags, gone straight back to Oxford and stayed there, taking care to extract every penny of his allowance from the bank before his father thought to stop it. When the news had reached him of just what his father’s outburst had unleashed he’d settled down, with care and much thought, to convince his father that he was exactly what he had accused him of being, while at the same time living his life the way he wanted to.

‘You will be going home for Christmas, surely?’ Tess asked.

Alex realised he must have been silent for quite some time. ‘I am going back to my own home, certainly. But not to the family house and most certainly not for Christmas.’

‘I am sorry,’ she said with every sign of distress on his behalf.

Beside him Grant gave an inelegant snort and woke up. ‘Christmas? Never say you’re going back to Tempeston, Alex?’

‘Lord, no.’ Alex shuddered. ‘I will do what I always do and hole up in great comfort with good wine, excellent food, brandy, a pile of books and a roaring fire until the rest of humanity finishes with its annual bout of plum pudding–fuelled sentimentality and returns to normal. What about you?’

‘I promised to call on Whittaker. I was with his brother when he died in Salzburg, if you recall. He lives just outside Edinburgh and I said I’d go and see him as soon as I was back in Britain.’ Grant shifted his long legs into a more comfortable position. ‘Can’t stay too long, though, I’ll go straight from there to my grandfather in Northumberland.’

‘How is he?’ Grant was the old man’s heir and he’d be a viscount in his own right when he went, given that his father had died years ago.

‘He’s frail.’ Grant was curt. He was fond of his grandfather, Alex thought with an unwelcome twinge of envy.

‘He will be helped by your company at Christmas,’ Tess said warmly.

‘He’d be glad to see Grant at any time.’ Alex managed not to snap the words. ‘What is it about Christmas that produces this nonsense anyway?’

It was meant as a rhetorical question, but Tess stared at him as though he had declared that it rained upwards. ‘You are funning, surely?’ When he shook his head she announced, ‘Then I will remind you, although I cannot truly believe you are really such a cynic.’ She paused, as though to collect her thoughts, then opened her mouth. ‘Well, first of all there is...’

Please, no, Alex thought despairingly. If there was anything as bad as Christmas it was someone who was an enthusiast about it.

‘Evergreens...’ the confounded chit began. ‘Cutting them and...’

Alex glowered.

Chapter Three

‘And it is so cold, but that is part of the fun, everyone wrapped up and the snow crunching underfoot, and that gorgeous smell of pines.’ Tess closed her eyes, the better to recall it. Memories of those wonderful English Christmases from many years ago, before Papa had said they must go abroad. There hadn’t been much money and it had been a different village each year.

She had never asked why they kept moving; she had simply taken it for granted, as children do. Now, from an adult perspective, she realised they had probably been keeping one step ahead of recognition and scandal and that was why they’d left the country—the Continent was cheaper and there would be less gossip.

But we were happy, she thought, recalling snowball fights at Christmas and unconditional love all the year round. When she opened her eyes again Alex Tempest’s mouth was pursed as though he had bitten a wasp. Grumpy man.

She pressed on, ignoring him, all the precious memories bubbling up, unstoppable. ‘And planning what presents you can give your friends and finding them or making them. That’s almost better than receiving gifts. There’s all the fun of hiding them away and wrapping them up and watching the other person’s face when they try to guess what’s in the parcel.’

Mr Rivers was smiling, even though his eyes were still sad. Tess smiled back. ‘And all the food to prepare. And church on Christmas Eve and the bells ringing out and being too excited to sleep afterwards and yet, somehow, you do.’

Lord Weybourn, Alex, looked as though he was in pain now. What was the matter with the man?

‘Have you done your Christmas shopping already, Miss Ellery?’ Mr Rivers asked. ‘You seem to be someone who would plan ahead.’

‘I had to leave my gifts with the nuns to give out. I sewed most of them and my stitchery is not of the neatest.’ She wished she believed the cliché about it being the thought that counts, but she could imagine Sister Monica’s expression when she saw the lumpy seams on her pen wiper. There was never any danger of Tess being asked to join the group who embroidered fine linen for sale, or made vestments for Ghent’s churches.

‘But next year I will have wages and I will be able to send gifts I have purchased.’ There, another positive thing about this frightening new life that lay ahead of her. She had been saving them up and had almost reached ten. Living with a family. A family. The word felt warm and round, like the taste of plum pudding or the scent of roses on an August afternoon.

Tess left the thought reluctantly and pressed on with her mental list. A room of my own. Being able to wear colours. Interesting food. Warmth. London to explore on my afternoons off. Wages. Control of my own destiny.

She suspected that the last of those might prove illusionary. How much freedom would a governess’s or companion’s wage buy her? She glanced at Alex, but his eyes were closed and he was doing a very creditable imitation of a man asleep. He really did not enjoy Christmas, it seemed. How strange.

Mr Rivers continued to make polite conversation and she responded as the light drew in and the wintery dusk fell. Finally, when her stomach was growling, the carriage clattered into an inn yard and, as the groom opened the door, she caught a salty tang on the cold breeze.

‘Ostend. Wake up, Alex. You sleep like a cat, you idle devil.’ Grant Rivers prodded his friend in the ribs. ‘May I take the carriage on down to the docks? You’ll be staying here the night, I’m guessing, and I’ll send it right back.’

Alex opened one eye. ‘Yes, certainly have it. Higgs, unload my luggage and Miss Ellery’s, then take Mr Rivers to find his ship.’ He uncurled his long body from the seat and held out his hand to Tess. ‘If you can shuffle along to the end of the seat, I will lift you down.’

She was in his arms before she thought to protest. ‘But I must find a ship, my lord.’

‘Tomorrow. We will both take a ship tomorrow. Now you need dinner, a hot bath and a comfortable room for the night. Now, don’t wriggle or I’ll drop you.’

‘But—’

‘Goodbye, Miss Ellery.’ Grant Rivers was climbing back into the carriage and men were carrying a pile of beautiful leather luggage, topped with her scuffed black portmanteau, towards the open inn door. ‘Safe voyage and I hope you soon find a congenial employer in London.’ He pulled the door shut and leaned out of the window. ‘Take care, Alex.’

‘And you.’ Alex freed one hand and clasped his friend’s. ‘Give Charlie a hug from me.’

‘Who is Charlie?’ Tess asked as he carried her into the inn. It was seductively pleasurable, being carried by a man. For a moment she indulged the fantasy that this was her lover, sweeping her away...

‘His son.’ Alex’s terse answer jerked her out of the dream.

‘Mr Rivers is married?’ Somehow he had not looked married, whatever that looked like.

‘Widowed.’ Alex’s tone gave no encouragement for further questions.

Perhaps that was why Grant Rivers’s eyes were so sad. She closed her lips on questions that were sure to be intrusive as the landlord came out to greet them.

‘LeGrice, I need an extra room.’ Alex was obviously known and expected. ‘A comfortable, quiet chamber for the lady, a maid to attend her, hot baths for both of us and then the best supper you can lay on in my private parlour.’

‘Milord.’ Known, expected and not to be denied, obviously. The innkeeper was bustling about as though the Prince Regent had descended on his establishment. Perhaps she would see the Prince Regent when she was in London. Tess was distracted enough by this interesting thought not to protest when she was carried upstairs and into a bedchamber.

The sight of the big bed was enough to jerk her out of fantasies of state coaches and bewigged royalty, let alone thoughts of romance. ‘Please put me down.’

It must have come out more sharply than she intended. Alex stopped dead. ‘That was my intention.’

‘Here. Just inside the door. This is a bedchamber.’

‘I know. The clue lies in the fact that there’s a bed in it.’ He was amused by her vapours, she could hear it in his voice, a deep rumble that held a laugh hidden inside it.

Her ear was pressed against his chest. Tess jerked her head upright. ‘Then, please put me down. You should not be in my bedchamber.’

‘I was last night when I put you to bed.’

‘Two wrongs do not make a right,’ she said and winced at how smug she sounded.

‘Nanny used to say that, did she?’ Alex walked across to the hearthside and deposited her on a chair.

‘Sister Benedicta,’ Tess confessed. ‘I sounded just like her, how mortifying.’

‘Why mortifying?’ He leaned one shoulder against the high mantelshelf and lounged, as pleasing to the eye as a carefully placed piece of statuary, the lamplight teasing gilt highlights out of what she had thought was simply dark blond hair. She wondered how much of that lazy perfection was deliberately cultivated.

‘Because it was a commonplace thing to say and I have no intention of being commonplace.’

That faint smile curled Alex’s mouth again and Tess found herself staring at his lower lip and puzzling over why, when he smiled, which stretched his lips, the centre of the lower one seemed somehow fuller.

‘That is an uncharitable insult to Sister Benedicta,’ she said hastily. ‘Only sometimes, when she managed to string an entire conversation together consisting of nothing but clichés, I had to bite my lip to stop myself screaming in sheer boredom.’ Biting lips...why on earth should that image...? Stop it!

‘I will remove my dangerous male presence from your bedchamber and leave you to bathe in comfort.’ He straightened up and strolled to the door. ‘Supper in an hour, do you think?’

‘Yes. Perfect. This is lovely, thank you. A fire and a hot bath and a maid,’ Tess gabbled, as a pretty girl, all apple cheeks and blond braids, ducked under Alex’s arm as he held the door open. He simply grinned at her and went out.

This was indeed the Primrose Path to Perdition. Luxury, warmth, leisure, being waited on. And all because she hadn’t had the willpower to stay awake last night and insist she be taken down to Sister Clare to do her duty. It was not fair, she had thought she had conquered all those silly yearnings and what-ifs and if-onlys. Now she was having a taste of things she had dreamed about, all served up by an attractive man, and it would make her new life that much harder to adjust to. My dangerous male presence. Oh, yes, indeed.

It’s a hair shirt, that’s what it is, she thought wildly as a serving man lugged in a tin bath, set it in front of the fire and another brought buckets of steaming water to fill it. She was being given a hint of the life she might have had if Mama and Papa had not died, if she’d had a few pounds to her name. If she’d had a family.

If...if. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. And there’s another cliché. The maid said something and Tess grabbed her handkerchief, blew her nose inelegantly and made herself concentrate. ‘Dank u,’ she said and submitted to having her cloak unfastened and her gown unlaced. ‘Wat is uw naam?’

* * *

Damnation. Tess was crying, or on the edge of it, he could hear it in her voice. He was not used to feminine tears unless they were accompanied by a tantrum and demands for expensive trinkets. Alex pushed himself away from the wall outside her door and negotiated the ill-lit landing towards his own room. Her ankle probably hurt, she was tired, she was cross, cold and hungry and she wasn’t used to men. He shouldn’t tease her. In fact, he should probably find some respectable Flemish maid of at least forty summers and employ her to travel with Tess to London while he took another ship.

On the other hand, he knew he wouldn’t do anything out of line, she would probably feel fine in the morning once she was rested and he was enjoying her company. She was refreshingly different, was Tess. He was used to simpering young ladies who had been schooled in the arts of husband catching until they all appeared to have been pressed from the same gingerbread mould, or to experienced women of the world who would flirt and employ their charms on him, just as he amused himself in return.

Tess was as straightforward as a schoolroom chit, but with maturity and intelligence to go with it. Perhaps she was what all those little butterflies flitting around Almack’s in their pastel gowns would have been like if they hadn’t been spoiled. Anyway, he enjoyed her company, when she wasn’t prosing on about Christmas and families, so he would award himself the gift of escorting her. After all, she would be safer with him than just a maidservant if there were men up to mischief on the way. He knew all about men up to mischief, none better.

And the indulgence of observing innocence at close quarters was made safe by the fact of who she was. No one was going to descend like the wrath of God announcing that he’d compromised the chit and must now marry her. Marriage was not in his plans, and wouldn’t have been, even if he had every intention of infuriating his family. A wife, he had long ago decided, would mean a loss of freedom for no discernible gain, given that mistresses combined sexual expertise with no limitations whatsoever on his lifestyle. One day, perhaps...but not yet, not for a long while.

He grinned at himself for finding virtue in doing what he wanted, sobered at the memory of her wide eyes and almost trembling lip and peered at the next door in search of his chamber. The room numbers were hard to make out in the gloom. Where the devil was his? Ah, next one. His foot made contact with something soft, there was a muffled sound somewhere between a mew and a squeak and a weight attached itself to the toe of his right boot.

Alex lifted his foot, hopped to the door, opened it and in the light from several branches of candles examined the small ball of orange fluff attached to the immaculate leather of his Hessian. ‘Let go.’ No effect. The dratted creature obviously only spoke Flemish. Ignoring the hastily muffled laughter of the maid who was laying out towels on the bed, he hopped to the chair, bent down and attempted to prise off the kitten without leaving scratches that would give his valet hysterics.

‘You, I suppose, are a punishment for sending Byfleet on ahead with the heavy luggage.’ He held it up by its scruff while it stared cross-eyed at him and mewed pitifully. ‘He doubtless has a particular tool for removing kittens from footwear.’ He turned to hand the kitten to the maid, but she had gone, the sound of her giggles fading down the corridor. Alex put the animal on the floor and it gazed up at him, tail tip twitching, its pink tongue protruding a fraction beneath its whiskers.

‘I suppose you think you are endearing?’

The kitten mewed, then made a leap for the dangling tassel of his Hessian.

‘No!’ Alex caught it in midair. ‘You are a menace. On the other hand, females like cats and they dote on babies of all varieties. I suppose she might take to you. You’ll make her smile at any rate.’ The maid had left the basket she had brought the towels in. Alex upended it over the kitten, which squeaked piteously. ‘Humbug. You are obviously a loss to the acting profession. Here.’ He screwed up a scrap of paper, pushed it under the basket and then began to undress to the sounds of shredding and fierce miniature growls.

* * *

Tess straightened her back and lifted her chin with the vague feeling that perfect deportment might compensate for wallowing in wicked luxury. A hot bath instead of a chilly sponge-down, soft towels, fine-milled soap, a fire. Bliss. Even having to put on her drab grey gown again could not entirely suppress the fantasy that she was now a glamorous woman, perfumed, exquisitely gowned and coiffed, an exotic creature that any man would put on a pedestal and worship from afar.

At least afar would be safe. Tess knew perfectly well from observation and whispered gossip what men got up to in close quarters given any encouragement, and her fantasy did not quite dare explore that. Although when she contemplated a certain gentleman’s shoulders—

The door opened and Alex walked in, carrying, for some reason, a small wicker basket. ‘You are very pink,’ he remarked after one glance at her face. ‘Bath too hot?’

‘Er, no, I am sitting too close to the fire, I expect.’ And blushing like a rose, fool that I am. Apparently it would take more than one luxurious bath to turn her into a lady capable of stealing a man’s breath. ‘What is in the basket?’

‘A very early Christmas present for you.’ He placed it on her lap. ‘I thought you needed cheering up.’

He had bought her a hat! Or perhaps a muff, or a pretty shawl. A lady could not accept articles of apparel from a man, she knew that. Tess used to sneak into the back of the room when Mrs Bond had given the lectures in deportment that were intended to prepare the young ladies who had been sent to the convent to finish their education. Tess should not have been there because, obviously, she was not going to be launched into society or have a Season, so she had no need to know all about attracting eligible gentlemen in a ladylike manner. But it had been a pleasant daydream.

Those rules did not apply to her, she decided as her fingers curled around the sharp corners of the basket. I am not a lady. I am an impoverished...orphan. A bonnet is not going to compromise me.

The basket seemed to move as she opened it, and then a small ginger ball of fluff scrambled out and latched on to her wrist. Needle claws dug into her skin. ‘Ouch! You have given me a cat?’ Not a hat. Was he drunk?

‘A kitten.’ Alex came to his knees in front of her, tossed aside the basket and tried to prise the ferocious little beast from her arm. ‘Ow! Now she has bitten me.’

Good. ‘He has bitten you. Marmalade cats are usually male.’

‘Really?’ All she could see of Alex was the top of his head as he bent over her and wrestled with the kitten. The top of his head and those broad shoulders... What was it about that part of a man? Or was it only his? Tess had not reached the age of three and twenty without having admired some good-looking men from afar, and being closeted in a convent did nothing to suppress perfectly natural yearnings, however sinful those might be.

His big hands were gentle, both on her wrist and with the kitten, who was becoming more and more entangled in Tess’s cuffs. ‘Little wretch,’ Alex was muttering. ‘Infernal imp. If you were a bit bigger, I’d skin you for glove linings, I swear.’ But she could hear the laughter in his voice as he did battle with his minuscule opponent. ‘I wonder if tickling will work.’

Abruptly the needles were withdrawn from her wrist, there was a scuffle under her elbow and the marmalade kitten shot out, skidded across the polished boards and perched on the cross-rail of the table.

Alex lost his balance, pitched forward and for an intense, endless, moment her arms were full of his solid torso, his mouth was pressed into the angle of her shoulder and her face was buried in his hair.

He smelt of soap and clean linen, the now familiar citrus cologne and something...simply male? Or simply Alex? His hair was thick and tickled her nose, and when she shifted to support his weight her fingertips found the nape of his neck, bare and curiously vulnerable. His lips moved against her skin, she felt his hot breath and the tension in his body, then he was pushing back, rocking on to his heels, his eyes dark and his expression unreadable.

‘Hell’s teeth—’ Alex huffed out a breath and smiled. It seemed a trifle strained. ‘Sorry, I do not mean to swear at you and I certainly did not mean to flatten you. I seem to be making a habit of it.’ Whatever he had felt in her arms it was not excitement, delight or any of the other things her fantasies had conjured up with a dream lover. Naturally.

‘Why did you give me a kitten?’ Tess asked, more tartly than she intended.

Alex shrugged and stood up. He had the sense not to carry on apologising, she noted. ‘You are miserable. I thought it would cheer you up. Ladies seem to like small baby creatures to coo over.’

‘I cannot speak for the ladies in your life, my lord, but I do not coo. And do they not prefer diamonds?’

‘I am surprised at you, Miss Ellery. What do you know about ladies who prefer diamonds?’

‘Why, nothing.’ Tess widened her eyes at him innocently. ‘But surely your mother or sisters—or your wife, of course—would prefer a gift of jewellery to kittens?’ She knew all about kept women from the whispered conversations when she joined the boarders after lights out. They all had brothers or cousins who were sowing their wild oats in London and they exchanged confidences about who were considered the worst rakes, the most exciting but dangerous young men.

‘Hmm.’ Alex shot her a quizzical look, but she dropped her gaze to her scratched wrist and began to wrap her handkerchief around it. ‘I do not buy my sisters or my mother presents, and I am not married.’

‘No, I suppose I should have deduced that you were not.’ Tess tied a neat knot in the handkerchief and looked up.

‘Indeed?’ His eyes narrowed and she discovered that relaxed, amiable Lord Weybourn could look very formidable indeed. ‘And how did you arrive at that conclusion?’

Chapter Four

‘How did I deduce that you were not married?’ Tess swallowed. She had strayed into dangerous personal territory and she could only hope he did not think she had been fishing...that she had any ulterior motive. She fought the blush and managed a bright smile. ‘It was easy from what you said about Christmas. If you were married, your wife would not allow you to spend it cosily beside the fire with your brandy and books. You would be out visiting your in-laws.’

‘So you imagine that if I were to be married I would live under the cat’s foot, do you?’ The relaxed, rather quizzical smile was back again.

‘Not at all. But visits to relatives are what happens in families.’

‘I wouldn’t know. I am out of practice with them.’

‘That is a shame.’ She dreamed about being part of a family, a real family, even if there would be bickering about whose turn it was to entertain the awkward relatives for the holiday season. It was a long time since she had experienced a Christmas like the ones she had enthused about in the carriage. A long time since she had known a family, and this man had that gift and was apparently happy to throw it away.

‘A shame? Not at all.’ Alex moved away as the landlord, followed by a maid, started to bring in their dinner. ‘It is freedom.’

They said no more until they were alone again. Tess ladled soup into bowls while Alex shredded roast chicken into a saucer and put it down for the kitten. ‘There you are. Now leave my boots alone. What are you going to call him?’

So I’m going to have to keep him, am I? Trust Alex to give me a kitten, not a bonnet. ‘Noel,’ she decided, adding a saucer of milk beside the chicken. ‘Because he is a Christmas present.’

‘You really are an exceedingly sentimental young woman.’ Alex passed her the bread rolls. ‘Butter?’

‘Thank you. And I am not sentimental, it is you who are cynical.’

‘Why, yes, I cry guilty to that. But what is wrong with a little healthy cynicism?’

‘Isn’t it lonely?’ Tess ventured. It was ridiculous, this instinct to hug a large, confident male. Perhaps that was how lust seized you, creeping up, pretending to be some sort of misguided, and unwanted, compassion.

‘What, forgoing gloomy evergreen swags, tuneless carol singers, bickering relatives and enforced jollity? I will enjoy a period of quiet tranquillity and then my friends return to town eager for company.’

Tess set her empty soup bowl to one side and waited in silence while Alex carved the capon. There was something very wrong within his family, obviously, if he did not give his mother and sisters presents and he preferred solitude in London to a festive reunion. She bit her lip and told herself not to probe. The atmosphere of plain speaking between the nuns that prevailed in the convent was not, she suspected, good training for polite conversation in society.

Alex passed her a plate of meat and she reciprocated with the vegetables, racking her brains for what might be suitable small talk. ‘I do not remember London at all well.’ Or at all. ‘Is your house in Mayfair?’ That was the most fashionable area, she knew.

‘Yes, in Half Moon Street, off Piccadilly. Just a small place because I travel so much.’

That appeared to have exhausted that topic. ‘Your valet does not travel with you?’

‘I sent him on ahead, along with my secretary and several carriages full of artworks. It was a most successful trip this time.’

Tess thought she detected a modest air of self-congratulation. Was that simply the pleasure at a successful chase or was Alex reliant on the income from his dealing? It seemed a precarious existence for a viscount. Maybe he could not afford lavish celebrations and entertainment at Christmas, she pondered, in which case she had been unforgivably tactless to have pressed him about it. Although he certainly seemed to spend money on his comforts without sign of stinting. Perhaps that was an essential facade, or he ran up large debts.

‘Have I dropped gravy on my neckcloth?’ he enquired, making her jump. ‘Only you have been staring at it for quite a while.’

‘I was thinking that your linen is immaculately kept,’ Tess admitted. ‘Your neckcloths and your shirts.’

Alex choked on a mouthful of wine. ‘Do you always say what you think?’

‘Certainly not. Should I not have mentioned it?’ But it had been a compliment...

‘Perhaps not comments about gentleman’s clothing?’ Alex suggested.

‘Goodness, yes, of course. The outside world is such a maze, full of pitfalls.’

‘Are you nervous of what you will find in London?’ He put the question in such a straightforward way, without any show of sympathy, yet she sensed he understood just how frightening this was. Mother Superior had certainly shown no such insight, only the expectation that Tess would obediently accept her lot in life despite the blow she had delivered.

‘Terrified,’ she admitted baldly. ‘But there is no point in giving way to it—that will only make it worse. I will soon find my way around my new world. I did with convent life after all.’

Alex watched her over the rim of his goblet, his hazel eyes intelligent, and not, for a change, mocking. ‘It must have been a shock to find yourself there. Wine? This is very good.’ He refilled his own glass from the decanter.

‘Thank you, but, no. I’ve hardly ever had it before and I do not think I should start now.’ Tess scrutinised her conscience and admitted, ‘You are offering me too much temptation as it is.’

The air went still, as though someone had taken a deep breath and not let it out. ‘Temptation?’ Alex said with care, as he set down his knife and fork.

‘Food, servants, luxury,’ she explained.

‘Ah. The temptations of comfort, you mean.’ He picked up his glass again and turned it slowly between long fingers. The heavy signet ring on his left hand caught red highlights from the claret. ‘This is not luxury, although it is very civilised. You are tempted by luxury?’

‘I do not know. I obviously have no concept of it if this is merely comfort.’

‘What are your expectations of your new employment then?’

‘Simplicity, I have no doubt. After all, I will be somewhere between a poor relation and an upper servant in the scheme of things. Mother Superior explained that very clearly.’ Along with everything else. ‘But I will be in a home and that is the important thing.’

‘It is? I would have thought that salary and security would be the highest priority for someone in, forgive me, your position.’

‘No, not for me. Being able to earn my own living and to have some security is essential, obviously. But being within a family is what is most important. If I am caring for children that is assured, but an elderly lady or an invalid will have family, too, people who care for them.’

There was movement around her skirts and Noel climbed up, claws pricking her thigh, before he settled down into a small, warm ball on her lap. Tess cupped one hand over him, felt his little belly tight as a drum with chicken and milk. The vibration of his purrs was soothing. ‘Warmth. I want warmth.’

The maid came in with an apple tart and cleared the used dishes. Alex watched in silence while Tess served them both, then took the cream with a murmur of thanks. ‘You will miss that from the convent, I suppose. The close community.’

She stared at him, almost confused that he could understand so little. How to explain? Impossible. ‘No. I will not miss it.’ Ever. That cool, detached, ruthless honesty that seems not to care how it hurt. ‘You are a bastard, Teresa. That is the fact of the matter and you must adjust your expectations accordingly.’ Horrid old woman...

Tess felt stupid with weariness and carefully suppressed worry. The tart was delicious, but it was an effort to eat now. She pushed back her chair and stood, the kitten nestled in one hand. ‘I must take Noel out into the yard or we will be dealing with an accident.’

‘Give him to me.’ Alex stood as she did. ‘You can hardly hop out there with your bad ankle and your hands full of kitten.’

‘What are you going to do with him?’ Tess asked, suspicious. Perhaps he was regretting his impulse to saddle them with a demanding baby animal. She steadied herself with her free hand on the table.

‘I will take him out to investigate a nice patch of earth, then I will put down yesterday’s news-sheets near the hearth, add a saucer of milk and upend the basket over the top. Will that do?’

‘Very well. I hope he will not miss his mother.’ She worried as she tipped the kitten into Alex’s waiting palm where it snuggled down, obviously feeling safe in the cage of his fingers. Who could blame it?

‘If he cries I will take him into my bed, give him one of my best silk stockings to play with and ring down to the kitchen for some lightly poached salmon,’ Alex assured her, his expression serious.

‘I wouldn’t want to put you to so much trouble. Perhaps I should have him in my room—’ Then she saw the crease at the corner of his mouth and the wicked look in his eyes. Tess drew herself up to her full five feet five inches. ‘You, my lord, are unkind to make a jest of me. Thank you for a delightful supper.’

She took a step to sweep past him in a dignified manner, forgot her sore ankle and twisted sideways with a yelp of pain.

‘Definitely best not to drink the wine. You are quite unsteady enough as it is.’ Alex caught her one-handed.

Her hip was against the table, her nose was buried in the V of his waistcoat and her hands, she discovered, were clenched around his upper arms. All she had to do was let go and straighten up, use the table as a support to make her way to the door. Let go. He felt so good, so warm and solid and...expensive. Fine broadcloth coat against her cheek, silk waistcoat against her chin, fine linen under her nose. Tess wanted to burrow into the luxurious softness with all that masculine hardness beneath it. His chest, those biceps, that big hand pressed against her back, the tantalisingly faint edge of musk.

‘Tess?’ His mouth was close to her ear—he must have bent down. His breath tickled, his lips were so near.

‘Yes.’ Whatever the question is—yes.

From the region of her diaphragm there was an outraged yowl, a wriggle and a small paw reached up and fastened onto the front of Alex’s waistcoat.

‘You little devil, that’s Jermyn Street’s best.’ He stepped back, the kitten hooked to the fabric.

‘I will leave you to deal with your kind present, my lord.’ It was not easy to exit with dignity, not hobbling, pink in the face and with ginger hairs clinging to her drab grey skirts, but at least Alex had the more difficult task of extricating tiny claws from intricate, hideously expensive embroidery. ‘Goodnight.’

Tess closed the door behind her, then cracked it open again at the sound of muttered curses. She’d wished she knew some swear words: now she did.

* * *

‘Did you sleep well?’ Alex enquired. His little nun was decidedly wan as they stood at the foot of the gangplank of the Ramsgate Rose. Come to think of it, he was feeling a trifle wan himself, what with kitten herding and a night spent fighting inappropriate arousal and an unfamiliar guilty conscience. Although quite what he was feeling guilty about he was not certain. He might be feeling an unexpected physical attraction to an innocent young lady, but he was perfectly well able to resist it. He’d come across enough of them in the past and simply diverted any physical needs to the mistress of the moment. It was just that he had never spent so much time with one of the innocents before.

‘Thank you, yes.’ Tess was tight-lipped, her knuckles showing white on the handle of the wicker basket. They had eaten in their own rooms that morning and this was the first good look that he’d had of her in broad daylight.

‘Nervous?’ Alex ventured. A sharp shake of the head. ‘Do you get seasick?’ Oh, well done, Tempest, now she’s gone green. If not green, then certainly an unhealthy shade of mushroom.

‘I was when we came over to the Continent, but that was years ago. I am sure I will be fine. It is simply a matter of willpower, is it not?’

Not in Alex’s experience, not after seeing any number of strong-willed friends casting up their accounts over a ship’s rail. ‘Not so much strength of will, more a question of tactics,’ he offered, taking her elbow to guide her up the steep planks. ‘We stay on deck as much as possible, eat dry bread, drink plenty of mild ale.

‘And don’t try to read,’ he added. Even with his own cast-iron stomach the recollection of trying to study the Racing Chronicle in a crowded, overheated cabin brought back unpleasant memories. Grant’s appropriately named filly Stormy Waters—by Millpond out of Gale Force—had romped home by a head without any of Alex’s guineas on it that week at Newmarket.

Most of the passengers were making for the companionway down to the first-and second-class saloons. Alex steered Tess to a slatted bench under the mainmast and settled her on it with the cat basket, her portmanteau and his boat cloak. ‘I’ll go and see to my luggage, you set the kitten on anyone who tries to take my seat.’

At least that produced a smile, he thought, intercepting an icy glare from a beak-nosed matron as he made his way to the rail to watch his luggage being swung on board. Obviously she didn’t like the look of his face. He shrugged mentally. He hadn’t liked hers much, either.

At first it was easy to keep Tess’s mind off her stomach. The harbour was full of things to look at, the kitten needed tending to and, even when they cast off, the view was entertaining enough, the water sufficiently sheltered. Alex was rewarded with smiles and the colour in her cheeks and found himself experiencing a warm glow of satisfaction.

The chit would have him as sentimental as she was, he thought with an inward grimace, but if thinking avuncular thoughts was sufficient to stop him recalling that she was a grown woman only a few years younger than he was, then so be it. Tess Ellery was an innocent and he was not, which left him back exactly where he started—as an escort to a respectable lady.

She had fallen silent while he brooded. Alex glanced sideways and saw that the greenish tinge was back, the roses had gone and, from the set of her mouth, the smiles with them. ‘It is quite rough, isn’t it?’ Tess ventured.

Not as rough as it is going to get was the honest answer. ‘A little lively, yes,’ Alex agreed. ‘Tell me about your ideal employment. A cosy old lady or a pair of charming children?’ Some must be charming, not that he had ever encountered any for any length of time, other than his own younger siblings. He and Matthew had scrapped and bickered, and his sisters had been, by definition, girls, which meant they were as irritating and mystifying to a youth as females could be. He supposed he’d felt affection for them, he just didn’t feel he knew them.

‘I do not mind.’ Tess showed some signs of animation. ‘Just so long as it is a family.’

‘Otherwise you will miss the convent life too much?’ he suggested as he shook out his boat cloak and put it around her shoulders. Spray was beginning to blow back from the prow. It might be unusual to find himself acting responsibly, but at least he wasn’t being treated to the kind of spoiled tantrums his most recent mistress would have thrown under these circumstances. Which, come to think of it, was why she was no longer in his keeping.

‘Thank you.’ Tess snuggled into the heavy wool with a wriggle that reminded him of that dratted kitten making itself comfortable. ‘Miss the convent? Oh, no. It is worse being lonely in a crowd than by yourself, don’t you think?’

Alex tried to remember when, if, he had ever felt lonely. Alone, yes, but he was comfortable in his own company and always had been. When he wanted human contact he had a wide social circle; when he needed close friends he had them, the other three members of what the dean of his Oxford college had referred to bitterly as the Four Disgraces.

‘I suppose so,’ he agreed. ‘But in the convent, all those Sisters must have been like sisters, as it were.’

Tess gave a little shrug as though the cloak had developed uncomfortable creases. ‘Friendships are not encouraged. The sisters treat everyone the same and the boarders go home for holidays and they make friends within their own group. They all come from very good families.’

‘And you do not?’

‘I am an...orphan with no connections. But everyone was very kind,’ she added brightly.

Alex was conscious of a sudden and startling urge to box the ears of the unknown Mother Superior. He had no trouble translating very kind into impersonal, remote, efficient, cool. Tess had been fed, clothed, educated, kept healthy and respectable. Her body and her morals had been cared for; her heart and her happiness, it seemed, could look after themselves if she did not choose to become a nun. Although that was not so very different from a child’s upbringing in any aristocratic family. He was sure his mother had loved him, but it had never occurred to her to play with him, let alone talk to him outside the hour before she changed for dinner.

‘I’m sure they were kind.’ And now she was heading for a life of respectable drudgery, neither a member of a family nor an upper servant. But she seemed to realise already what her position was, even if she had rose-coloured ideas about the joys of family life. It would be no kindness to tell her that and, he supposed, a miracle might happen and she would find herself in the household of her dreams. He looked at the cloudy sky, then fished out his watch. ‘Have some bread and ale, best to eat a little, often.’

‘Thank you. In a minute.’ Tess got up and folded his cloak one-handed, clutching at the mast with the other. ‘I need...I mean, I assume that the...’

‘Ladies’ retiring room?’ Alex suggested. ‘Yes, that will be down below.’ He stood and gave her his arm as far as the entrance to the companionway. ‘Can you manage the stairs with your ankle? Sure? Hold on tight as you go.’

* * *

The smell hit Tess halfway down the steps. Hot, crowded humanity, food, alcohol, an unpleasantness that she guessed was the ship’s bilges and a clear intimation that several people had already been unwell.

Only urgent personal need made her fight her way through the crowded first-class cabin and whisper in the ear of an amiable-looking lady.

‘Over there, my dear. Wait a moment.’ She dug in her reticule and handed a small object to Tess. ‘Take my smelling salts.’

Five minutes later Tess hobbled back, returning the bottle with sincere thanks and a mental resolution to hang on, however long the rest of the voyage proved to be.

She picked her way back to the stairs and encountered a frigid stare from a middle-aged matron in a large bonnet. She looked vaguely familiar. She probably thinks I am an intruder from second class, Tess thought, avoiding her eyes. She certainly would have been if it were not for Alex’s insistence.

How easily things can change, she thought as she stumbled with the motion and caught hold of a handrail. If Alex hadn’t been in a hurry on icy cobbles I would have caught a boat yesterday, I wouldn’t have a sore ankle, I’d have been packed into the second-class cabin feeling ill, I wouldn’t own a ginger kitten and my life wouldn’t be complicated by proximity to a large, infuriating—and devastatingly attractive—male.

On the whole, even with the ankle, she rather thought she preferred things this way, an adventure before life became worthy and serious again.

Chapter Five

The infuriating male in question was waiting for her when she emerged into the fresh air on deck. ‘Hellish down there, isn’t it? Come on back to our roost and be thankful it isn’t raining.’ Alex sounded quite unconcerned about the effect of salt spray on his expensive greatcoat or the disorder of his wind-ruffled hair now he had abandoned the fight to keep his hat on his head.

‘What is it?’ he asked once he had her settled again. ‘I’m delighted to see that green tinge has gone, but I did not expect to see a smile.’

‘You dress so elegantly, but look at you now.’ She cocked her head to one side to study him in the waning light. It would be dusk soon. ‘You are not the slightest bit concerned about your clothes or your hair. I believe you are a fraud, my lord.’

‘I think not. I take my appearance very seriously. One has a reputation to uphold,’ Alex drawled, but there was an edge to his voice as he said it and the mischievous tilt to his lips had been replaced by a thin smile.

You are not what you seem, Lord Weybourn, Tess thought as she snuggled back into the embrace of the boat cloak. The problem was, he did not seem to be the same person from one hour to the next. He appeared the indolent man of fashion, yet was close friends with a trio of gentlemen who looked as though they could hold their own in a back-alley fight, and his body was hard as nails under that expensive tailoring. He sneered at her enthusiasm for Christmas, called her sentimental, threatened Noel with a future as glove linings—and yet he was kind to her, had given her a kitten and was infinitely patient with the creature’s attacks on his person.

He was also very—sinfully—attractive. She had no business acknowledging that, she knew perfectly well. She was a convent-reared young woman about to begin earning her living. Her antecedents were handicap enough, but any smudge on her reputation would mean an end to her prospects for decent employment, and the sooner she resigned herself to frugal, upright spinsterhood, the better.

‘What was that great sigh for?’ Alex enquired. ‘Hungry?’

‘No, I’m just...’ Wishing for the moon. Wishing I had never set eyes on you so my foolish imagination had nothing to work with. The angle of your jaw, the scent of your skin, the way your hair curls at the ends with the damp wind... The impossibility of a man like you in my life. ‘Cold.’

‘Me, too.’ He began to unbutton his greatcoat. ‘Let’s get rid of that coal scuttle of a bonnet and do something about it.’ Before she could protest the thing was off her head and jammed behind her portmanteau and she was on Alex’s knee, the flaps of his coat around her, the hood of the cloak over her head.

‘Alex! My lord, this is—’

‘Outrageous, I know. Stop squeaking, you sound like Noel.’ His voice by her ear was definitely amused. ‘This is shocking, but practical. The choices are go below and be warm but nauseous, sit up here in chilly isolation or share body heat.’ She felt his legs move, a most disconcerting effect. ‘There, the kitten’s basket is under the cloak, too. Happy?’

‘Ecstatic,’ she muttered. Alex’s snort of amusement was warm on her neck. ‘I suppose the sea crossing isn’t this bad in the summer.’ She did her best not to think about the grey sea under the darkening, slate sky, the tossing white wave crests, the icy water.

‘It can be delightful in the summer,’ Alex confirmed. ‘Go to sleep.’

‘Huh.’ It was her turn to snort. She might as well try to fly.

* * *

Tess woke cramped, warm and confused in a snug cave, huddled against something that moved in a steady rhythm. It took her a while to sort through the sensations. Someone else’s skin, a fresh cologne, salt, a seat that shifted slightly beneath her, a world that rocked and heaved. A ship. A ship and Alex.

She sat still for a moment, inhaling the essence of warm, sleepy man. Somehow she had got between the flaps of his coat as well as his greatcoat and her cheek rested on skin-warm linen. Dangerous. Tess struggled upright on his knees, batting the edges of his greatcoat apart so she could see out.

‘Good morning.’ Alex pushed her to her feet, keeping one hand on her arm as she staggered. ‘There’s the English coast ahead.’

‘Thank heavens.’ She felt sticky and thirsty, but there was land, the sun was struggling out of the clouds low on the horizon and the long night was over.

‘Have some ale.’ Alex was on his knees beside the luggage. He passed her an open bottle and then scooped a protesting kitten out of its basket. ‘Yes, I know. We are cruel and horrible and you want your breakfast. You can share mine.’ He poured a little milk into his cupped palm from a stoppered jar and Noel lapped, purring furiously while Alex extracted cold bacon one-handed.

‘Do you want to eat or shall we wait until we can find a decent inn?’

‘Wait,’ Tess said with decision. She felt all right now, but there was no point in tempting fate, especially when she had to venture below decks again. That couldn’t wait, but she lingered a moment, hand braced against the mast, looking down on Alex’s tousled head as he bent over the kitten. Such a kind man.

‘I’ll just...’ She waved a hand towards the companionway. ‘I won’t be long.’

It was much worse below decks now after a rough, crowded night. Even the smartest passengers looked haggard and unkempt. The first-class saloon was crowded and difficult to negotiate and, when Tess emerged from the room assigned to ladies, she turned to see if she could make her way forward and up through a different hatch.

She skirted the second-class cabin, an even more unpleasant sight than the first class, and tried a narrow passageway with a glimmer of what looked like daylight at its end. It opened out into a small area at the foot of another set of stairs so she gathered her skirts in one hand, took the handrail with the other and started to climb, one step at a time.

‘What we got ’ere, then? You’re trespassing into the crews’ quarters, sweetheart. Lost, are you? Or looking for some company?’

A sailor, big and burly, was descending the steps towards her. Tess retreated backwards, away from the smell of tar and unwashed man, the big hands, the snaggle-toothed smirk.

‘I want to get back on deck. Kindly let me pass.’

‘Kindly let me pass.’ He mimicked her accent and kept coming. ‘I don’t take orders from passengers.’ His eyes, bright blue in his weather-beaten face, ran over her from head to foot and a sneer appeared on his face as he took in her plain, cheap gown. ‘I can show you a good time.’ He put out a hand and gave her a push towards a door that was hooked open. Inside she could glimpse a bunk bed.

Tess turned, clumsy with her painful ankle, and he caught her by the shoulder. ‘Not so fast, you stuck-up little madam. What the—?’

He broke off as one elegantly gloved hand gripped his shoulder. ‘You’re in the way, friend,’ Alex drawled, his tone suggesting they were anything but friends. His gaze swept over Tess and she stopped struggling.

‘And something tells me this lady does not welcome your attentions.’ His voice was low, almost conversational, his half smile amiable. ‘I suggest you remove your hand from the lady.’ Alex was as tall as the sailor, but looked about half his weight. The man shifted his stance to face him, his posture becoming subtly more threatening as he dropped his hand from Tess’s shoulder.

Tess looked at the great meaty hands and the knife in his belt and swallowed. Then she began to pull off her gloves. If he attacked Alex, her only weapons were her nails and her feet. ‘This brute—’

‘This little lady came looking for some company.’ He leered at Tess. ‘Then the silly mort got all uppity on me.’

‘And you are?’ Alex sounded almost comatose with boredom as he drew off his right glove and tossed it to Tess.

‘I’m the second mate of this ’ere ship and I don’t take any nonsense, not from bits of skirt what don’t know their place and not from passengers, neither.’

‘Hmm. I wasn’t intending nonsense,’ Alex remarked, the last word almost a growl. He bunched his fist and hit the man square on the jaw. The sailor went down like a felled tree, hitting his head on the handrail as he went.

‘Damn.’ Alex shook his hand. ‘I hope I haven’t killed him. It means such a fuss with the magistrates.’ He sounded like himself again.

He gave the unconscious man a nudge in the ribs with one booted foot. ‘No. He’s breathing.’ Alex stepped over the sprawled figure and frowned down at Tess. ‘Are you all right? Did he do more than touch your shoulder? Because if he did he’s going to wake up minus his wedding tackle.’

‘No.’ She blinked at him, trying to square the carefree figure in front of her with the dangerous-sounding man who had delivered that sledgehammer of a blow. ‘You hit him very hard.’

Alex shrugged. ‘He deserved it and if you give a lout like that a tap, all you do is make him angry and more dangerous. Now, where can we stow him?’

‘In there.’ She pointed at the open door.

Alex dragged the unconscious man inside, then hunkered down, felt the sailor’s head, rolled back an eyelid and pushed him onto his side. ‘He’ll do.’

Tess sat down on the bottom step. It felt safer down there, less as though the deck was going to come up and hit her. She wasn’t used to violence, and facing that leering creature had made her stomach heave, but Alex... Alex had been wonderful.

She should have been appalled and frightened by the violence, but it had been thrilling, that explosive, focused power. Tess looked at Alex. Most of the time he was so kind and carefree, but she now knew he was capable of behaving like a storybook hero. She had forgotten those muscles.

‘Let that be a lesson to you,’ said her hero flatly as he pulled on his glove and shut the cabin door. ‘Do not go wandering off, do not speak to strange men.’

Tess felt her warm storybook glow vanishing. ‘I didn’t wander off. And I did not speak to him. He accosted me.’

‘You are far too trusting—as bad as that blasted kitten. You let yourself be carried about Ghent by a strange man, you spend the night with four of them...’

‘That is totally unfair! You knocked me down, you assured me I’d be safe!’

‘Not so much trusting as gullible,’ Alex snapped. The image of Sir Galahad wavered and vanished altogether. There were shouts on deck; the motion of the ship changed. ‘We’re coming into harbour.’ Alex climbed up the companionway and looked round. ‘We’d better get on deck before someone removes our baggage.’

Tess stalked after him with as much dignity as she could manage with a limp. As they made their way past sailors hauling down sails and securing ropes she saw that the harbour was getting closer by the second. England. Home? It will be in time, she reassured herself, trying not to glare resentfully at Alex’s back.

He reached their place under the mast and turned, flexing his hand as though reliving that blow. ‘I’m sorry, I should not have snapped at you. I was concerned when you did not come back.’ When she did not speak, he shrugged. ‘Look, I wanted to tear his head off and I couldn’t, not once he was unconscious. I was...frustrated.’

‘That’s a very primitive reaction.’ And an exciting one, I fear. When Alex simply grunted Tess smothered her smile and picked up Noel’s basket. ‘There’s a good boy. Did you miss your uncle Alex, then?’ There was a yowl and a ginger paw shot out of a gap in the weave and fastened on Tess’s sleeve. ‘Poor little chap, you want to get on dry land, don’t you?’

* * *

‘I have not made any promises about that hellcat,’ Alex said. ‘Any more nauseating baby talk and Uncle Alex will start thinking about glove linings again.’

Tess slanted a look at him that said she knew perfectly well he was bluffing. Minx. She seemed to be all right after that unpleasant scene. No vapours, no wilting into his arms at the most inconvenient moment. In fact, he had a strong suspicion that she would have had a go at the man herself, given half a chance. He managed to suppress a grin and checked their bags. ‘Don’t try to carry the cat basket. Wait there and I’ll get someone to fetch the lot.’

He walked to the rail and waited while the ship bumped against the quayside and the gangplank was let down, then he hailed a porter and made his way back across the now-crowded deck to Tess. She was sitting patiently where he had left her, looking around with intelligent interest. Drab, neat, brave little nun, he thought. She looked serious, a little anxious. Then she saw him and her face lit up in a smile that held nothing but pleasure at his return and something inside him went thud.

To have a woman smile at him was no novelty. The respectable ones were always glad to welcome him to their homes and their social events; the unrespectable ones greeted his interest with attention that flattered his title and his pocketbook, if nothing else. But Tess’s warmth, her lack of artifice, were like an embrace. He was going to miss the chit when he handed her over, and he never thought he’d feel that about a respectable female. Or a lightskirt, come to that.

‘Those bags there.’ He pointed them out to the porter, who reached for the cat’s basket, as well.

‘Oh, be careful!’ Tess caught it by the handle.

‘I’ll carry it.’ Alex picked it up, gave Tess his other arm and offered up a silent prayer of thanks that no one he knew was likely to be around to view one of the ton’s most stylish gentlemen in a travel-stained condition and escorting a nun and a ginger kitten off a cross-Channel ferry.

‘Thank you.’ She was still limping a little and he tucked his arm close, trapping her hand against his side to make sure she was safely supported. She was just the right height for him. ‘You are kind, Alex.’

‘No, I am not.’ He steadied her down the gangplank, then directed the porter to follow them to the Red Lion. ‘I’m too selfish to be kind.’

‘Nonsense.’ She gave his arm a little shake.

‘I am. And too indolent to make the effort to be unkind,’ he added.

‘I don’t believe that, either. Perhaps you don’t care enough,’ Tess murmured, just loud enough for him to hear.

‘Care? Of course I care.’

‘What about?’ She tipped her head to one side to look up at him. ‘Other than your comfort?’

‘My friends.’ He’d die for them if he had to, not that he’d ever say so. A man didn’t need to; friends just knew. ‘Hunting down art and antiquities.’ My honour. That was something else you didn’t talk about, but it was why he lived as he did now.

‘Your family?’

Damn it, she was as persistent as that little cat once she had her claws into something. ‘No.’ Tess gave a little gasp and it stuck him that he might have been tactless. She had lost her own family and she probably did not need telling about someone who would mourn his mother and his sisters if anything happened to them, but who would be quite happy never to set eyes on his father and brother again.

‘Here we are.’ The open door of the Red Lion was a welcome sight and a distraction from uncomfortable thoughts. Alex dealt with the landlord, checked that the chaise was waiting, ordered hot water and a meal and paid the porter.

‘There’s your chamber over there.’ He gestured towards the door out of the private parlour as they found themselves alone. ‘They’ll bring some hot water in a moment.’

Tess ignored the gesture and suggestion. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She stood in front of him, her face a picture of concern.

‘Why? What for?’

‘I’m sorry that you are estranged from your family and that I raised the subject. It must be so difficult.’

‘Don’t be sorry.’ He shrugged. ‘Certainly it isn’t difficult. I just ignore them, they ignore me. They say you choose your friends but not your family, but you can choose how much you see of any of them.’ Had home ever really felt like a good place to be? It must have done once, before his father had decided that he was so utterly unsuitable to be his heir, such a disappointment to him.

‘But what if something happens to them?’

‘It won’t.’ He took her by the shoulders, turned her around and walked her to her chamber door. ‘My father’s like an ox.’ Certainly has the sensitivity of one. ‘Now freshen up, then we’ll eat and be on our way.’

Chapter Six

‘Goodbye and thank you so much for your assistance, my lord. For looking after me and for Noel.’ Tess stood outside the gates of the convent, her bag and the cat’s basket at her feet. Would a curtsy be appropriate? He was an earl... On the other hand she would probably fall flat on her face, and what she wanted to do was certainly not to make a formal gesture. Not at all. She wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him on that wicked, mobile, mocking mouth.

She managed her best smile instead. Chin up, back straight. Fairy-tale adventure over.

‘You’ll be all right now?’ Alex frowned at the metal-studded black oak of the door. ‘This doesn’t look like the most hospitable of places.’

‘Convents don’t, from the outside.’ Or the inside, in my experience. ‘And I will be perfectly fine. Thank you again.’ She put out her hand, brisk and impersonal, and when he took it and gave it a quick squeeze she tried not to think about how his arms had felt around her.

Alex pulled the iron chain beside the door. Somewhere far away a bell clanged. ‘I’ll wait in the carriage until you are safe inside. Goodbye, little nun.’ He stooped, dropped a quick kiss on her cheek and strode back to the chaise.

‘Yes?’ enquired a disembodied voice from behind the darkened grille while Tess was still fighting with a blush.

If she had only moved her head a fraction that brief kiss would have fallen on her lips. It would have been her first kiss. ‘Teresa Ellery. Mother Superior is expecting me.’

The door swung open and she stepped inside. It banged closed behind her and she heard the sound of hooves on the cobbles as the chaise moved off. The prison gates slammed behind the doomed woman... Stop it! The effect on the imagination of reading Minerva Press novels, smuggled in by the boarders, was exceedingly unwelcome just at the moment.

She limped after the silent nun down a dark, tiled passageway to a door. The sister knocked and opened it, urged Tess in with a gesture, then closed it behind her.

Offices in convents must be all created from the same pattern book. Dark walls, small fireplace, solid, plain desk placed uncompromisingly in the centre of the room with the chair turned with its back to the window and any possibility of a distracting view. It was all safely, depressingly, familiar.

‘Miss Ellery. I confess I am most surprised to see you.’ From behind the desk Mother Superior studied her, unsmiling. She was thin and pale and Tess thought she looked unwell.

‘Good evening, Mother.’ She bobbed an awkward curtsy, hampered by her sore ankle. ‘I was delayed on my journey—’

‘So I understand.’ The nun glanced to one side and Tess realised they were not alone. Seated against the wall was a middle-aged woman who looked vaguely familiar. ‘Delayed hardly seems adequate to cover your...activities. Mrs Wolsey was on the same boat as you from Ostend.’

Of course, this is the disapproving matron who glared at me.

‘Mrs Wolsey has a niece boarding at the convent. She recognised the clothing of the Ghent house orphans and then she recalled seeing you there.’

It began to dawn on Tess that all was far from well. ‘I missed the canal boat. I had a fall and hurt my ankle and—’

‘And took up with some rake. Yes, that much is obvious. Your disgraceful behaviour was observed. Embracing in public, sleeping in his arms, going into an inn with him. I am both deeply shocked and exceedingly disappointed, as will be my Sister in Ghent when I write to inform her of this.’

‘I can explain, Mother—’ Tess began, only to be cut off by a slicing hand gesture from the nun.

‘Enough. I have no wish to hear you make things worse by lying to me. I most certainly cannot have a woman of your character in this house. Your antecedents are bad enough, but this behaviour is the limit. You will leave at once.’

‘My character? But I have not done anything wrong. I can explain everything that occurred. It was all perfectly innocent. And what about my employment?’ The room swam with shifting shadows, flickering candlelight, waves of disapproval. It was unreal; she was bone-weary. Tess wondered vaguely if she was going to faint. Perhaps they would put her to bed if she did and she would wake up in the morning and this would all be a dream.

‘You think that I could recommend you to any decent household? There is only one kind of employment for fallen women, my girl, and I suggest you go and seek it forthwith.’

Not a dream. Fight back. ‘I did not do anything. I am not Lord Weybourn’s lover.’ Tess tried to stand up straight, find some authority in her voice. ‘I had an accident, hurt my ankle. He helped me, just as I said.’ And I do not want to be here, with you, you judgemental old witch, she thought as a spark of anger burned through the confused fog of misery. My antecedents, you horrible woman? Two parents who loved each other, who loved me? I am illegitimate—how is that my fault?

‘Lord Weybourn? Hah!’ Mrs Wolsey said. ‘One knows all about the likes of him. A society rakehell, I have no doubt.’

‘How does one know this?’ Tess enquired. How dare this woman judge Alex? ‘I hardly think you would move in the same circles as he does, ma’am.’ The tail end of her temper was almost out of her grasp now.

‘You insolent girl,’ Mother Superior snapped. ‘You will leave at once.’

‘To cast a sinner out into the night is hardly a very Christian act.’ Tess abandoned the effort to be civil, hobbled to the door and, with her hands full of the portmanteau and cat basket, somehow got it open. ‘But I would not stay here now if you begged me. Good evening to you both.’

Behind her she heard a small bell ringing violently and the sound of Mrs Wolsey’s voice. She seemed to be gibbering with anger. Tess reached the front door before Sister Porteress caught up with her, flung back the bolts, stepped over the threshold and left the door swinging on its hinges. Moments later it slammed behind her with emphatic finality.

‘And I hope your righteous indignation keeps you warm at night,’ Tess muttered. In front of her was Golden Square, a white-stone statue at its centre glimmering faintly in the light from the lamps set outside the houses. Men muffled up against the dank mist hurried past, a cab rattled over the cobbles on the far side. A clock, quite close, struck nine.

Tess put down her luggage to pull her cuffs over her knuckles. Her mittens felt as though they had been knitted out of thin cotton, not wool, and her toes were already numb.

A woman walked slowly down the side of the square, so Tess picked up her things again and limped across to her. ‘Excuse me, can you tell me if there is anywhere near here where I can get lodgings? Only—’

‘Get off my patch,’ the woman hissed, thrusting her face close to Tess’s. She smelt of spirits and strong perfume. ‘Unless you want your pretty face marked.’

‘No, no, I don’t.’ Tess backed away and the woman stalked past with a swish of petticoats, only to slow to a hip-swinging saunter before she reached the corner.

‘Evening, my dear.’ A male voice behind her made her jump. ‘Feeling friendly, are you?’

‘No, I am not.’ Tess whirled round. ‘Go away or I’ll...set my cat on you.’ There was a feline shriek of indignation from the swaying basket and the man stepped aside and walked off hastily.

‘Sorry, Noel,’ she murmured. ‘We can’t stay here, it isn’t safe.’

Perhaps if she found a hackney carriage the cab driver would take her to a respectable lodging house. There didn’t seem to be much alternative. If she stayed on the streets she would either be assaulted, taken by some brothel keeper or she would freeze to death.

Tess slipped her hand though the slit in the side of her skirt seam and touched the reassurance of her purse. Thanks to Alex she still had the stagecoach fare from Margate to London in her pocket and some guilders that she could probably change at a bank in the morning. They were all that stood between her and penury, so she just had to pray that lodgings were cheap.

‘What do we have here?’ A man’s voice, so close behind her, had her spinning round. There were two of them.

‘Good evening.’ She tried for a confident tone. ‘Could you direct me to a cab rank, please?’

‘We can direct you, missy, that’s for sure.’ There was a chuckle as one of them moved round behind her. ‘Right down our street.’

* * *

On a cold, dank evening there was nothing quite like the simple pleasure of one’s own chair, by one’s own fireside with a bottle of best cognac to hand. Alex stretched out stockinged feet to the blaze and swirled the glass under his nose. He had the rest of the evening before him to digest a good meal, catch up on his correspondence, read a book...worry about Tess in that bleak convent.

No wide hearth with unlimited coals for her. Certainly no brandy to keep her warm after a plain dinner. He shifted, searching for a comfortable position in a chair that had always been perfect before. She was used to convent life. Just because he’d hate it didn’t mean that she wouldn’t be feeling as though she was home again.

And surely they’d find her a good position soon, one where she wouldn’t be run ragged by some acid-tongued old woman or harassed by her charges’ older brothers. Who did he know who might be able to employ her? The problem was, he didn’t know any respectable matrons well enough to ask them to employ an unknown young woman without them leaping to conclusions based on his reputation, not Tess’s. One look at that oval face with the expressive blue eyes, that soft, vulnerable mouth...

She was none of his business. Alex gave himself a mental shake, sat up and reached for the pile of letters his secretary, William Bland, had produced when he’d gotten home.

‘The financial matters are all docketed and on your desk, my lord. There is nothing of pressing importance. There are a few invitations despite the fact that your return date was uncertain.’ He’d handed over a stack of gilt-edged cards. ‘And these items appear to be of a personal nature and have not been opened.’

By personal, William meant he had separated out all those with fancy-coloured wafer seals and any that had a whiff of perfume about them. They could wait, too, Alex decided, dropping them back on to the table beside his glass and picking up the invitations again. No, no, possibly, definitely, no...

There was the sound of the knocker. Curious. No one, surely, knew he was home yet? Alex squared off the pile of pasteboard rectangles and listened to the murmur of voices from the hall. Because he was away from home so often he did not trouble to employ a butler, and MacDonald, the younger of the two footmen, was on duty tonight.

The caller was still talking. Alex swung his feet down off the fender and pushed them into his shoes. Damn it, MacDonald was inexperienced, but even he should be able to get rid of unwanted visitors in less time than this. Alex stood up as the door of the study opened.

‘A Miss Ellery has called, my lord.’ MacDonald, who had a fine set of freckles to go with his red hair, was blushing painfully. ‘I have told her that you are not at home, my lord, but she says she will sit on the front step until you are. So I have seated her in the front room because she does seem to be a lady, my lord. Only—’

Hell, what had gone wrong with the confounded female now? Alex told himself he was exasperated, not pleased. Not anxious. Certainly not pleased. ‘Show her in, MacDonald.’

‘Miss Ellery, my lord.’ MacDonald opened the door.

There wasn’t a female member of staff living in, either, Alex recalled. The scullery maid and Hannah Semple, his cook/housekeeper, came in by the day. Damn, this got stickier the more he thought about—

‘Hell’s teeth, Tess, what’s happened to you?’

She stood there on the threshold swaying slightly, the basket in one hand, her bag clutched in the other. Her hair was half-down and a great bruise was coming up on her left cheek. Tess set down her luggage as he started towards her. ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you at this hour, my lord. Only...’

Her eyes rolled up and her legs gave way as he reached her. Alex caught her now-familiar weight in his arms, laid her down on the chaise longue against the wall and bit down hard on the stream of oaths that fought for escape. ‘MacDonald, send Byfleet down with the medical kit, tell Phipps to go for Dr Holt and you get round to Mrs Semple’s lodgings and tell her I need her back here to spend the night. Go!’

Then he sat back on his heels and took a deep breath. His hands, he was shocked to see, were clenched, ready for violence, and he glared at them until they relaxed. She had been walking unsupported, he told himself; she had been able to argue with MacDonald. She couldn’t be seriously hurt. He still wanted to punch whoever had done this to her.

‘My lord?’ Byfleet came in and set down a tray of gauze pads, small bottles and jars on a side table, the familiar kit for when Alex had overdone things in the sparring ring.

‘This is Miss Ellery, a young lady I escorted over from Ghent. She should be in a convent in Golden Square, which is where I left her. I have no idea how she got here, nor what happened, but you can see her face.’

The valet, who specialised in never being flustered, bent over the couch. ‘A nasty bruise. I would hazard the guess that she has come into violent contact with a brick wall. I suggest we remove her outer clothing, my lord, and that I clean the area before she wakes, in case the skin is broken.’

Between them they got Tess out of her bonnet and cloak, took off her boots, one of them unlaced already over the bandaged ankle.

‘No gloves, my lord,’ Byfleet observed, and held out Tess’s right hand for Alex to see. There was a dark red stain under the nails. ‘One concludes that she scratched her assailant.’

‘Excellent,’ Alex muttered and held the bowl for Byfleet as he began to clean her cheek. ‘Is that going to scar?’ Bad enough that they’d hurt her, worse if she had to look in the mirror at the results for the rest of her life.

‘I doubt it, my lord.’ Byfleet took a fresh piece of gauze, covered it in ointment and laid it over the bruise. ‘She is young and seems healthy, and the skin is not broken.’ He probed with his fingertips. ‘Nor is the cheekbone.’

Tess regained consciousness suddenly and woke fighting. One moment she was limp under Byfleet’s hands, the next she had lashed out for his face. Alex caught her wrists before she could make contact. ‘Hush. Lie still, you are safe with me. This is Byfleet, my valet. He is helping you.’

‘Alex.’ She let him push her back against the cushions. ‘I’m sorry.’ She began to smile at Byfleet, then stopped with a hiss of pain.

‘The doctor and my housekeeper are on their way. Are you hurt anywhere other than your face?’

She lay still, obviously thinking about it. ‘My ankle—I had to run. And my shoulder. They grabbed me and I swung round and hit a wall.’

There had been more than one of them, and she’s a slip of a girl, defenceless. The instinct to punch something became a desire to get his hands around throats and not let go.

Byfleet moved to the foot of the chaise and began to unbandage her ankle. ‘The doctor will need to look at this, my lord. It is very swollen.’

‘Who was it?’ Alex asked, trying to keep the fury out of his voice.

Tess shrugged, winced. ‘Goodness knows, just two men who thought they’d found easy prey in the dark.’

‘How did you get away?’

‘I kneed one of them in the groin and then hit the other round the ear with my bag. Then I ran and there was a hackney. He’d just put down a fare, so I scrambled in.’

‘Yes. Of course you did,’ Alex said faintly. A defenceless slip of a girl? Perhaps not. ‘After you had hit one bully, emasculated another and run on a sprained ankle. Why the blazes aren’t you tucked up in bed at the convent?’ he demanded.

Tess grimaced at his tone. ‘Because I am a fallen woman, undoubtedly your mistress and unfit for decent company.’

‘What?’

‘Someone who knows Mother Superior was on the boat, she recognised me, saw us together on deck. I was asleep on your lap, if you recall.’ Tess closed her eyes.

Weariness, pain—or shame? How dare they make her ashamed. She was innocent. He was the one who had been fighting lascivious thoughts for two days and nights...

‘Mother Superior threw me out and I was looking for lodgings when this happened. I’m sorry to have bothered you, but afterwards, I didn’t think I could manage to find anywhere to stay...’ Her voice trailed away. Alex closed his right hand around her wrist and she rallied, opened her eyes. ‘I’m sorry to be a nuisance. Tomorrow, when it’s light, I’ll find somewhere.’

A bustle in the hallway announced the arrival of Dr Holt and Hannah Semple. Alex stayed where he was beside Tess and explained the situation to both of them. It was an effort to keep the fury out of his voice as he described what had happened.

His housekeeper cast her bonnet and cloak into MacDonald’s hands. ‘Poor young lady! I’ll stay with the doctor.’ She flapped her hands at Alex and Byfleet as though they were a couple of stray small boys underfoot.

Alex made himself get up and walk away, out into the hall. It was ridiculous to feel concerned. Tess was in good hands and he obviously couldn’t stay in the room while the doctor checked her over. But still it felt wrong to be doing nothing and the only things that occurred to him—descending on the convent and giving the Mother Superior a piece of his mind and then scouring the Soho area for a couple of men with scratched faces—were obviously equally unlikely to prove effective.

Besides, she was not his responsibility. He had delivered her safe and sound. Oh, for heaven’s sake! Of course she’s my responsibility. If I hadn’t decided it would be amusing to have the company of an innocent for a while, she’d never have been in this fix.

‘I will rouse the kitchen staff to produce some soup, my lord.’ Byfleet vanished through the service door. Trust his valet to come up with a helpful suggestion when all he could do was contemplate violence. Alex resisted the urge to kick the hall hatstand and went into the drawing room to wait with what patience he could muster.

Chapter Seven

To Alex’s relief Dr Holt emerged after only ten minutes. He accepted a glass of brandy and the offer of a chair by the fire. ‘An alarming assault on the young lady, but she is more shaken than hurt. There was no...er...interference with her person, if you understand me.

‘The bruised area will heal without a mark, although it will be temporarily painful and disfiguring, I have no doubt. Miss Ellery’s ankle appears to have been healing well after a slight sprain, from what she tells me, but the sudden strain has wrenched it again. She must put no weight on it for several days until the swelling subsides. I have left instructions with your housekeeper.’

Alex made a conscious effort and pulled himself together. ‘That’s a relief. Poor Cousin Teresa.’

‘A cousin, is she?’ The doctor rolled the brandy glass between his palms, then inhaled the vapours and leaned back with a sigh. ‘Excellent cognac, this. I didn’t like to encourage her to speak. It will be painful.’

And thank heavens for small mercies. ‘She came up to London to visit an old friend on an impulse, I gather, hoping for an introduction as a governess,’ Alex improvised. ‘Found her away from home, became confused, ended up in the wrong place at definitely the wrong time. I’m a distant connection, but this was the only address she could recall in her distress.’ He leaned across to top up the other man’s drink. ‘I’ll send her home in my carriage as soon as she’s up to it.’

‘Awkward that, you being a bachelor and so on,’ Dr Holt remarked. ‘Still, who’s to know, eh? And you’ve an excellent housekeeper in Mrs Semple.’

Did he believe that piece of invention about Tess being a cousin? Not that it made much difference whether he did or not, considering that the presence of even a first cousin in the house would be considered shocking when there were only servants to chaperon her.

‘Damned awkward,’ Alex agreed. He made himself lean back casually, crossed his legs to appear relaxed. ‘Still, not much to be done about it at this time of night. Glad I could find you at home and didn’t have to call out someone upon whose discretion I cannot rely.’ The hint was as much of a threat as he needed to make. No society doctor was going to risk the wrath of a titled patient, especially when the young lady in question was some drably clad poor relation and not a source of fascinating speculation.

There was a tap on the door and Hannah Semple came in and bobbed a curtsy. ‘I’ve made up a bed in the Blue Chamber, my lord. Shall I get MacDonald to carry the young lady up?’

‘I’ll be with you in a moment, Mrs Semple.’ Alex shook hands with the doctor and saw him out, then went back to the study. Tess was lying back against the chaise longue cushions, her face pale, the bruise on her swollen cheek coming out in red-and-purple patches already. ‘I’ll take you to your room. You’ll feel more yourself in the morning.’

‘I’m sorry to be such a nuisance,’ Tess murmured again.

‘Stop talking and stop apologising.’ Alex bent and gathered her up. She was too thin, he thought as he went up the stairs, careful not to knock her foot against the wall. Didn’t they feed them in those blasted nunneries? No more than a wisp of a thing, for all her height and those distracting curves. He’d knocked her for six in Ghent, injured her, then two louts had set about her, and in between she’d had a tiring sea voyage with another attempted assault and a nasty shock when she reached what should have been a safe haven. Any other female of his acquaintance would be distraught by now.

What the devil am I going to do with you, little nun? he thought, looking down at the tangled mass of hair that obscured her face from him. Tess was safe for tonight, but by this time tomorrow he had to have a plan—and her out of the house.

‘Here we are.’ The door to the Blue Chamber was ajar and he shouldered his way in to find that a fire was burning cheerfully in the grate and the covers were turned back. Hannah Semple had even thought to provide a stool to go over Tess’s ankle to keep off the weight of the blankets.

‘What about Noel?’ Tess tipped her face up so she could look at him. ‘Poor thing, he was so upset with all the banging about.’

‘I’ll look after Noel,’ Alex promised, staring into the deep blue eyes fixed so earnestly on his. For some reason his breathing was all over the place. Must be out of condition. I’d better get along to Jackson’s for some exercise.

‘Oh, thank you.’ Her arm tightened around his neck and, before he could react, Tess’s soft mouth was pressed to his.

Heaven. Hell. Alex struggled against temptation and felt it slip under his guard like an opponent’s rapier entering his side. The smell of Tess was familiar, but the taste of her was like a new drug, a draught of best champagne, a mouthful of summer berries. He ran his tongue along the join of her lips and felt her surprise, swallowed the little gasp as she opened to him. There was innocence in that reaction, but this was no girl, this was a grown woman in his arms, a sensual woman, who was exploring her natural instincts, and the effect, after so many assured and experienced women, was deeply erotic.

His hands tightened on the soft, slender body as he took one long stride towards the bed, his mouth still on hers. Her tumbled hair brushed over the knuckles of his right hand, the one around her shoulders, and it was every bit as soft and tactile as he had imagined. When it was all down it would reach her waist, would brush over his naked chest—

His foot hit the bedpost and jarred him back to the reality of what he was doing, with whom he was doing it. Alex snapped back his head, laid Tess against the pillows and stepped away as though a chain had jerked him.

‘I’m sorry. I did not mean to do that.’ As an apology that was wrong in so many different ways he couldn’t begin to count them. What the devil was the matter with him? He wasn’t usually this clumsy.

‘It was my fault.’ Tess was trembling, her face flushed, her eyes wide. On her cheek the ugly bruise was deepening. ‘I meant to say thank you and I didn’t think... I meant to kiss your cheek.’

Of course she had. After the day she’d had now he had taken her innocent gesture and turned it into another assault and she was blaming herself. ‘Tess—’

‘Thank you, my lord.’ Hannah came in, brisk and efficient and smiling, her words a clear dismissal. She had known him since they had both been children and, it was quite clear, she was going to take no nonsense from him now. ‘You can leave Miss Ellery to my care.’

‘Goodnight, Miss Ellery,’ Alex said formally. ‘Mrs Semple will look after you excellently, you may be sure.’

‘I’ll be sleeping in the dressing room, my lord.’ Hannah nodded towards the corner of the room. ‘With the door open. Then if Miss Ellery becomes alarmed in the night I am close at hand.’

With a poker at the ready for randy males was the unspoken part of that declaration. Alex managed a smile for her and took himself off. He needed brandy. No, he needed to strip off and stand under the stable yard pump, but he was going to have to settle for brandy.

Back in the study he flung himself into his chair and reached for his glass, raised it to his lips as an indignant voice began to yowl from inside the wicker basket by the fireside.

‘You took the words right out of my mouth, Noel,’ Alex said as he set down his glass untouched and went to open the basket. Somehow, in a matter of moments, he had acquired a cat, a nun, and his well-ordered, pleasantly selfish life was upside down.

* * *

Had the housekeeper seen them? Tess fought against the instinct to simply close her eyes and pretend that kiss had never happened. But that would be rude. She met the other woman’s gaze and read nothing but concern there.

‘I’ve got a nightgown for you,’ Mrs Semple said. ‘MacDonald had the sense to tell me why I was being called for, so I thought I had best bring some things, just in case. Let’s get you undressed and into bed, shall we, Miss Ellery?’

The other woman was not much older than she was, Tess thought as she did her best to help with the undressing. It seemed young to be a housekeeper. ‘Is Mr Semple the butler here?’ she asked with a vague notion of making polite conversation under extraordinary circumstances.

‘I’m a widow, Miss Ellery. I don’t live in as a rule, not with an all-male household, you understand.’

‘But you’re so young. Oh, I’m sorry, that was tactless, I’m not thinking very straight.’

‘And no wonder. My husband was killed at Waterloo. He was one of his old lordship’s grooms, but he was set on the army.’ She tucked Tess in with a brisk pat at the sheets, then stepped back to survey the room. From her nod she was satisfied with what she saw. ‘Now, what can I fetch you to eat, Miss Ellery? A nice little omelette with some bread and butter and a cup of tea?’

‘That sounds perfect, thank you.’ Tess closed her eyes and leaned back into the comfort of piled pillows. She wondered vaguely if she would be able to stay awake to eat it and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

‘She’s asleep.’ Hannah Semple closed the study door behind her and came to take the chair opposite Alex. ‘And what have you got there?’

Alex stroked his palm over the kitten’s body and smiled as the rumbling purr vibrated through his hand. ‘This is Noel. I set out to cross the Channel and come home alone with a pile of artworks, yet ended up with one kitten and a nun who isn’t.’

Hannah kicked off her shoes and curled up in the armchair. ‘And what, Alex my lad, are you going to do with them?’

‘I was hoping you’d be some help with that, Hannah.’ He looked at her with affection, his childhood playmate, the daughter of their estate manager at Tempeston. He’d watched her march off to follow Willie Semple to war when both he and Hannah were just seventeen, and she’d written to him five years later when she returned to England, a widow in search of a place. In front of the other staff she was meticulously formal; alone with him they were simply old friends.

‘The kitten goes with Tess—but what the blazes am I to do with her?’

‘Take her to bed by the looks of things,’ Hannah observed.

Alex winced. ‘You saw that? She meant to kiss me goodnight on the cheek. Things slipped. She’s an innocent, Hannah, not the kind of girl to take to bed.’

‘And you’d know. But I’d agree with that. She’s as green as spring grass, you’ve only to look at her.’ That was definitely a verbal cuff round the ear, he thought. ‘What’s she doing in London?’

Alex recounted the tale. ‘I need to find her decent employment,’ he concluded. There was no way he could wash his hands of her now.

‘You need to get her out of this house,’ Hannah countered. ‘She can come back with me tomorrow, if she’s up to it. I’ve a spare room in my apartment, nothing fancy, but she’ll be safe, comfortable and respectable. Then we can find her employment.’

The relief of it caught him by surprise, but not as much as the pang of regret that Tess would be leaving. ‘I’ll pay for her lodging, of course, and whatever you need to furnish her room. And she’ll need kitting out with some respectable clothes. I don’t know what that nunnery thought it was doing, sending her out at this time of year in those thin things.’

‘I’ll see to it. You’re used to setting up birds of paradise in bijou little houses, not respectable young women in decent lodgings.’ Hannah sorted through the items on the end of her chatelaine and came up with a set of tablets and a pencil. ‘Now, what are your plans? Where are you going for Christmas?’

‘I’m staying here, as well you know. Will you join me for Christmas dinner, Hannah?’

‘I will not, but thank you. I’ll be off to my in-laws like every year.’ She sighed. ‘I wish you’d go home, you stubborn man.’

‘I am home, and in the absence of a warm invitation to the ancestral mansion, this is exactly where I am staying.’ And there’d be the sound of trotters on the roof tiles as the flying pigs landed before that particular invitation arrived.

‘It is ten years past, Alex.’ Hannah looked into the fire, not meeting his eyes. ‘Surely it is time to forgive?’

‘When I forget, then I’ll forgive.’ Surely she knew it was not just for him? A young man had died that bitter Christmas because of his father’s blind prejudice and need to hit out at his elder son.

‘You’ll have to go back one day. You are the heir.’

‘Over his dead body or mine. If it’s the latter, then I suppose they’ll let me have my shelf in the ancestral vault.’ He smiled at her to show that this was something he did not care about, that it no longer hurt.

Hannah simply shook her head. ‘You’re as pig-headed as the earl is—you know that, don’t you?’ She cocked her head on one side and regarded him beadily. ‘Why not take a wife and produce an heir? That’s a revenge for you, Lord Moreland knowing that his precious lump of a younger son won’t inherit.’

‘And shatter all his fondly held beliefs about me? How unkind that would be. And what if I turn out to be as bad at marriage and fatherhood as he has?’

‘Impossible.’ Hannah grinned at him, suddenly finding her humour again. ‘No one could be that bad. I’m off to bed. I just hope that nice lass doesn’t have nightmares, bless her.’

When the door closed behind her with a soft click Alex sat on, stroking the kitten, his unfocused gaze on the sinking embers. Tess would doubtless tell him that Christmas, on top of everything else, was the perfect time for reconciliation and forgiveness. It was a good thing she was leaving. Just for a moment he believed that she might even convince him it was true.

* * *

‘I ought to say goodbye to Lord Weybourn,’ Tess said as Mrs Semple fastened the strap on Noel’s basket. ‘I must say thank you.’

‘You can send him a note.’ The housekeeper nodded to MacDonald, who opened the door and carried Tess’s bag down to the waiting hackney. ‘We need to get you to your new lodgings and work out what shopping you require.’

‘I haven’t much money,’ Tess ventured. She had very definitely been removed from the house, she thought, finding herself wedged into her seat with the cat basket deposited on her lap. Mrs Semple doesn’t approve of me. She saw that kiss and she thinks...

‘His lordship’s paying.’

She thinks I’ve slept with him, that now he’s paying me off. ‘It will be a loan. Just as soon as I have employment and a wage, I’ll repay him.’

Mrs Semple made a noise that might have been agreement, might have been disbelief. She was looking out of the window with a frown that wrinkled her brow.

‘Mrs Semple, I am not his mistress. What you saw last night—’

‘Was quite innocent on your side. Yes, I know.’ The housekeeper turned and smiled.

‘On both sides.’

‘He’s a man, and I doubt he’s been an innocent for many years, Miss Ellery. No, don’t bristle up, he’s no predator on decent girls, he won’t be after seducing you. Or worse. But, like I say, he’s a man, you are a woman, and a pretty one under all that drab clothing and bandages. If he didn’t take an interest I’d be worried about his health.’

A half delighted, half shocked snort of laughter escaped Tess. ‘You know Lord Weybourn very well?’

‘Since we were both six years old. My father was the Earl of Moreland’s estate manager. Alex is a good man. Stubborn as his sire, though.’ The frown was back.

‘You worry about him, don’t you? What has gone so wrong with his family?’

Mrs Semple’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘That’s his story to tell you. But I will tell you something. He is flagellating himself for leaving you somewhere that wasn’t safe for you. You’ll hurt his pride, if nothing else, if you make a fuss about paying him back for a few bits and pieces and a decent wardrobe of clothes.’

‘He wasn’t to know there would be any problem,’ Tess protested. ‘And he certainly wasn’t to blame.’

‘If he had taken you to the canal boat in time, then none of this would have happened, and I know you should have insisted and so on and so forth, but Alex Tempest has an over-developed sense of responsibility for all that care-nothing air he pretends to have. So are you going to make him miserable or are you going to swallow your pride and enjoy some decent clothes?’

‘I’ll swallow it,’ Tess conceded. I’m so far down that Primrose Path I may as well face the fact that I’m ruined and have a man buy me clothes. It was a pity I couldn’t be ruined properly while I was at it though... The thought caught her unawares and she scrabbled in her purse for a handkerchief to turn her gasp into a cough. ‘But nice clothes aren’t suitable for someone looking for a post as a governess.’

‘We’ll see. I suspect when Lord Weybourn puts his mind to it he’ll be able to steer you in the direction of something rather more elevated than your convent might have done.’ Mrs Semple’s gaze rested on her speculatively. ‘Hmm. Yes, I can see all sorts of possibilities.’ The frown vanished to be replaced with a mischievous smile. ‘Now let’s get this kitten settled and make a list of what you need. And call me Hannah, please.’

Chapter Eight

‘Where the blazes is my coffee?’ Alex enquired of thin air. The dining room was bereft of footmen, his coffee jug had been empty for ten minutes, there was no sign of his toast and the fire needed making up. He should have known it was too good to last, the peace and quiet and order that had reigned for almost a week since the departure of Tess and the kitten.

He wasn’t helpless and it wasn’t above his dignity to grapple with the coal tongs, but even so... With a sigh he got up, mended the fire and then gave the bell pull a prolonged tug. Silence. The hall, when he looked out, was deserted, the front door still bolted.

It was not unheard of for housebreakers to raid London houses, tie up the staff and make off with the silver with the owners none the wiser for hours. Breakfast time was a strange time to attempt it, though. Feeling slightly melodramatic, Alex retrieved his cane from the hall stand and walked softly to the service door under the stairs.

He was halfway down, wincing as a tread creaked, when he heard a thump and a clatter and took the remaining stairs in three strides. In the kitchen, her back to him, was a strange woman in a green gown. He could see the large bow of the voluminous apron that was wrapped round her, her glossy dark hair was topped by a large white cap; she had a badly bent toasting fork in one hand and the remains of half a dozen slices of bread around her feet.

‘You useless male object, you!’ she announced in tones of loathing.

One glance around the kitchen was enough to show Alex that he was the only male in sight. ‘Madam? If you care to tell me who you are I will endeavour to be of rather more utility.’

She whirled round, trampling the bread in the process. ‘Oh, no,’ Tess said flatly. ‘You.’

‘Me,’ Alex agreed and propped the cane unobtrusively in a corner. So not burglars, but an invasion that was far less easy to deal with. He told himself that the feeling in his chest was the after-effects of stalking burglars. Or dread. ‘What are you doing here—other than pulverising bread and breaking the kitchen equipment—and where is Mrs Semple?’

Tess moved into the light. Oh, my God, her face. The bruise was now multicoloured and she had the fading remains of a black eye. ‘And you are supposed to be resting that ankle.’ Alex trampled on the urge to scoop her up and make her lie down. She wouldn’t thank him for mentioning the way she looked, and thinking about it would probably only make it hurt more. And once I have my hands on her I may not be able to let go.

‘Hannah is very much under the weather and in bed with a headache, so I am attempting to make your breakfast. Everything was going well, wasn’t it?’ She tossed the toasting fork on to the table and frowned at him. ‘The ham and eggs? The sausage? The hot rolls? They were all perfect, I thought. Only there is no more coffee and Noel knocked the bread off the table the moment I had sliced it and I bent the toasting fork when I made a dive for it.’

‘Where are MacDonald and Phipps? Or Byfleet, come to that?’ One end of the table was laid for four breakfasts with plates at various stages from egg smeared to laden but scarcely touched.

‘MacDonald has run out for coffee and bread. I sent Phipps to the lodging house with some medicine that Hannah asked for. Byfleet has gone to Jermyn Street, I think. Buying shirts.’ That was delivered in a rapid mutter from a crouched position on the floor where Tess was retrieving broken slices of bread.

‘Dare I ask why he needs to buy shirts at this time in the morning?’ The nape of her neck was exposed, soft and pale and vulnerable, begging for his lips. Alex took the toasting fork, braced the wrought iron handle against the tabletop and leaned on it. It was more or less straight when he squinted down the length. His brain was more or less in control of his animal instincts, too.

Tess stood up with her hands full of bread, flinched when she found herself facing the prongs and looked round for somewhere to deposit her load.

‘On the fire,’ Alex suggested.

‘Throw food on the fire? I can’t do that. Sister Peter says it goes straight to the devil if you do that.’

‘And you believe her?’

‘Of course not.’ Tess found the slop bucket and tossed in the broken slices. ‘But it’s like not walking under ladders and tossing salt over your shoulder—one just gets into the habit.’

‘And I suppose nuns get into more habits than anyone,’ Alex observed, as he hitched one hip on to the table. He found a crust and buttered it lavishly. He should be both irritated and worried to find Tess back in the house; instead he felt oddly cheerful. Uncomfortably aroused, but happy.

Tess’s harassed expression transformed into a grin. ‘That is a terrible pun!’ She picked up the toasting fork and studied it. ‘My goodness, you are strong.’

‘It is all the exercise I get tossing nuns about. Shirts?’ Alex prompted, resisting the instinctive grin in return. It would be dangerous to let things get too cosy.

‘All your clean ones were in the ironing basket in the scullery this morning, apparently. Then Noel found them.’

‘Ah.’

‘More urgh, actually, although Mr Byfleet expressed himself rather freely on the subject.’ She eyed him warily. ‘I can make you some tea and bring it up if you like.’

‘No, I would not like. I will sit down here and wait to find out why my infallibly efficient housekeeper has run out of coffee, why when she has never, in all the years I’ve known her, succumbed to a headache, she has taken to her bed with one and why, when she has, she sent you to make my breakfast.’

‘Hannah has been spending a lot of time with me, I’m afraid, buying clothes and settling me in. I expect she’s been distracted and forgot to check the store cupboard. And she was very quiet yesterday evening. I thought she was simply deep in thought, but perhaps it was the headache.’

‘Have you had your breakfast?’ Alex found the honey and spread it on another crust.

‘I had mine first.’ Tess began to gather up the dirty crockery and took it through to the scullery. He noticed her limp had completely vanished. ‘Hannah says a scullery maid will come in later.’

‘So I believe. Tess, come back here and sit down.’ He waited until she returned and sat, neat and composed in her new dress and clean white apron. She folded her hands in her lap and regarded him, head on one side, like an inquisitive bird or a child waiting for an eccentric adult to do something entertaining. Very meek, very attentive. Why did he have the suspicion that she was laughing at him? ‘You shouldn’t be here.’ All he had to do was put his foot down; it should be a simple enough matter.

‘I am a perfectly good plain cook.’ Now she was managing to look wounded, blast her. ‘You would never have known I was here if it wasn’t for the problem with the coffee and the toast. Your staff are highly respectable.’ Alex opened his mouth, but she sailed on. ‘And who is to know?’

‘I know.’ And I am finding it decidedly unsettling. ‘You are not a servant.’

‘I am acting as your housekeeper. That is at least as respectable as being a governess in many households.’

‘Not for an unmarried lady, it isn’t.’ Alex dusted crumbs off his fingers and stood up. ‘I’ll call a hackney to take you back to the lodging house.’

The door to the area opened and Phipps came in, gawped when he saw Alex and whipped off his hat. ‘Good morning, my lord.’

‘Good morning. And how is Mrs Semple’s headache?’

‘Not good, my lord. I didn’t see her, only Mrs Green, the lodging house keeper. She says it’s the influenza and two more of her lady lodgers have it.’

‘I must go and nurse Hannah.’ Tess was on her feet, pulling off cap and apron.

‘No, miss. Mrs Green said that she and her girl will look after the ladies and that Mrs Semple said you weren’t to go back and risk catching it. She’s had your bags packed and I’ve brought them here with me.’

‘Absolutely not. You cannot stay here,’ Alex began as the door opened and a thin woman came in.

‘Morning, all. I’ll get the copper on the boil and— Oh!’ She stopped dead at the sight of Alex and Tess. ‘Where’s Mrs Semple? I’m Nelly ’Odgkins, come to do the weekly wash.’

‘She’s sick,’ Tess said before Alex could intervene. ‘Can you carry on as usual, please, Mrs Hodgkins?’

‘Right you are, mum.’

‘Miss Ellery—’

‘I’ve got the coffee and three loaves, Miss Ellery... My lord?’ MacDonald grounded the shopping baskets and stared at Alex as a scrap of a girl slid into the room through the door behind him.

‘Mornin’, Mr MacDonald, Mr Phipps. Ooh...’ She stopped and stared, wide-eyed.

‘You must be Annie. Off you go to the scullery and start on the breakfast dishes,’ Tess said firmly.

Alex strode round to shut the door in the hope of stemming the flood of incomers and, hopefully, the evil draught of cold December air.

His shove met with resistance against a brawny shoulder and a head covered with a battered low-crowned hat appeared round the door. ‘Morning, all. I’ve got some fine mutton cuts here, Mrs Semple. Er?’

‘Good morning.’ Tess waved the butcher inside, then turned to Alex. ‘You need a housekeeper, my lord,’ she said, low voiced, then clapped her hands for attention. ‘Annie, come out here for a moment, please. Mrs Semple is down with the influenza, I’m afraid, and I am Mi—Mrs Ellery, the housekeeper in her absence. Phipps, please get a kettle boiling for his lordship’s coffee. MacDonald, pass me the loaf, then you can start making the toast. I’ll be with you directly, Mr—?’

‘Burford, mum. Don’t you worry yourself, I’ll be fine over here till you’re all sorted.’ He took himself over to a bench in the corner, grounded his basket with a grunt and sat down, hands on knees, with every appearance of settling down to watch a play, much to Alex’s irritation.

‘I’ll see you in the study after breakfast, Mrs Ellery,’ Alex said. Any trace of pleasure at being alone with Tess had vanished. Who, he thought bitterly, was going to appear next? The parish constable? He scooped up the kitten, who had bounced out in pursuit of the butcher’s trailing bootlaces, and retreated upstairs with as much dignity as he could muster.

‘Routed from my own kitchen, Noel. Now what am I going to do with her?’

Noel yowled and bit Alex’s thumb.

* * *

A fresh pot of coffee, hot toast and the last pot of what Phipps assured her was Mrs Semple’s best strawberry conserve would surely soothe a troubled male breast at breakfast time, Tess thought. Halfway up the back stairs she remembered her apron and went down again to take it off and straighten her cap, which showed a tendency to slide on her tightly coiled hair.

‘You look the part, Miss...er...Mrs Ellery,’ MacDonald said with an encouraging smile that only confirmed that what she looked was in need of encouragement.

At Alex’s door she knocked. I must stop calling him that, even in my head.

‘Come.’ It was hardly welcoming. Perhaps the jam had been a mistake, too obvious a peace offering.

Tess walked in, wishing this was rather less like being summoned to Mother Superior’s study and that she could manage a confident smile. But that still made her cheek ache. ‘My lord.’ She bobbed a curtsy, folded her hands and waited.

‘For goodness’ sake, Tess, sit down and stop play-acting.’ He was using the point of a paperknife to flip over a pile of gilt-edged cards on his desk.

‘I am not. I am endeavouring to behave like a proper housekeeper in front of your staff and any visitors.’

‘You cannot be my housekeeper. You cannot stay here.’ Alex jammed the paperknife into a jar of pens. ‘You are most certainly not going to come into contact with any visitors.’

‘I am perfectly competent and they taught us housekeeping and plain cookery at the convent. This is a small house. I can manage very well.’

‘That is not what I mean.’ His gaze, those hazel eyes shadowed, was on her mouth, his own lips were set in a hard line.

They had felt firm, yet soft on hers. Strong, yet questioning. They had asked questions she... Tess closed her eyes and Alex made a sound, a sudden sharp inhalation of breath. She blinked and he was still staring at her.

‘It’s about that kiss, isn’t it? You think I was throwing myself at you.’ The words were out before she could censor them. She had been so certain he knew it had been a mistake, so certain that he had disregarded it with an ease she could only dream of managing herself.

‘No. Yes. Partly.’ Alex had his elbows on the arms of his chair. Now he clasped his hands together as though in prayer and rested his mouth against his knuckles, apparently finding something interesting on the surface of the desk. When he dropped his hands and looked up she could see neither amusement nor desire in his expression. ‘You should not be in a bachelor household, it is as simple as that. I am not in the habit of pouncing on my female staff and, although I can find explanations for what happened the other night, they are not excuses, not acceptable ones.’

He frowned. ‘I can’t imagine what Hannah was thinking of, sending you here. She was as set on moving you out as I was.’

‘She is ill and perhaps she’d had long enough to think about it and know I was perfectly safe here.’ Tess stopped herself pleating the fine wool of her skirt between her fingers. ‘I think she was more worried about you than about me, at first.’

‘About me?’ That at least wiped the brooding expression off his face. Alex sat up and stared at her.

‘I suspect she thought I was attempting to seduce and entrap you,’ Tess said primly. It was ludicrous, of course.

Alex threw his head back and laughed, a crack of sheer amusement. ‘You?’

‘I know. Ridiculous, isn’t it?’ Of course it is. So why did his laughter twist inside her with a stab of what was perilously close to shame? She managed a little cackle of her own, just to show how funny it was.

‘She was obviously sickening for the influenza even then,’ Alex said, with a shake of his head for the preposterousness of it.

Yes, preposterous was the word. Teresa Ellery, as ignorant as Noel was about the big wide world, battered and bruised, dressed as a convent orphan, might arouse Lord Weybourn’s chivalrous instincts, but not his amorous ones. That kiss, the one she’d built all those castles in the air about in her dreams and daydreams, was nothing more than the instinctive reaction of any man to a woman in his arms foolishly pressing her lips to his.

‘Anyway, I cannot go back to the lodgings. As well as the risk of catching the influenza myself, the landlady is quite busy enough as it is with sick nursing,’ Tess said. ‘If I am not seen above stairs when you have visitors, who is to know?’

He scrubbed one hand across his face, an oddly clumsy gesture for such an elegant man. ‘I suppose I can hardly send you off to an hotel. There’s a bedchamber above mine you could use,’ he said with evident reluctance. ‘None of the male staff sleep on that floor and it has a door that locks. We must get a maid for you, one to sleep in the dressing room.’ He reached out and pulled the bell, then fell silent until MacDonald came in. ‘Take Mrs Ellery to our usual domestic agency and assist her in finding a suitable lady’s maid.’

‘A lady’s maid?’

‘You are a lady, aren’t you?’ One brow lifted.

‘Well, yes.’ No, I’m not. ‘But a housemaid would do.’

‘We have two housemaids. They come in three times a week to do the cleaning. We do not require any more.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ To wrangle in front of the staff was impossible. Tess stood up, dropped a neat curtsy and waited for the footman to open the door for her. ‘We will go immediately, if you have finished your current tasks, MacDonald.’

* * *

‘It’s a very good agency,’ MacDonald confided as they stood outside the door with its neat brass plate. ‘His lordship gets all his staff here.’

Twinford and Musgrave Domestic Agency. Est. 1790. It certainly sounded established and efficient, Tess told herself. They would guide her, which was a good thing, because she had only the vaguest idea of the details of a lady’s maid’s duties.

MacDonald opened the door for her. ‘Mrs Ellery from Lord Weybourn’s establishment, requiring a lady’s maid,’ he informed the man at the desk, who rose after a rapid assessment of Tess’s gown, pelisse and muff. She was grateful for Hannah’s insistence on good-quality clothes or presumably she would have been directed to join the queue of applicants lined up on the far side of the hall herself.

‘Certainly, madam. Would you care to step through to the office? My assistant will discuss your requirements and review the available—’

He was interrupted by a baby’s wailing cry. The door opposite opened and a young woman backed out, clutching the child to her breast. ‘But, Mr Twinford, I can turn my hand to anything. I’ll wash, I can sew, scrub—’

She was of medium height, neatly and respectably dressed, although not warmly enough for the weather, Tess thought, casting an anxious look at the baby who was swathed in what seemed to be a cut-down pelisse.

‘You’ve turned your hand to more than domestic duties, my girl.’ The voice from the office sounded outraged. ‘How can you have the gall to expect an agency with our reputation to recommend a fallen woman to a respectable household?’

‘But, Mr Twinford, I never...’ The woman was pale, thin and, to Tess’s eyes, quite desperate.

‘Out!’ The door slammed in her face and she stumbled back.

‘I do beg your pardon, Mrs Ellery. Shocking!’ The clerk moved round the side of the desk. ‘Now, look here, you—’

‘Stop it. You are frightening the baby.’ Tess stepped between them. ‘What is your name?’

‘Dorcas White, ma’am.’ Her voice was quiet, genteel, exhausted. Close up, Tess could see how neatly her clothes had been mended, how carefully the baby’s improvised coverings had been constructed.

‘Are you a lady’s maid, Dorcas?’

‘I was, ma’am. Once.’

‘Come with me.’ She turned to the spluttering clerk, who was trying to get past her to take Dorcas’s arm. ‘Will you please stop pushing? We are leaving.’ She guided the unresisting woman out to the street and into the waiting carriage. ‘There, now at least we have some peace and we are out of the wind. You say you are a lady’s maid and you are looking for a position?’

‘I was, but I can’t be one now, not with Daisy here. I’ll do anything, work at anything, but I’ll not give her up to the parish.’

‘Certainly not.’ All that was visible of the baby was a button nose and one waving fist. ‘Where is her father?’

Dorcas went even whiter. ‘He...he threw me out when I started to show.’

‘What, you mean he was your employer?’ A nod. ‘Did he force you?’ Another nod. ‘And his wife said nothing?’

‘He told her I’d... He said I had...’

She would get the full story later when the poor woman was less distressed. ‘Well, we won’t worry about that now. I need a lady’s maid. You can come and work for me. Or for Lord Weybourn, rather.’

‘You are Lady Weybourn?’ Dorcas was staring at her as though she could not believe what she was hearing.

‘Me?’ Tess steadied her voice. ‘No, I am his new housekeeper, but it is an all-male household and I need a maid for appearances, you understand.’ She looked at the thin, careworn face, the chapped hands gently cradling the baby, the look of desperate courage in the dark eyes. ‘It would be more like a companion’s post, really. Would you like the position?’

‘Oh, yes, ma’am. Oh, yes, please.’ And Dorcas burst into tears.

Chapter Nine

‘Where is Miss...Mrs Ellery?’ After the chaos of the morning, the previous day had passed uneventfully. Alex had dealt with his paperwork, visited some art dealers and then gone to his club, where he had dined and spent the evening catching up with acquaintances and what gossip there was in London in early December. A good day in the end, he concluded, one mercifully free from emotion and women.

He’d had some vague thought of calling on Mrs Hobhouse, a particularly friendly young widow. When he had last been in London she had sought him out, had been insistent that only Lord Weybourn with his legendary good taste could advise her on the paintings she should hang in her newly decorated bedchamber. It was so important to get the right mood in a bedchamber, wasn’t it? It had impressed Alex that she could get quite so much sensual innuendo into one word.

At the time he had considered assisting her with viewing some likely works of art from a variety of locations, including her bed, and yet somehow, when it came to the point of setting out for Bruton Street, he found he’d lost interest.

This morning’s breakfast had been excellent. Alex folded his newspaper and listened. Everything was suspiciously calm. It was surely too much to hope that Hannah had made a miraculous recovery and was back at her post.

‘Mrs Ellery is in the kitchen, my lord.’ Phipps balanced the silver salver with its load of letters and dipped it so Alex could see how much post there was. ‘Shall I put your correspondence in the study, my lord? Mr Bland said to tell you that he has gone to the stationer’s shop and will be back directly.’

‘Very well.’ Alex waved a vague hand in the direction of the door. His secretary could make a start on it when he got back; he wasn’t ready to concentrate on business yet.

So Tess had spent the night upstairs in the bedchamber above his own, had she? Alex picked up the paper, stared at the Parliamentary report for a while. Hot air, the lot of it. The foreign news didn’t make much more sense.

Spain, West Indies, the Hamburg mails... He hadn’t heard so much as a footstep on the boards overhead, but then she’d doubtless been fast asleep when he’d arrived home and had risen at least an hour before he was awake. So far, so good. The heavens hadn’t fallen and he had obviously been worrying about nothing.

Alex tossed down the Times. He was wool-gathering, which was what came of having his peace and quiet interrupted. What he needed to do was turn his mind to the possibilities for offloading a collection of rather garish French ormolu furniture that he was regretting buying. He made his way down the hall towards the study, then stopped dead when an alien noise, a wail, wavered through the quiet.

A baby was crying. Alex turned back towards the front door. Surely no desperate mother had left her offspring on his blameless front step? Well, to be honest it was hardly blameless, but he had made damn sure he left no by-blows in his wake.

The noise grew softer. He walked back. Louder—and it was coming from the basement. Then it ceased, leaving an almost visible question mark hanging in the silence.

When he eased open the kitchen door it was on to a domestic scene that would have gladdened the palette of some fashionable, if sentimental, genre painter. Tess was sitting at the table with a pile of account books in front of her. Byfleet was standing by the fireside, polishing Alex’s newest pair of boots, while Annie sat at the far end of the table, peeling potatoes.

And in a rocking chair opposite Byfleet was a woman nursing a baby while Noel chased a ball of paper around her feet. The stranger was crooning a lullaby and Alex was instantly back to the nursery, his breath tight in his chest as though arms were holding him tightly.

A family. They look like a family sitting there. Alex let out his breath and all the heads turned in his direction except for the baby, who was latched firmly on to its mother’s breast. The woman whipped her shawl around it and stared at him with such alarm on her face that he might as well have been brandishing a poker.

‘My lord.’ Tess sounded perfectly composed, which was more than he felt, damn it. ‘Did you ring? I’m afraid we didn’t hear.’

There was a pain in his chest from holding his breath and he rubbed at his breastbone. ‘No. I did not ring. I crossed the hall and I heard a child crying.’

The stranger fumbled her bodice together, got to her feet and laid the baby on the chair. ‘My lord.’ She dropped a curtsy and he noticed how pin neat she was, how thin. ‘I am very sorry you were disturbed, my lord. It won’t happen again.’ Her voice was soft and her eyes were terrified.

‘Babies cry,’ he said with a shrug. Admittedly, they weren’t normally to be found doing so in the kitchen of a Mayfair bachelor household. Himself, he’d been brought up in a nursery so remote from the floors his parents occupied that a full military band could have played there without being heard and he’d had his earliest lessons in a schoolroom equally distant where no parent would have thought of dropping by. ‘I was not disturbed, merely curious.’

‘This is Dorcas White, my lord.’ Tess moved over to stand beside the woman. Did she think she needed to protect her from him? ‘She is my new lady’s maid.’

‘And the baby?’

‘Is mine, my lord.’ Dorcas looked ready to faint.

Alex looked down at her hands, clutched together in front of her. No ring. He met Tess’s blue gaze and read a steely defiance in it that took him aback.

‘The baby’s name is Daisy, my lord.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Ellery. I am aware that babies are people, too.’ She coloured up. Annoyance, he supposed. That made two of them. ‘So we have acquired another stray, have we? I suppose I must be thankful that the baby is already with us or I have no doubt I would be expected to house oxen and a donkey in my stables come Christmastide.’

Tess drew in a deep breath through her nose and narrowed her eyes at him. ‘I suspect that verges on blasphemy, my lord. Dorcas is very well qualified as a lady’s maid.’

‘And comes with excellent references, no doubt?’ It came out sharply and Tess’s chin jutted. So she didn’t like his tone? There was still an ache in his chest that he didn’t understand, memories of childhood he thought he had locked away in his head. His tight, small, bachelor household had become full of women, virtually a crèche. He was entitled to snap—he was amazed he wasn’t shouting.

‘Might we have a word, my lord?’ Tess enquired with a sweet, false smile. ‘Upstairs?’

He held the door for her and followed her stiff back along to the study. Tess did not wait for him to get behind the barrier of his desk and sit down before she attacked. ‘No, Dorcas White does not have references. A man who forces himself on a servant and then tells his wife that the slut flaunted herself at him when he’d had a few drinks, that she’d been asking for it, is not someone who writes a reference for his victim.’

‘Are you certain?’ Even as he said it he felt ashamed of himself. Those thin, desperate hands, those wounded eyes, the way she had held her child... No, that was not some little hussy who had taken advantage of Tess’s good nature. ‘Yes, of course you are, and I can see you are right,’ he said before the angry rebuttal was out of her mouth. ‘What does she need for the child? Buy it for her, whatever it is.’

If he had been looking for a reward, which he hadn’t, he told himself, he would have got it in the smile that transformed Tess’s face.

‘Who is the father?’ He suppressed his own answering smile. This was not a laughing matter.

‘I have no idea. I didn’t ask her. Why?’

‘Because he needs dealing with,’ Alex said, startling himself. What was he, some knight errant, dispensing justice for wronged damsels? ‘Still, I suppose you’ll never get the name out of her and I don’t want her worried that the swine will find out where she is.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ Tess said and clutched his hand. ‘Thank you for understanding. I knew you were Sir Lancelot really, however much you grumbled about Noel and things.’

Her hand was small and warm and strong in his and he closed his fingers around it, even as he said, in tones of loathing, ‘Sir Lancelot? Do I look like some confounded idiot clanking around in armour? And besides, he was a decidedly dubious type—making love to his king’s wife like that.’

‘I thought when you hit that sailor that you were a storybook knight and then you were grumpy with me so I changed my mind. But it is all a front, the grumpiness, isn’t it?’ Her eyes were dancing; it seemed she was as amused by her nonsense as he was.

His meek little nun was teasing him, he realised, and this time could not suppress the answering smile. Alarm bells were ringing even as he lifted her hand and pressed the back of it against his cheek, her pulse rioting under his fingers. Charm and sweetness. You cannot let yourself enjoy them, not for your sake and definitely not for hers.

‘Yes,’ Alex agreed. ‘It is all a front, but behind it is not your preux chevalier, there’s a real, live, flawed man with many masks and many, many faults.’ He moved her hand so he could nip lightly at her fingertips in warning and felt, more than heard, her shuddering indrawn breath. ‘A man who is hypocrite enough to despise the father of the child down there and yet who cannot forget the feel of your mouth under his, your body in his arms.’

Tess became still, her eyes wide and questioning. She’s an innocent, he told himself. Even if she can deal with illegitimate children and speak frankly about what has happened to Dorcas. She needs warning, scaring a little, even.

He loosened his grip on her fingers and her hand slid up to cup his cheek. She was not wary, not at all alarmed by him. The touch was not sexual, not even sensual. It was intended, he realised with something like shock, to comfort. When was the last time anyone had touched him like that?

‘You are very hard on yourself, aren’t you, Alex?’ Tess murmured. ‘You aren’t a saint, you certainly aren’t a monk, so why do you expect it of yourself?’

‘I am a gentleman,’ he said, his voice harsher than he’d intended. ‘The least I can do is try to behave like one around decent women.’

‘You are trying. Very hard, I think.’ She cocked her head to one side with that questioning look he was learning to beware of. ‘I may be a virgin, and that may have been my first kiss, but I am quite capable of recognising sensual attraction when I experience it. There is something between us, isn’t there?’

Alex found himself incapable of answering her as she wrestled so honestly with things no young lady was supposed to think about, let alone articulate.

‘I am quite capable of saying no, at least, I am when I haven’t been hit on the head and frightened half out of my wits,’ Tess said decisively. She lowered her hand and stepped away. ‘We got carried away, we both did. But the onus should not be all on you to be prudent.’

‘Prudent?’ Alex found he had to move away from her. If it was a retreat, he didn’t care, and the big desk was a reassuringly solid barrier. ‘Naturally it is down to me to behave properly.’

‘If I was the sort of young woman who has a hope of marrying, then of course it is,’ she agreed. Tess perched on the arm of a chair and he wondered if, for all her calmness, her legs were a bit shaky. ‘But I’m not, am I? So I need to make decisions based on different criteria, such as, do I want to be your mistress? What would make us happiest, while it lasted?’

‘Tess, stop this! You cannot discuss being my mistress, and happiness is the last thing we should be considering.’

‘Is it?’ She frowned at him, her brow wrinkled. ‘But what is the point of a...liaison if it doesn’t make people happy? What is the point of life, come to that?’

‘Frankly? I do not know about the meaning of life. I just get on with living it as best I can. But a liaison? It is about sex on one side and financial gain on the other,’ Alex snapped. He drove his fingers through his hair and tried to get his feet back on solid ground. This was like finding oneself knee-deep in fast-flowing water when one thought all one was doing was having a stroll beside a stream. ‘It is commerce. It is not something you should even think about.’

Her expression seemed to indicate that she was thinking about it, very carefully, very seriously.

Alex fought the urge to run his finger around a neckcloth that seemed far too tight. He coped with sophisticated ladies, wanton widows, expensive high-fliers, all without turning a hair. Why the devil was he finding it hard to deal with one outspoken innocent? ‘Look, Tess, men and women find themselves physically attracted all the time. We have to deal with it like everyone else does. You just pretend it isn’t happening.’

She nodded. ‘I can see that is usually best. But this isn’t making you happy, is it?’

‘It is making me damnably confused, if you must know.’ Did she think he expected sexual favours as a payment for giving her shelter? Did she think that in return for shelter she had a duty to make him happy, whatever she meant by that? She certainly wasn’t casting out lures or flirting, although he doubted she knew how. ‘But that is beside the point. You are a lovely young woman, Tess. I would have to be a plank of wood not to be attracted to you.’

That made her smile, at least. ‘Thank you. It wasn’t that I had decided we should have an affaire, you understand. But I don’t want you feeling guilty all the time if things happen. I expect I will learn not to notice when we touch by accident, or when I meet your eyes and I seem to read things in them.’

She could read him like a book, he was sure, even if she didn’t understand some of the long words. ‘It will do me no harm to feel guilty occasionally.’ Alex made his tone lighter. ‘We’ll not speak of this again.’ Who do I think I am deceiving? ‘Now, about Dorcas—make certain she understand she’s safe here. I’m not going to throw her out if the baby cries. I won’t have her hiding it away for fear of that. A baby should be with its mother.’

‘Yes, of course. Thank you, I will reassure her.’ Tess stood up. ‘Thank you for letting me stay. I know it is disrupting things, even if we leave aside...you know. But I work hard and I’ll earn my keep, I promise.’

‘You don’t have to work at all.’ Alex put as much bored languor into his tone as he could. ‘You could stay in your room with Dorcas to chaperon you until Hannah is well again or we find you a post. As you are well aware, if I’d delivered you where you asked, on time, none of this would have occurred.’

‘I have my pride, too, you know.’ Tess bobbed her infuriatingly proper curtsy and went out as though they had discussed nothing more momentous than a minor staffing problem.

Alex sat down took a deep breath and pulled his pile of correspondence towards him. Tess had been brought up to tackle issues head-on and without hypocrisy, it seemed. But hypocrisy was one of society’s main safeguards, and without it she was vulnerable. So was he. The widow who wanted to buy pictures was looking increasingly tempting. It was too long since he had been with a woman; that was all it was, this need to hold Tess, to take the pins from her hair, the clothes from her body, to lie down with her and...

* * *

She had shocked Alex, Tess realised. Seeing the baby had upset him for some reason, and it wasn’t the fact that little Daisy’s crying had annoyed him. He was angry with Dorcas’s employer, which was understandable, for any decent person would have been, but there was something else, something deeper in his reaction.

And that moment when she had taken his hand had been...startling. She’d had no intention of flirting and she had no idea how to. She certainly hadn’t thought of trying to provoke him into kissing her again, but the energy that had flowed between their joined fingers still sparkled along her veins. It had seemed to her important to try to understand where they stood, to tell him how she felt. But that had been a mistake. He had not wanted that kind of honesty from her. And she couldn’t simply take his protection, his money, and do nothing in return. She expected to work for her living, and she owed it to Hannah to keep her from worrying about the household while she was ill.

When Tess got to her feet and went into the kitchen it was empty except for Dorcas, who was hemming handkerchiefs with the baby fast asleep in a makeshift crib by her side. She looked up. ‘Is he...is his lordship very angry?’

‘Not at all, just startled. He says we are to buy whatever Daisy needs and you are not to be afraid that he will be annoyed if he hears her crying.’ Tess sat down on the other side of the fireplace. ‘Lord Weybourn is simply not used to having women about the house, that is all.’

Chapter Ten

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather come back to Half Moon Street? I could make up the room across the passage from mine, and now I have Dorcas with me we can nurse you easily.’

‘That is thoughtful of you, Tess.’ Hannah Semple groped for a handkerchief as she began to cough. ‘Oh, drat and blast this! We sound like a colony of seals I once saw on the coast.’ From the room opposite came the echo of the same sound. ‘But I’m better here in my own home with my things around me. And no one is very sick now, just laid low with this wretched chesty cough, so Mrs Green and her girls are managing to look after us easily enough.’

She curled her fingers around the cup of tea that Tess handed to her and sipped, her nose glowing pinkly though the steam. ‘Besides anything else, I’d drive Lord Weybourn mad with the coughing.’

‘He doesn’t seem to be disturbed by the baby.’ Tess poured herself a cup and settled back in the fireside chair. ‘And she cries a lot, bless her.’

‘I find it hard to imagine, Alex taking in a baby.’

‘You thought he would send her away? He wasn’t pleased, not at first, but that just was the surprise, I think.’

‘Oh, I don’t mean he would send them off into the night. But I’d have expected him to find her lodgings or something, not have them live in.’ Hannah sneezed, then sat regarding Tess over the top of the handkerchief. ‘You’ve turned his house upside down with your strays by the sound of it. I’m amazed he hasn’t reacted more strongly.’ She sat up against the pillows. ‘Has he had any visitors?’

‘No, he goes out a lot and there have been endless invitations, but there’ve been no callers. I don’t think he’s issuing invitations with me there.’

‘Perhaps that’s why he’s being so tolerant. After all, kittens and babies underfoot wouldn’t do much for his carefully maintained image.’

‘What image?’

‘Elegant, imperturbable, languid and cultivated. A fastidious pink of the ton on the surface. He’s a serious sportsman on the quiet, but unless you saw him after a hard round at Gentleman Jackson’s you’d be forgiven for not noticing.’

Tess laughed. ‘That’s just a mask. Underneath he’s funny and very kind. And the sparring explains the muscles.’

‘Hmm. You’ve noticed them, have you?’ Hannah gave her an old-fashioned look. ‘He’s thought about nothing but himself for ten years.’ Despite the thickness of her voice she sounded remarkably tart.

‘But he is kind.’

‘I didn’t say he wasn’t. He’s charming, he treats people well—and he organises his life so no one gets behind the mask or disturbs his well-ordered life.’

Tess kicked off her shoes and curled up in the chair. Outside the rain was threatening to turn into sleet and the wind howled in the chimney, making the flames dance and reminding them that December had most definitely arrived. Inside all was snug and comfortable, she had thought. Now Hannah was making her uneasy.

‘His mistresses must,’ she suggested with the sensation of jabbing her tongue against a sore tooth. ‘Get close, I mean.’

‘I very much doubt it. They can get inside those well-cut clothes, they can rumple his sheets—but lay bare the man underneath? No.’

‘But...’ But I get to the real man sometimes. I can touch more than his skin. She almost said it, then realised how pathetic it would sound. I’m different. He lets me in. He trusts me. And Hannah, who has known Alex for most of their lives, will smile and be kind about my illusions. She might even think I’m developing a tendre for him. How humiliating.

‘Why does he need a mask?’ she said instead. ‘What is he hiding?’

Hannah laughed and set off a coughing fit. She waved Tess back to her chair when she reached for the water glass. ‘I’m all right. He isn’t hiding, he is creating. He has remade himself from scratch these past ten years.’

‘Ten? But he’s twenty-seven now. What happened when he was seventeen?’

‘He left home.’ Hannah frowned at a harmless print hanging over the fireplace. ‘For good, I mean. He’d been at university for one term. He came home for...he came home for a visit, and when he returned to Oxford he never went back to Tempeston again.’

‘But seventeen is very young.’ What had she been like at seventeen? Full of questions and uncertainties, her body no longer that of a girl, her emotions torn between a yearning to be back in the safety of childhood and an uneasy impatience to discover the world. What must it be like for a boy, out by himself in that big, dangerous world?

‘Yes, it is young,’ Hannah agreed. ‘But he had friends and anger and intelligence to keep him going.’

Anger. ‘What happened? What drove him away?’

Hannah shook her head. ‘As I said, it is not my story to tell. If Alex ever does tell you about that Christmas, then you will know you really have got under the mask, under his skin. If he trusts you with that, then he has entrusted you with his soul and everything fragile within that tough carapace he has built around himself.’

They sat in silence. Hannah seemingly worn out after her outburst, Tess unable to find words. So it had been Christmas. Was that why he was so cynical about the festival? Eventually she said, ‘But don’t his parents want to be reconciled with him?’

‘Have you ever wounded someone badly?’

Tess shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. I hope not.’

‘If you had, then perhaps you would understand. If you injure a person close to you so cruelly that your own conscience is riven, then sometimes you become angry with them for making you feel so guilty. His father did something inexcusable, something that resulted in a death, something that slashed Alex to the heart. Lord Moreland is a man who never found himself at fault, who has never been known to own a wrong or to apologise. I expect nothing has changed.’ She shrugged, a complicated heaving of blankets and shawls. ‘Therefore, if he is not at fault, then Alex must be. If he had hurt Alex, then Alex must have been to blame. Do you understand?’

‘I think so. How dreadful.’ The words were inadequate, but she could find no others. Tess reached out a hand to the fire for some warmth. ‘Could Alex not make the first move to reconcile?’

‘You know those horse-drawn tramways? There are iron or wooden rails and the horse can draw a heavy load quite easily along them?’ Hannah did not wait for an answer. ‘To move from that exact track would need huge effort and would most certainly overturn the cart, injure the horse, possibly kill the driver. Should the driver try to leave the tracks, drive a new path, risk that injury, just on the off chance it might work?’

The silence stretched on. Tess looked up and found Hannah’s eyes were closed, her breathing slow and deep. She had fallen asleep, worn out, perhaps by emotion.

Tess uncurled herself and put on her shoes, found her things and tiptoed out.

* * *

‘I don’t think Mrs Semple is well enough to come back to work, not this side of Christmas. I know it is almost three weeks away, but there is all the preparation to be thought of.’ Tess folded back the notebook she was using to keep lists of things to be done. Now a fresh page was headed Christmas?? and she had caught Alex just before William Bland, his secretary, arrived. She was determined to pin him down for some answers.

‘I thought she was not seriously ill.’ He stopped mending the end of his pen with a pocket knife and looked up. ‘I must send the doctor round again.’

‘She is getting better, but the infection seems to have settled on the lungs of all of the sufferers and they are worn out with coughing. She needs a holiday somewhere she can be looked after. What would she usually do at Christmas?’

‘Go back to her husband’s family in Kent. It’s a big family and she’s very fond of them.’ Alex squinted at the pen nib, then stuck it in the standish. ‘I could send her down early, in the coach with rugs and hot bricks and one of the men to escort her.’

‘That sounds like a good idea. Shall I arrange it?’

‘No. I’ll go and talk to her, if that dragon of a landlady will let me, a dangerous man, into her female fortress. Anything else in that very efficient little notebook?’

‘I need to know exactly what happens here at Christmas. What the arrangements for the rest of the staff are, whether you’ll be entertaining, whether you’ll be out much. I need to plan for meals, shop for provisions,’ she added when he looked at her blankly. ‘Phipps and MacDonald tell me they don’t have family in the south and then there’s the coachman and your grooms.’

‘What happens is that I don’t expect to see them from the morning of the twenty-fourth until the evening of the twenty-sixth. They fill the coal scuttles and leave the place tidy and I eat out at my clubs. I can cope with making my own bed once a year,’ he added, presumably in response to her opening and closing her mouth like a landed carp. ‘I told you—I spend Christmas by my own fireside with a pile of books and a bottle or so of good brandy. All of my friends of a sociable disposition will be out of town.’

‘Then, you do not mind what happens below stairs so long as it does not disturb you?’

‘Or burn the house down or bring in the parish constable. Exactly.’

‘Right.’ Tess closed her notebook with a snap. This house was going to have a proper Christmas regardless of what his lordship expected. ‘And above stairs you just want appropriate preparation made?’

‘Certainly. You can manage that?’

‘Oh, yes, especially if you are out most of the time.’

‘That would be helpful, would it?’ Alex asked absently. He was already running one finger down a column of figures. ‘I’ll be at the club a lot of the time.’ He flipped open his desk diary and made a note as there was a knock at the door. ‘Come in!’

‘My lord?’ Mr Bland looked in, his arms full of papers. ‘I have the auction catalogues from Christie’s you wanted, but I can come back when it is convenient.’

‘No, we’ve finished, haven’t we, Mrs Ellery?’

‘Indeed we have, my lord.’

When she went down the indoor staff were all below stairs. ‘MacDonald? Please ask the stable staff to join us. All of them. Annie! Leave the scullery cleaning a moment and come in here.’

They crowded into the kitchen, Annie still clutching her scrubbing brush, Byfleet the flatirons he’d been about to set on the grate. The grooms brought the rich, warm smell of horses to mingle with the aroma of baking bread as they stood awkwardly by the back door.

How long had she been here? Tess wondered as she surveyed their faces. Scarcely a week? It was hardly much more since she had staggered in, battered and exhausted, and yet this was beginning to feel like home, and she was gaining a confidence she never expected to find. In the new year, when Hannah was well again, she could set out on her quest for employment feeling so much better equipped.

The staff were waiting patiently. Tess jerked her thoughts away from the prospect of employment agencies and smiled. ‘I have been discussing Christmas with his lordship. Mrs Semple is much better, you’ll be glad to hear, but she’ll be going off to her in-laws in Kent very soon to recover. Now, how many of you will be spending Christmas at home with your families?’

Annie held up her hand, realised it was holding a dripping brush and gulped. ‘Me. I’ll be at me lodgings, I s’pose, Mrs Ellery, ma’am.’

‘No one else?’ Heads shook. ‘And who’s at the lodgings, Annie?’

She shrugged. ‘The other lodgers, ma’am.’

Tess had a fairly good idea what home must be like for Annie. ‘Do you think you would like to join us for Christmas, Annie?’ The girl’s jaw dropped, then she nodded energetically. ‘You can have one of the upstairs rooms for a few nights. What do the rest of you usually do?’

‘Make do,’ Byfleet volunteered. ‘We’re all men, so we get in some food from the cook shops, his lordship lets us have extra money and plenty of beer and a bottle or so from the wine cellar. We smoke, play cards, yarn a bit.’

‘We’ll be a mixed party this year,’ Tess said briskly. ‘I can cook a proper Christmas dinner if I have some help.’ I hope. She glanced at the row of cookery books on the mantelshelf. ‘Then we can go to church afterwards, for midnight service. Christmas morning we’ll exchange presents and enjoy ourselves for the rest of the day.’ She looked around the room. ‘What do you say?’

‘I say yes,’ MacDonald said with a broad grin. ‘I’ll get out my fiddle and Will there has got his flute. And with the youngsters we’ll have a proper Christmas.’ He started counting heads. ‘There’s the three from the stables, me and Phipps, Mr Byfleet, Dorcas and little Daisy, Annie and you, ma’am.’ He grinned. ‘That’s ten, a snug little party, Mrs Ellery.’

‘It is indeed,’ Tess said. And if I can work a miracle there will be eleven of us. So far, so good. We have a party. Now we need presents.

* * *

Alex tossed the sale catalogue aside. Nothing in it got his acquisitive juices flowing. He felt bored, he realised incredulously. No, not bored exactly. Stale? Tired of London, tired of routine. Unsettled. It was ridiculous. He was normally so involved with his work and with his social round that Christmas was a welcome opportunity to sit back and relax. He regarded his drawing room with disfavour. It was too damn tasteful, too blasted orderly.

It was Tess who was responsible for this mood, he suspected. She was turning the place upside down. Hannah had been efficient, but mostly invisible. She left him to himself except for the occasional evening when she would shed her housekeeper’s cap and come and curl up in a chair in the drawing room and gossip over a glass of wine. She was an old friend, she had a busy life of her own beyond his front door and she left him alone to live his life as it suited him.

But Tess was there, in the house, day and night. And she expected things of him beyond the regular payment of housekeeping money and a list of meal times when he wanted to be fed at home. She expected him to react, to involve himself with the concerns of the other staff. And she was up to something with this Christmas obsession of hers. And that was leaving aside the nagging awareness of her physically, the effort it took not to think of the slim figure, the soft mouth, those wise, young, blue eyes.

There was a tap on the door, the modest yet definite knock he was learning to associate with his temporary housekeeper.

‘Come in.’ Yes, it was his little nun with her confounded notebook. He got up from the sofa where he’d been sprawled and waved her to the chair opposite.

Not such a little nun now, he thought as she settled her well-cut skirts into order. With good food and a warm house she had lost that pinched, cold look. Taking command suited her, put a sparkle in those blue eyes and a determined tilt to that pointed chin. And the food had done more than keep her warm, it had given her curves that were most definitely not nun-like.

My staff, my responsibility, he reminded himself, sat down and dumped the Christie’s catalogue firmly onto his lap.

‘Are you all right, my lord? I thought you winced just now.’

‘Alex, for goodness’ sake.’ He smiled to counteract the snap. ‘And it was just a touch of...er...rheumatism.’

‘Rheumatism?’

He shrugged and the catalogues slid helpfully, painfully, into his throbbing groin. ‘What can I do for you, Tess?’

‘Christmas presents,’ she said. She flipped open her notebook, produced a pencil and stared at him as though expecting dictation.

‘Whose Christmas presents?’

‘For the staff. The men, of course, Dorcas and little Daisy. And Annie. I think Annie should stay for a few nights, I don’t like to think of her having to go back to that lonely lodging house.’

‘Who the blazes is Annie? The scullery maid? No, don’t answer that. Do what you want about staff meals, but why presents? I give them all money on St Stephen’s Day.’

‘Of course you do and I am sure it is very generous. But Christmas presents are special, don’t you think? Personal.’

Alex considered a range of things he could say and decided it was probably safer not to utter any of them, not when faced with a woman armed with a notebook. ‘I’ll give you some money and you can buy them.’

‘I think the staff would really appreciate it if you chose them yourself.’ He could feel himself glowering and could only admire her courage as she continued to smile. ‘It is more in the Christmas spirit, don’t you think?’

‘Tess, you know perfectly well what I think about Christmas spirit. Codswallop. Humbug. Ridiculous sentimentality.’ Anyone else would have backed down in the face of that tone and his glare. All the men he knew certainly would have done. They obviously raised them with backbones of steel in convents.

‘But I know you value your staff,’ she said in a voice of sweet reason. ‘We could go out this afternoon unless you are very busy.’ By not so much as a flicker did her eyes move towards the pile of discarded journals, abandoned catalogues, crumpled newspapers and the other evidence of a lazy morning. ‘It isn’t raining. And I have a list.’

‘I’ll wager you have.’ Alex got to his feet. ‘I surrender. Wrap up warmly, I’ll get the carriage sent around.’

* * *

Half an hour later when he met her in the hall she was wearing a smart mantle that matched a deep-blue bonnet and she had decent gloves on. How pretty she is with the bruise gone and that bonnet framing her face. ‘Where is Dorcas?’ he snapped.

‘Daisy was fretful and Dorcas has a lot of work on her hands hemming petticoats for me and it would only distract Annie from her work if she has to watch the baby, as well. We don’t really need Dorcas, do we?’

The innocent question, the questioning tilt of her head to one side, got to him every time. He just wanted to kiss her silly. Which is not going to happen. ‘Not if you feel comfortable alone in a closed carriage with me.’ Alex kept his voice neutral, but she still turned a delicate shade of pink.

‘Of course I do. We discussed...that. I thought we had forgotten about it.’

Forgotten that kiss? Forgotten that you admitted that the attraction wasn’t just one-sided? When you become prettier and happier with every day that passes? When hell freezes over. Alex wasn’t going to lie to her. ‘I think we are doing a very good job of pretending it doesn’t exist,’ he said drily. ‘Best put that veil down in case anyone sees you. Now, where to?’

‘A music publishers first, there’s one in Albemarle Street. I want music for MacDonald and Phipps—good tunes, ballads, dances. MacDonald can play the violin and read music and Phipps plays the flute, but only by ear, so MacDonald’s going to teach him to read music. They’ve only got one or two pieces now.’

* * *

Alex helped her out of the carriage and into the shop, his ears ringing, while Tess talked. He had learned more about his footmen in ten minutes than he’d known in five years, he realised as he stood back to let her go through the door into the shop in front of him.

Chapter Eleven

‘That was easy,’ Tess said fifteen minutes later as she gave a satisfied pat to the brown paper parcel on the carriage seat. ‘Now then, tobacco jars for Perring and Hodge. John Coachman says he’ll not be responsible for his actions if he has to deal with two grooms squabbling over which tobacco is whose much longer. And he takes snuff, so a new box for him, don’t you think?’

Alex directed John to Robert Lewis’s tobacconist shop in St James’s Street and sat back to digest the discovery that he was actually enjoying himself. Part of it, of course, was Tess’s company. Her enjoyment of the shops, her enthusiasm and cheerful goodwill was infectious, and he found he had no objection at all to the image he saw reflected in shop windows of the two of them arm in arm. But strangely, it was more than that.

‘Do you know, I find this oddly satisfying, like working out the attribution of a painting,’ he confessed as they emerged later from Gray’s the jewellers with a coral-and-silver teething ring for little Daisy. ‘Are we done now?’

‘Not yet.’ Tess looked back over her shoulder as she got into the carriage.

Alex closed the door behind him and then stayed on his feet to shift parcels on the seat. ‘More?’

‘Well, yes. There’s—’ Tess began as the carriage started off, then stopped with a lurch.

Alex twisted round, caught his balance and lost it again as the vehicle jerked forward, accompanied by a vigorous exchange of curses from on top of the box. He just missed the seat; Tess grabbed for him and he hit the floor with her on top, one sharp elbow planted firmly in his midriff. ‘Ough.’

‘Alex? Oh, I am so sorry, I’ve hurt you.’ She was sprawled down the length of him, the two of them wedged on the floor. He looked up, through eyes watering from the impact, into her face, so close. The tip of her nose was pink from the chill, her lips were parted, her eyes were wide with concern. Adorable. She’s adorable. And outrageously arousing with every inch of her pressed to him.

‘Winded...’ he managed. ‘That’s all.’ He closed his eyes the better to enjoy the sensation of her curves, the erotic, impossibly innocent, scent of plain soap and a dab of lavender water.

‘Alex! Alex, can you hear me?’ She squirmed, trying to get to her feet without, he supposed, trampling all over him. ‘Have you hit your head?’

Alex groaned, opened his eyes and found himself still nose to nose with Tess. This is more than any man can be expected to withstand, he told himself, gritting his teeth.

With a dolphin-like heave she got herself up at the expense of no more than an inch or two of skin scraped from his shin bones. ‘I am so sorry I squashed you, Alex. Just lie still. I’ll pull the cord and tell John Coachman to drive direct to your doctor.’

‘No need.’ He found his voice from somewhere and sat up before Tess observed the interesting effect her squirming had produced on his body. ‘I’m fine. Just...’ Hanging on to my self-control by my fingernails. Alex put both hands on the squabs and pushed himself up and onto the seat next to her. ‘Winded, as I said. What were we talking about?’ Something, please God, dull and non-inflammatory.

‘A donkey!’ For a moment he thought she meant him, which was nothing but the truth, given that he was an experienced man about town reduced to a quivering mass of sexual frustration by a chit from a nunnery.

‘Oh, isn’t it sweet?’ Tess pointed out of the window to a costermonger’s barrow pulled by an improbably fluffy little donkey.

‘Yes,’ Alex agreed cautiously. It was not the word he would have used. ‘But we do not need a donkey.’ The way she collected things he could expect to come home to find an ass and an ox in the stables, just for Christmas. He wouldn’t put it past her to go to Pidcock’s Menagerie and borrow a camel for atmosphere.

Tess smiled at him, apparently able to read his mind. ‘Of course not.’

Alex was seized with a contrary urge to buy her one, just to see that smile again. He repressed the whim. ‘Now where?’

‘A toyshop. I want a doll for Daisy.’

* * *

The shop, whose owner had obviously stocked up well for the approaching season, was a treasure trove. Alex restrained himself from buying a full set of lead soldiers just to arrange on the study mantelshelf. The display of dolls was astounding, and he blinked at the array of miniature femininity. Tess was studying the far corner where the plainest examples were arrayed.

Alex made for the most magnificent, complete with real hair and elegant clothing. ‘There’s no need to stint, I don’t expect Dorcas can afford to give the child many toys.’

‘She’s too young for one, really, but I think it is nice if she grows up with a doll who will become an old favourite. But a baby needs a simple, soft doll, like those.’ Tess lifted down a medium-size rag doll, then turned back to the counter past a row of wooden dolls, their hair and features painted on. She stopped and touched one, just with the tip of her finger, and something in her smile sent a cold shiver down Alex’s spine.

‘What’s wrong, Tess?’

‘Nothing. Only memories.’ Her hand hesitated for a moment over the brightly coloured skirt, then she gave herself a little shake and took the rag doll across to the counter. ‘I had a doll like that once.’ Tess was looking at the wooden dolls again. ‘Mama gave it to me for Christmas when I was six.’

‘What happened to it?’

‘The nuns took it when I went to the convent.’

‘But you were, what, twelve by then?’

‘Thirteen, and far too old to play with dolls, of course. I didn’t play with her, though, I talked to her. She was my friend,’ Tess said simply.

When they were outside on the pavement she blinked as if she had been miles away. Or years, perhaps, Alex thought. ‘Did you not have friends?’

‘Not really.’ Her expression went blank. ‘We moved an awful lot. And not when we were travelling, of course. I was perfectly happy,’ she said hastily when he opened his mouth. ‘I had Mama and Papa. But you know what it is like when you are a child, you need an ear to whisper your secrets into, someone to tell your troubles to. Some children have imaginary friends, Patty was my confidant, that is all.’

Yes, I know. Peter was all of that to me, but he was real. Friend, confidant, someone to tell my troubles and my secrets to. Only he hadn’t been able to tell me his biggest secret and because of that, he’s been cold in the ground these ten years.

‘Where do you want to go next?’ Alex asked and fished out his clean handkerchief for Tess.

She blew her nose briskly, stuffed the linen square into her reticule and said, ‘A bookshop. Dorcas enjoys novels.’

* * *

Alex left Tess browsing amidst the stacked tables in Hatchard’s in Piccadilly. ‘Will you be all right here for half an hour? I’ve just remembered something I need to do.’

By the time he came back she had accumulated a pile of six books, two new notebooks and some sheets of wrapping paper with gold stars stamped on it. ‘The notebooks and two of the books are for me,’ she explained as he carried them to the counter for her. ‘You must take those out of my wages.’

‘Don’t be foolish.’ Alex looked at the spines. ‘Cookery books and notebooks are essential housekeeping equipment.’ He waved aside the assistant waiting to carry the parcel out to the carriage. ‘Now we are going to Bond Street and Madame Francine’s.’

‘Madame—a modiste?’ Tess stopped dead on the pavement. ‘I am not going to help you choose garments for your light of love, my lord!’

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