Sarah put pen to paper to write in her careful flowing script.

Why I should not even contemplate marriage to Lord Faringdon

1. It would be accepting an offer of charity.

2. He has an undesirable reputation as a rake. It would not be a respectable marriage.

3. What is Lord Faringdon’s reason for his proposal?

4. I have nothing of my own to bring to this marriage.

5. He does not love me.

These were very strong arguments, Sarah was forced to agree. So she would refuse Lord Faringdon’s kind but inexplicable offer. Which decision caused her to pick up her ill-treated pen once more and a clean sheet of paper.

Why I should accept the offer and become Lady Joshua Faringdon

1. Security.

2. Beth—I would enjoy a daughter.

3. I can renew my friendship with Judith and Simon.

Then Sarah pursed her lips. She had said she would only marry again for love. For nothing less. With a sharp inhalation she rubbed ink from her fingers. Then, before she could change her mind, she wrote:

4. I love him.

Dear Reader

How much I have enjoyed in the past year, unfolding the fates of Henry and Nicholas Faringdon in the first two volumes of The Faringdon Scandals! Faced with a malicious plot that could so easily have destroyed the honour and good name of their family, they were both able to fight their personal battles against scandal and prejudice, against bitter memories from the past. In so doing, Henry was reunited with Eleanor, whilst Nicholas was forced to acknowledge his love for Theodora. A most satisfying outcome.

But it seemed to me highly unsatisfactory that the only player in the game to remain alone, with a heavy burden of guilt and little self-respect, was Sarah Russell, Theodora’s estranged sister. How could I leave Sarah unfulfilled and alone, tormented by memories of her own part in the plot to disgrace Eleanor? So, of course, I was driven to write a third volume, to give Sarah her own story, bringing her to her own fulfilment. And how convenient to have had a Faringdon cousin, Lord Joshua, the enigmatic rake of the title, with his own shadowy and tragic past, his dishonourable reputation. I thought that it would be possible for Joshua, in taking it upon himself to destroy Sarah’s guilt and crippling reticence, to find a path through the maze of deceit and lies in his own life, to bring solace and healing to them both, and a recognition of the unspoken emotions that grew in both his heart and hers.

The story of Joshua and Sarah in The Enigmatic Rake allowed me to weave together the final threads of this fascinating Faringdon family. I hope that you will enjoy being part of their journey as much as I was delighted to create it.

About the Author

ANNE O’BRIEN was born and has lived for most of her life in Yorkshire. There she taught history, before deciding to fulfil a lifetime ambition to write romantic historical fiction. She won a number of short story competitions until published for the first time by Harlequin Mills & Boon®. As well as writing, she finds time to enjoy gardening, cooking and watercolour painting. She now lives with her husband in an eighteenth-century cottage in the depths of the Welsh Marches.

Recent titles by the same author:

RUNAWAY HEIRESS

PURITAN BRIDE

MARRIAGE UNDER SIEGE

and in The Faringdon Scandals:

THE DISGRACED MARCHIONESS

THE OUTRAGEOUS DEBUTANTE

The Enigmatic Rake
Anne O’Brien

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Chapter One

Autumn 1819—Paris

This wing of the vast house was silent, the windows and the rooms behind them unlit with curtains securely drawn, the garden beyond dark and shadowed. Sounds of distant merriment drifted on the mild air, of music, laughter, the hum of a large gathering, but here there was nothing to disturb the midnight stillness. With its towers and turrets, gravelled drive and formal gardens, it was a formidable château on the very edge of Paris, the home of the Comte and Comtesse de Charleroi, where a celebration was being hosted for the forthcoming marriage of the heir. An event of notable interest and comment to the blue and noble blood of the Parisian beau monde. But here on a stone-flagged terrace of the west wing, overlooking a rigidly ornamental parterre, the felicitous event played no part in anyone’s mind.

The terrace was not as deserted as it might first appear. A dark figure merged into the inky shadow of the house where the twisted stem of a wisteria hugged, then overhung the wall to give protection. Beyond the fact that it was a man, tall and broad-shouldered, a solid outline, no other detail could be ascertained. Dark clothes allowed him to blend with the background and he was careful to keep the pale skin of hands and face from attracting any stray glimmer from a fitful moon. He wished to be neither seen nor identified. He was waiting. Un-moving, breathing silent and shallow. Waiting.

At last a noise. A careless scrape of a footstep on stone. Two figures emerged as darker shapes against the dark surround—one from the corner of the wing of the château, the other on the short rise of steps that led up from the garden to the terrace. An assignation, carefully planned. The hidden watcher tensed, but otherwise remained motionless.

There was nothing of moment in either figure, both as sombrely dressed as the one who waited and watched. They met at the top of the steps. A low-voiced conversation—brief and hurried—took place and something changed hands from both sides. Perhaps a letter and a flat packet. Then one turned and vanished once more into the garden, the black density of a yew hedge soon swallowing him and any possibility of footsteps. The whole scene took less than two minutes. The other made no move to return to the house, but stood in full sight, moonlit, against the terrace’s carved balustrade, head lifted as if in anticipation. Or perhaps he too was listening.

The watcher, after a brief moment to assess the quality of the stillness that was once again total, stepped out from concealment to advance cat-like with grace across the terrace. The man turned. This meeting, it would appear, was also not unexpected.

‘Well, monsieur?’ The watcher spoke in soft, low tones.

‘I have what you require, my lord.’ Hardly more than a whisper.

‘The list of names?’

‘Yes, my lord.’ The gentleman took from his pocket the letter that had only a moment before come into his possession. ‘Will you keep the agreement? That my name and identity be deleted from any further investigation into this delicate matter?’

‘Of course.’ Teeth glinted in the dark in a hard and particularly cynical smile. ‘I will keep my word, you may be sure.’ The watcher inclined his head in a gesture of some irony as he took a bulky package from his pocket.

‘Would you sneer, my lord?’ The gentleman, still holding the letter, breathed in with some hauteur. ‘Your involvement is not beyond criticism. Blackmail, for whatever purpose, leaves a particularly unpleasant taste in the mouth.’

‘True.’ The smile again. The glint of an eye. ‘But then—I do not sell the names of my compatriots to the enemy for money, knowing that it could mean their death, for a mere few thousand francs.’

The gentleman turned his face away, perhaps embarrassed by the justice of the accusation, then surprised his companion when he laughed softly.

‘As it happens, neither do I, my lord.’

There was absolutely no warning. No sound, no movement of air. Merely a deeper shadow within shadows, which advanced noiselessly from the shelter of an artistically clipped shrub in a marble urn. Before the watcher could react, a heavy blow was dealt to the side of his head from the butt of a pistol, almost robbing him of his senses. He groaned on a sharp intake of breath, automatically raising his hands in defence. But before he could gather his wits to respond to protect himself further, he found himself forced back against the stone balustrade by a pair of strong hands and the force of a well-muscled body. Next moment he had lost his balance, thrust by a wide shoulder and hard-driven thigh against and over the stonework. His fingers scrabbled to find some purchase in the lichened carvings, but he was falling, helplessly, to land heavily and ignominiously into the clipped box edges and fragrant plants of the garden some considerable distance below.

After which all consciousness and all knowledge left him.

In the fashionable quarter of Paris, some days later, in the home of the British Ambassador Sir Charles Stuart and away from the sumptuous reception rooms where visiting dignitaries were entertained and suitably overwhelmed, there was a small anteroom usually set aside for informal or private transactions. This particular interview was to be conducted not by the Ambassador, but by a gentleman who made it his business to remain unknown and unrecognised except by a very few. For the head of British espionage it was good policy to remain anonymous, particularly when it was hoped to discover the names of British politicians attempting to undermine British foreign policy, such as those who would find it politic to bring about the downfall of King Louis XVIII of France and the restored Bourbons. Politicians who might even go so far as to plot the restoration of the deposed Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte—if that ailing exile, imprisoned on the distant island of St Helena, lived long enough to see the day.

There was nothing about the gentleman to draw any attention. Indeed, he worked hard to achieve exactly that, being addressed in his public life as Mr Wycliffe. Neat, slight of figure, no longer young and with a quiet demeanour, he sat behind a desk with a document in his hand, a deep frown between his brows, as the door opened. He looked up, the frown growing heavier at the interruption, then rose to his feet with a quick smile as he saw the identity of his visitor.

‘My Lord Faringdon! Come in, my dear man. I had not expected to see you so soon. Come in and take the weight off your feet.’

The gentleman entered slowly, without grace: Lord Joshua Sherbourne Faringdon.

Those closely acquainted with the family would have given the opinion that Lord Joshua was typical of the Faringdon mould. Above average height with dark hair, although prematurely silvered to a gleaming and stunning pewter, and with the fine, distinctive features of all the men of the family. The straight nose and dark brows, the dramatically carved cheekbones and seductive mouth, the aura of power and self-will were all instantly recognisable. Under different circumstances he was acknowledged to be both elegant and graceful. Well-defined muscles would have rippled beneath the expensive cloth of his fashionable garments. But on this occasion as he walked forward into the room it could be seen that he was in considerable discomfort. His exquisitely tailored coat fit more closely than might have been usual, with evidence of heavy padding around chest and one shoulder. Furthermore he walked with a heavy limp, making use of an ebony cane, which was not merely for affectation. He lowered himself to a chair as invited with a grimace and a distinct lack of co-ordination, lips tightly pressed into a thin line.

‘How are you, sir? We have been concerned.’ Wycliffe resumed his seat behind the desk, eyes narrowed on his visitor.

‘I have been better.’ Lord Faringdon abandoned his cane on the floor beside him and eased his shoulders with noticeable effort.

‘I had not expected you to have left your bed. There was no need. We had been informed of—and accepted—your present inability to continue your mission.’

‘Perhaps you see no need, but since you would not come to me, sir, of necessity I must come here.’ The tone was not conciliatory. Wycliffe found himself pinned by a hard stare from predatory eyes, more austere grey than friendly blue. ‘I need to know your intent.’

Not willing to be cornered into any revealing or sensitive disclosures, Wycliffe deflected the demand. He had spent a lifetime in doing such. ‘There is time and enough for that. Joshua …’ he lapsed into a more intimate form of address, hoping to placate, although his words were not guaranteed to achieve that end ‘… you could have been killed.’

‘I am aware. It has crossed my mind to wonder why I was not. I could not have defended myself, and one dead English spy must have its attractions to those who would work against us.’ Lord Faringdon stretched out his right leg, easing torn ligaments of thigh and knee. ‘And although it shames me to admit it, I must consider that I was very neatly set up. I had no notion that I too was watched and my cover undermined.’

‘Hmm.’ Wycliffe steepled his fingers, elbows resting on the desk, to cast a shrewd glance over one of his most able, if most unlikely, employees. It would never do to underestimate the powers of comprehension of Joshua Faringdon. In the circumstances he owed him some degree of honesty. ‘It would seem that the Bonapartists have more skill—and certainly more determination—than perhaps we gave them credit for. They had no intention of handing over the names of those who would work to restore Napoleon and they also escaped with the money that you agreed to exchange for the list. You will not be surprised to learn that Monsieur Blanc—such an obvious name!—’ his lips curled in distaste ‘—who lured you to the Charleroi château, has disappeared from all his known haunts in the city.’

‘Very sensible of him.’ His lordship winced as he shifted his bruised and battered body in the exceedingly uncomfortable straight-backed chair. ‘I have a debt to pay there! But as I said before—where do we go from here?’

Wycliffe pursed his lips. There was no point in skirting the issue. ‘The problem is, my lord, that your role and your cover here in Paris may have been compromised, although to what extent we cannot yet guess. Perhaps it would be wise for you to remove yourself from the scene in the short term. It may be that you can no longer pose—as you have done with considerable success—as the careless and unprincipled libertine visiting Paris with an eye merely to his own interests and pleasures.’

‘No. I agree.’ Lord Joshua thought for a moment. ‘I still wonder why they did not kill me when they had the chance.’ He rubbed a hand over his face, returning to this one aspect of the night’s débâcle as if it had been keeping him awake at night, along with the physical pain, a memento of crashing from the terrace into the shrubbery. ‘Someone had sufficient affection for me not to wish to hear of my being discovered as a rotting corpse in a garden. So who do you suppose it was who broke my cover?’

Wycliffe pressed his lips into a thin line of distaste. ‘As to that, I could not guess. We have no traitors in our camp. Our security is second to none.’

‘Marianne?’ His lordship’s voice was soft, dangerously so. ‘Our security was appallingly suspect when dealing with that lady. You may have conveniently forgotten the details. But I cannot.’

‘Marianne is dead!’ The slight flush along Wycliffe’s cheekbones might have hinted at embarrassment if one did not know him better. Lord Faringdon watched him with a sardonic twist to his mouth. His Majesty’s spy master clearly did not wish to prolong any discussion of Marianne, the lady who had once had the honour of being Lord Faringdon’s vivaciously attractive wife. ‘The most crucial matter, since you are so concerned with our next step, is that your value, in this investigation at least, has been destroyed.’

‘So?’

‘I think that you should go home.’ On firm ground again, Wycliffe relaxed and allowed himself a more generous smile. ‘Regain your strength. Pick up the reins of your life in England and let the dust of this particular storm settle. I will contact you when things become clearer here and we may see a way to using your services once more. Besides, if Bonaparte dies—and it is my understanding that his health is poor and declining—our work here will be at an end and we shall simply close down this operation. So, as you can appreciate, there is no reason why you should not return to London until the dust clears.’

‘I suppose I could.’ Lord Faringdon showed no particular enthusiasm. He made to cross one leg over the other, remembered and came to a halt, fingers digging into the screaming muscles of his hip. ‘It is true that I have a motherless daughter who will no longer recognise me if I stay away longer. It is over a year since I last saw her.’

‘Well, then. Go and see your family.’ Wycliffe leaned forward persuasively.

‘Very well. You have more confidence than I that I shall be made welcome. I fear that gossip and speculation has made free with my name. I have it on the best authority that my mother considers my remaining in Paris to be of considerable benefit to the family in general and herself in particular, so that she does not have to make excuses for the scandalous behaviour of the head of the family.’ His lips curled to show his teeth, but his eyes were cold and flat, accepting of the situation that he had himself created as a prerequisite for his present occupation. Brows raised in polite enquiry, he looked again at his employer. ‘How do you suggest that I explain my physical state—considering that I have been here on a private visit of debauchery and excess, and am now returning with an obviously incapacitating injury?’

‘Oh, that’s easy to explain.’ The main business out of the way since Lord Faringdon had, it would seem, agreed to leave Paris, Wycliffe rose to pour two glasses of port, one of which he carried over to his guest. ‘I am sure that you can concoct some tale of a jealous husband who disapproved of your attempts to seduce his young and innocent wife. Disapproved sufficiently to dissuade you with a show of force. As you say, you have a reputation that is not inconsiderable—such a tale will be accepted by all. And if you can see your way to it being spread around the fashionable drawing rooms …’

‘Why not?’ A jaundiced shrug and a bland expression signified agreement. ‘It is not a résumé that I would have chosen, but I should have expected no less. I suppose I will have to tolerate the fact that, given my injuries, the jealous husband was able to beat me to within an inch of my life. How ignominious!’ His laugh had a brittle edge. ‘But who am I to cavil at being branded a ravisher and seducer of innocent—or not so innocent—girls? Government service demands a high price indeed.’

‘The cause is great, Joshua.’ Wycliffe was not unsympathetic. ‘Your efforts will not go unrecognised or unrewarded.’

‘I am not looking for a reward. I believe in what we are attempting to achieve. A stable government in France—a democratic monarchy with no repetition of revolution or the overthrow of law and order to unsettle the peace of Europe. I need no reward if we achieve such an outcome.’

‘Then let us drink to our success.’ Wycliffe raised his glass and the two men drank.

‘I shall leave next week,’ Lord Joshua stated, his decision made.

‘Excellent! I expect that you will play the role with your usual panache. If I might make a suggestion?’

‘Well?’

‘I suggest that you take the Countess of Wexford with you. She will not be unwilling and will reinforce your cover—your, ah, libertine tendencies. I believe she has more than a tendre for you.’ Wycliffe’s tone was dry as he noted the glitter of suppressed temper in Lord Faringdon’s eyes. ‘It should give the town tabbies all the ammunition they need to destroy your character and mask any further queries concerning your sudden return or the reason for your incapacity. You can embroider on the situation and your liaison with the fair lady as you see fit. There will certainly be no difficulty in persuading her to accompany you. No one will question your arrival in London.’

‘No. But my family might question whether they wish to associate with me! The Countess of Wexford. God help me! A more voracious woman I have never had the misfortune to meet.’

‘But Olivia is very beautiful.’

‘As well as self-seeking, manipulative and unprincipled. She would like nothing better than to get her claws into me and her fingers on my purse-strings. You have given me a hard path to follow, sir.’

‘I have every confidence in you, Joshua.’ Wycliffe rose to his feet, intimating the end of the conversation. ‘Take Olivia Wexford with you.’ It was more command than advice.

Lord Faringdon duly drained his glass and dragged himself to his feet, rescuing his cane, cursing as his limbs had stiffened.

‘On second thoughts …’ Wycliffe stretched out his hand, his frown deepening again. ‘About Marianne. I think that—’

‘No.’ The white shade around his lordship’s lips owed nothing to physical pain. His words and the manner of their delivery were harsh. ‘As you intimated so forcefully some few minutes ago, the subject of my wife is not up for discussion, Wycliffe.’

‘Even so—’

‘As you said, Marianne is dead.’

‘Very well.’ Wycliffe accepted the finality in the statement, if reluctantly. ‘I must wish you a speedy recovery, my lord. I know that you will do everything necessary to protect yourself. The identity of The Chameleon must not be allowed to suffer further revelations.’

Lord Joshua Faringdon left the British Ambassador’s home, lingering on the front steps to take a breath of fresh air. The Chameleon! A changeable thing, a creature of caprice, of quicksilver versatility. How fanciful. An identity acquired from those who saw only the glamour, the allure of a life dedicated to espionage. Yet, in reality, how sordid. Of course he could play the role of rake and libertine—had he not done so for years?—but that did not mean that he would enjoy doing so. If he needed to spread the gossip in London before his arrival, his sister Judith could be relied upon to do so. But he most certainly would not dance to Olivia Wexford’s avaricious tune or welcome her into his bed. He hoped, fleetingly, that the Prince Regent realised the sacrifices being made by some of his subjects to bolster the traditional monarchies of Europe in his name.

But he doubted it.

Chapter Two

Autumn 1819—London

‘Judith, I really must not—indeed, I cannot—live on your kindness any longer!’ Or on your charity!

Two ladies sat at breakfast in one of the elegant and supremely fashionable town houses in Grosvenor Square. A gentleman, the Earl of Painscastle, hid with deliberate concentration behind a copy of the Morning Post and determined to stay there. This was not the first time that such a statement had ruffled the early morning calm. Given the decisiveness in the tone on this occasion, matters were about to come to a head.

The two ladies, one his wife, the other his guest, faced each other across a spread of white linen. Much of an age, their appearance and character were very different, yet within the past months they had become fast friends. The red hair and green eyes of one spoke of a lively and energetic lady, dressed in the latest fashion despite the early hour. The other was of a quieter disposition with fair curls and calm blue eyes, her morning gown neat rather than fashionable. A quiet composure governed her every movement.

‘Dear Sarah!’ The redhead was in no way disturbed by this announcement. ‘Why ever should you not? I enjoy having your company.’ Judith Faringdon, now Countess of Painscastle, poured tea into her china cup with a flamboyant gesture. ‘Until you have decided what you will do next, where else should you stay? You are never a burden to us.’

‘You have been too kind, Judith. You are my dearest friend—but I would not outstay my welcome. I have finally made some decisions,’ replied Mrs Sarah Russell, a youthful widow and mother of a nearly six-year-old son.

‘Ah.’ Judith took a sip of tea. ‘Will you then go back to New York? To Henry and Eleanor and the children?’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’ The Countess frowned a little. ‘I was sure that you would and I know that they would make you welcome. In her letters, Eleanor writes that she misses you.’

‘I have thought of it,’ Sarah acknowledged. ‘But I cannot allow myself to be dependent on them either. It was bad enough that Lord Henry had to pay the cost of my passage from New York. It is time that I determined the future for myself and John.’

‘So what have you decided? Will you perhaps visit Thea and Nick at Aymestry?’

‘No.’ Another uncompromising answer.

‘They too would be pleased to see you. I know that Thea feels that she owes you much in achieving her present state of sublime happiness.’ Judith smiled at her romantic recollection of the recent wedding that the family had celebrated, of the love that had so palpably wrapped around Nicholas and Theodora, soft as velvet, strong as forged metal.

Mrs Sarah Russell sighed. That was the problem. Her friends had nothing but good intentions towards her and her young son, however unlikely it might appear that they would be willing to give any thought to her happiness or comfort. Amazingly, her history had become closely interwoven with that of the Faringdons. Instrumental in aiding and abetting her brother Edward Baxendale to make a fraudulent claim against the Faringdon estate, she knew that she did not deserve any consideration from them. There were no extenuating circumstances, even though she had been driven by her conscience to unmask her brother and his trickery. But they had forgiven her, a knowledge that still had the power to warm her heart. Sarah had severed her connection irrevocably with her brother and had been taken under the collective wing of the Faringdon family.

Sarah had aided Eleanor in her elopement to join Lord Henry, Judith’s cousin, in America, and Lord Henry had taken her in and given her a home in New York when she had most needed one. Her decision to return to England had been prompted by the fraught relationship between Lord Nicholas, Henry’s younger brother, and Sarah’s own unknown sister Theodora, an adventurous lady who had been adopted outside the family and brought up by Sir Hector and Lady Drusilla Wooton-Devereux. Reconciled to Thea, Lord Nicholas had made Sarah welcome at Aymestry Manor, both for her own sake and, of course, as a member of the family when he had married Theodora. Judith—well, Judith and Simon had simply held out the hand of friendship. Thus, Sarah knew that her debt to the Faringdons was immeasurable. She could never repay such kindness and they would never ask it of her. But it was more than time that she stood on her own two feet. For herself and her son. Her pride would allow her to be dependent no longer.

‘What will you do, then?’

Sarah drew in a breath, anticipating the opposition that would meet her carefully thought-out statement, but would not be deterred. ‘I must find a position, some form of employment. I need an income and a settled home for myself and my son. John is now more than five years. He needs a home. So do I.’

‘Sarah! No!’ As expected, Judith put down her cup with some force.

‘I only have a small pension from the navy since my husband’s death.’ Sarah laid out her argument as clearly and plainly as she could. It had sounded very well at three o’clock in the morning when sleeplessness had finally forced her to weigh her options. ‘I shall receive no further income from my own family, the Baxendales, either now or any time in the future. I made an enemy of Edward, did I not, when I uncovered his nefarious pursuits? So,’ she repeated, folding the napkin on her lap with careful precision, ‘I need a position of employment and an income.’

‘You must not work!’ Judith was suitably aghast.

‘Why not? Many women in my position, women of good family who have fallen on difficult times, would find no hardship in seeking some form of occupation.’

‘But what would you do? Tell her, Simon! It is not suitable that Sarah take employment. Indeed it is not! I cannot imagine what my mama would say if I allowed it. Or your sister Theodora.’ Judith stopped and blinked at the prospect. ‘Although perhaps I can. Thea has a sharp tongue and an apt turn of phrase. She would be horrified.’

The Earl lowered his paper at last. His eyes spoke of understanding and compassion for the lady’s predicament. ‘Sarah must do exactly as she wishes, my dear. Whatever it is, we will help. But I do agree, Sarah, with my wife. You must consider carefully before you take up any position that might be unsuitable for you. I understand your concern over your situation.’ He hesitated. ‘Are you sure that there is not a life for you in New York?’

‘No, I will not go back.’ On that one point she was adamant. ‘But thank you, Simon. I knew that you would understand. I shall remain here in England.’

‘And do what?’ Judith returned to the crux of the matter.

‘I think I could be a governess.’ Sarah’s lack of experience for any position troubled her, but at least this one, based on her own education and upbringing, held a possibility. ‘I have some skills appropriate for the education of a young lady. Or I could be a housekeeper, I expect. Would you give me references, dear Judith?’

‘No, I would not! I am not at all in favour and so refuse to aid and abet you in this ridiculous proposal.’ The Countess reached across the table to grasp Sarah’s restless fingers. ‘I will tell you what I think. You should marry again. You are so pretty, Sarah, it would be quite the best answer.’

‘Judith …!’ Sarah shook her head in frustration but returned the warm clasp. ‘I am twenty-five years old with a son. And little to recommend me in the way of good looks. Not like Thea, or Eleanor—both of them so beautiful. I fear that I would never draw all eyes if I stepped on to the dance floor at Almack’s as they would. I have no income of my own, no influential connections—nothing to recommend me. Who would consider marriage to me?’

Judith frowned and tapped her thumb nail against her pretty teeth, ignoring much of Sarah’s reasoning, selecting the one omission in Sarah’s explanation. ‘So you are not actually averse to remarriage.’

Sarah thought about this. A marriage of convenience? Never. The memory of her husband, John Russell, a captain in the Royal Navy, slowly crystallised in her mind. It was more than five years since he had died at sea in the final year of the Napoleonic Wars, before Waterloo. She was shocked at how unclear his image had become with the passage of time. She had been so young, he some years older, and she had been dazzled by the attention of this grave gentleman in flattering uniform with gold braid. Meeting her at the home of a distant relative in London, he had rescued her from an unsatisfactory home, carried her off and married her in the face of family disapproval. She smiled as she remembered him, a warm, caring man, considerate of his young wife’s inexperience and insecurity. It saddened her that she had seen so little of him during their brief marriage—a matter of months—and he had never set eyes on his splendid son, meeting death in a bloody skirmish at sea within weeks of the child’s birth.

Had she loved John Russell? Well—yes … if love was a deep affection, a warm, gentle, caring emotion.

Her mind flitted to more recent events where her memory was stronger, her emotions more recently engaged. Where she had seen a quite different interpretation of love. She had seen the strength of love possible between Henry and Eleanor, a bright, all-consuming passion that could sweep all before it. And more recently the unshakeable bond created from the heartbreaking difficulties between Nicholas and Theodora, where love had finally triumphed against all the odds. Love, it seemed, could be found in many different guises.

So, no, she realised, she could not accept a marriage simply for money or comfort or future security. Her heart must be engaged.

She became aware of Judith awaiting her answer with growing impatience.

‘No, I am not averse to marriage,’ she replied with a little smile, a ghost of regret. ‘But only if I find someone I can love. I will not marry for less.’ Catching a flash of interest in the Countess’s emerald eyes, she raised her hand, but laughed as she recognised the gleam of a plan being formed. ‘And I would be grateful if you did not set yourself to put me in the way of a suitable husband, Judith!’

It was almost, Sarah decided only a half hour later that same morning, as if fate in a coquettish moment had determined to take a hand in the game. Although for better or worse, she was as yet unsure. It was one thing to be adamant that she needed some gainful employment, quite another to secure a position that she would consider suitable for herself and her son. But wily fate, in the guise of Lady Beatrice Faringdon, imposing in puce and ostrich plumes, decreed that her dilemma be settled with almost unseemly speed. Simon had taken himself to Tattersall’s, leaving Judith and Sarah to finish their desultory conversation over the breakfast cups, when the door opened to admit Lady Beatrice, Judith’s mama. She waved Matthews, the butler, aside when he would have announced her, greeted the ladies and settled herself at the table where she accepted a cup of tea from her daughter.

Lady Beatrice, large and dominant in the small room, had an air of ruffled displeasure about her, causing Judith to eye her askance.

‘Well, Mama. This is early for you to be visiting.’

‘Well!’ The stout lady took a breath and squared her ample shoulders, thus causing her fading red curls and the plumes in her bonnet to shiver. ‘There has been a development.’

Judith and Sarah exchanged glances, but waited in silence. Not for long.

‘It is your brother Joshua. He plans to return to London next week. And not simply a passing visit.’ The expression on Lady Beatrice’s face could only be described as sour. The return of her firstborn, Joshua Sherbourne Faringdon, to her maternal bosom obviously did not fill her with pleasure.

In comparison, Judith’s immediate smile lit her face with delight. ‘Sher! Why, that is splendid news. It is so long … But I thought he was fixed in Paris for the duration. Why the sudden change of plan?’

‘I do not know. Your brother did not deign to tell me in the letter that I have just received. What he did do is issue a list of instructions—as if I had not better things to do with my time.’

‘Ah!’ Judith understood perfectly. ‘And you thought that I would be willing to take them on.’

‘Why not? You have a much closer relationship with Joshua than I.’ Beneath the chill and patent disapproval there was undeniably the slightest layer of hurt, although Lady Beatrice would have been the first to deny it. ‘I have heard not one word from him for over a year and then all he can do is send me a list—as if I were his secretary.’

‘You have not heard from him, Mama, because you are too critical of him and too ready to listen to scandal.’ Judith had inherited her mother’s predilection for plain speaking. ‘You can hardly blame Sher for keeping his distance. It seems to me that—’

Lady Beatrice lifted her hand to bring a halt to any further discussion of her lack of compassion toward her son. ‘I will not discuss your brother’s habits and amusements. They are extreme and—’ She closed her lips firmly on the subject. ‘Suffice it to say they bring no credit to the family. Sometimes I am ashamed to own him.’

Judith sighed. The estrangement was nothing new, with no spirit of compromise or hope of reconciliation on either side. Sher continued to conduct his life with a cavalier disregard for the forms of behaviour that would make him acceptable to the haut ton. Lady Beatrice would tally his many sins and see no good in her only son. ‘Very well, Mama. Tell me what it is that he wants.’

Lady Beatrice extracted a much-folded sheet of paper from her reticule and viewed it with distaste. ‘To open up his town house in Hanover Square,’ she read. ‘To arrange for the child to travel up from the country to join him there. To arrange for some suitable staff—cook, butler and so on—so that all is in readiness for his return—by the end of next week.’

Judith laughed aloud. ‘Well, that sounds fairly much in character! Anything else?’

Even Sarah, a silent observer of this conversation since she had neither met Lord Joshua nor had any knowledge of him, smiled. Another Faringdon! It seemed to her a familiar response by the men of the family, to issue orders and expect them to be carried out quickly and effortlessly.

Lady Beatrice had not finished. ‘He also states that he needs an educated and proficient person to act as housekeeper and also governess to take over the care and education of the child—what is her name? I can never remember—something French. Why he could not have insisted on a good English name I will never understand! Our family have always had English names.’

‘Celestine,’ Judith provided somewhat absently, her mind already occupied with the project and shutting out her mama’s habitual complaints and wilful rejection of the Italian derivation of her own name. ‘Very well. I will talk to Simon about arranging for the provision of staff and …’

Sarah’s interest in the proceedings, fairly mild until this point, now found a sharp focus. Lord Joshua Faringdon. Judith’s brother. Needed a housekeeper and governess for a young girl called Celestine. In London. An educated and proficient person. Why not? She managed to remain silent in a blaze of impatience until Lady Beatrice completed her diatribe and took herself off, delighted at having passed the burden of her son’s return into Judith’s not unwilling lap. Then Sarah fixed her gaze on Judith, who was still perusing the list that her mama had thoughtfully left.

‘I can do that.’ A strange breathlessness gripped her.

‘Hmm?’

‘It is exactly the sort of position that I need. Which I can do. Housekeeper and governess.’

Which statement made Judith look up with an instant frown. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘It would be too … too demeaning! You know my opinion on the whole foolish project. But to have my friend in my brother’s employ—I will not consider it.’

‘I need a position, Judith. It is the ideal opportunity, I do assure you—consider the advantages for me.’

‘No!’

‘It will enable me to remain in London.’ Sarah leaned forward, slender hands spread on the table cloth, urgency in every line of her body.

Judith’s silent displeasure was answer enough.

‘I shall be able to educate both my son and the child. I shall regain my independence. I shall have a home.’

‘I do not think that you should.’

‘I do.’ Sarah dropped her eyes from her friend’s searching glance, her voice low. Unaware, her fingers interlaced and gripped tightly. ‘It will also perhaps help me to regain some self-respect.’

‘But, Sarah—’

‘I owe your family much.’ Now, her mind made up, her gaze was direct and steady again. ‘Here is the best opportunity I can imagine to pay off that debt, dropped into my hands as if it were a precious gift. How can I possibly turn my back against it? Let me do it, Judith. Don’t stand in my way, I beg of you … as my friend.’

As a final argument, Judith had no answer against it, and could only continue to frown her distaste for the development. Yes, she was Sarah’s friend, and knew better than most the agonies the lady had suffered as a result of her brother Edward’s malicious scheming and her own part in his clever fraud. Perhaps this means of earning forgiveness—although Judith could not see the need for Sarah to be forgiven!—would allow Sarah to achieve some essential peace of mind and put the events of the past finally to rest. Furthermore, Judith had to acknowledge that Sarah Russell could, when challenged, be a lady of considerable determination. It was rare to see her cornflower-blue eyes shine with quite that depth of emotion. Sarah was not to be dissuaded.

So, it seemed that in Sarah’s mind the matter was settled. But Judith was not at ease with the outcome.

Wisely, Sarah allowed Judith some space in which to ponder the advantages of her taking up the appointment in Lord Joshua Faringdon’s household, holding to the thought that she would soon see the sense of it. Then, when she knew that the Countess of Painscastle had spent some frustrating time in undertaking to engage the required staff for her brother, with limited and haphazard success, she broached the subject again as if the matter were indeed settled.

‘Will you tell me about him, Judith? Lord Faringdon? After all, he will be my employer and I would wish to have some knowledge of his requirements.’

Judith tutted—but in reluctant agreement. Finding an experienced butler and cook at such short notice was proving difficult enough, even without the educated and proficient person. So if Sarah was quite determined …

‘Are you indeed sure?’

‘Certainly I am. I think that heaven has smiled on me in dropping this chance at my feet. I would be foolish to ignore it.’

The ladies were taking an airing in Judith’s barouche.

‘I would not put it quite in those words. Neither, I fear, will you after living under my brother’s roof. He can be somewhat—ah, unreliable.’

‘Unreliable?’ This was not what she had expected, although Lady Beatrice’s unexplained disapproval could not be overlooked. ‘I wish that you would tell me about your brother. I do not think I have ever heard you speak of him. And why your mama is so … so …’

‘So unforgiving,’ Judith supplied with a rueful smile. ‘Well, now. He is older than I by a little less than ten years—so we were never close as children. I admired him—the splendid older brother, as you might imagine. He had no time for me, of course—the younger sister still in the nursery—but I worshipped from afar.’ She wrinkled her nose a little as she searched her memories. ‘By the time that I had my coming-out Season, he was no longer living at home. I suppose the truth is that I do not know him very well, although he was never unkind to me as some brothers might be,’ she added ingenuously.

‘Does he have red hair like you?’ Sarah cast a quick glance at Judith’s fiery ringlets.

‘No.’ She chuckled, reasonably tolerant of her own dramatic appearance, even though it prevented her from wearing her favourite shade of pink. ‘Fortunately for him, Sher is dark like the rest of them. I was the only one to be afflicted by Mama’s colouring. How unfair life is! But his eyes are grey—sometimes almost silver—not green like mine. He is outrageously handsome, of course.’

Of course. Sarah knew only too well, claiming close acquaintance with the charm and good looks of both Henry and Nicholas Faringdon.

‘And he lives in Paris, I understand.’

‘Yes. Mostly. Although he has property in England. Sher married a French lady—before I was myself married—Mademoiselle Marianne de Colville was her name. The marriage was very sudden, so I think it must have been a love match. I only met her twice, once when they were wed, but I remember that she was an arresting lady—not a beauty exactly, but one of those dazzling women who take the eye, with dark hair and dark eyes. Very French, you understand, with a most stylish wardrobe. I remember being highly envious as a young girl, when fashion meant far more to me than it does now …’ Judith did not notice Sarah turning her head to survey an approaching landaulet and to hide a smile at this remarkable admission. ‘But anyway, she died in Paris more than three years ago now. It was all very sad and sudden—quite tragic—some sort of fever that did not respond to any of the advice given by the doctors. We were all quite taken by surprise—from what we knew of the lady, Marianne had always seemed so full of life. But there … She was buried in France, probably at her family home somewhere in Provence.’ Judith lifted her hand in recognition of the occupants of the landaulet. ‘I did not know Lady Portinscale was back in town. But where was I …? Sher does not talk about Marianne and her death. I expect that he was stricken by remorse, losing the love of his life. Not that you would guess from the manner in which he has conducted his life since,’ she added drily. ‘But perhaps I should not have said that.’

Sarah thought about this. Knowing Judith well, there was no need to ask the lady’s enigmatic meaning. The Countess would assuredly confide every detail to her friend before they completed the first circuit of Hyde Park. ‘Why do you call him Sher?’

‘It is a family name—Joshua Sherbourne Faringdon. A childhood thing—Hal and Nick always called him that. I think I got into the habit because Mama disapproved. It was not the thing, she said. But Sher did not object—he always did what he could to annoy her.’

‘And so he has a daughter?’

‘Yes. Celestine. She must be a little older than John. Perhaps eight years old now.’

‘And has lived in the country.’

‘Sher sent her to England, even before her mother died, when she was quite a little girl, hardly more than a baby,’ Judith explained. ‘He has a house at Richmond on the edge of the Park, so the child has grown up there. He thought it better than keeping her in Paris—or even coming to London. She travelled with her nurse. One cannot but pity her, brought up by servants, with no other company and no one to play with. Perhaps I should have brought her to live with us—but that was before the birth of Giles and we set up our own nursery. Celestine would have been just as lonely in Grosvenor Square as in Richmond.’

‘Poor child. She will have missed her mother.’

‘I suppose. It will be better for her to be in London with a governess. I barely remember her, but on the one occasion Sher brought her to visit us when he was last home it seemed to me that she was a very plain child, silent for the most part and quite timid. As I said, she has not had an enviable life.’ Judith slanted a glinting smile at Sarah. ‘Perhaps it is a good plan after all—that you take over the care of her.’

Inclined to agree, Sarah sat quietly, piecing together her newly acquired knowledge. Poor child indeed, robbed of both parents. Had her father done anything to keep in touch with her? Sarah decided that, as a prospective employee, it was a question too delicate to ask. For herself, she could not imagine abandoning her own son in quite a different country, to be raised by paid employees who had no personal connection with the child. But, she supposed, that was not for her to question.

‘Why does your mama not talk of him?’ She returned to the blank spaces in her knowledge. ‘As the only son and heir and now head of the family I would have expected her to welcome his return.’

‘Not at all!’ Judith took a breath. Here it came! Gossip was the spice of life to her. ‘Sher has … well, he has a reputation. If you had been out and about in polite society, dear Sarah, you would undoubtedly have heard.’

‘Oh.’ Sarah nodded thoughtfully. Lady Beatrice’s caustic words had suggested that such might be the case.

‘A string of mistresses. And very expensive.’ With little encouragement necessary, Judith now had no compunction in filling in the detail. ‘When he was younger, Sher was often in debt and, when Papa was alive, he expected him to bail him out. Gambling, you understand. Horses and cards. He lost a great deal of money playing vingt-et-un at one of the gaming hells in Pall Mall. I think it was the cause of some harsh words between him and Papa. Understandable, of course, but words that became unforgivable—on both sides.’

‘I see.’ Sarah’s eyes widened in amazement. She had had no idea.

‘And then there was the notorious Grayson affair in London.’ Judith leaned confidingly toward her friend, all animation. ‘The lady was married! And her family was one of the foremost of the ton. I remember nothing of it but I am told that it was all very embarrassing. That was the occasion on which Sher first went to Paris. Papa sent him there until the gossip died down, refusing to pay any further debts unless he complied and put his life in order. It was the talk of every withdrawing room in town. I think that might have been the final straw for Mama, to hear the whispering come to a halt every time she entered a room. So Mama prefers it when he makes his home in Paris. Although,’ Judith confided, finally, ‘she had not entirely given up on the thought of his remarriage to reform his wicked ways. Although who would agree to marry him, I cannot imagine. Even though he is very rich, most mamas of hopeful débutantes would not willingly look for the connection.’

‘I can well understand,’ Sarah agreed in lively horror and some degree of fascination.

‘So, you see, Sher acquired the reputation as a rake and something of a ne’er-do-well. I think perhaps he did not deserve it. He was very young.’ Judith’s pretty lips pursed as she tried for an honest judgement on her brother. ‘I am extremely fond of him. But there was also the scandal of the ladies of the chorus at Covent Garden!’

‘Really?’ Sarah found the recital riveting. ‘More than one? I had thought that all Faringdons had an eye to propriety.’

‘Not Joshua. He has an eye to every pretty member of the female sex.’ Judith sighed. ‘I shall say no more! Except to suggest that you might—indeed you might—be advised to reconsider your application for a position in his household.’

Sarah laughed and reassured her, knowing that as housekeeper her path would rarely cross with that of her noble employer. How Lord Joshua Faringdon might choose to live his life would have nothing whatsoever to do with her and have no bearing on her own duties in his establishment. But Judith’s artless confidences left her to consider that she was not the only one to have a brother in the form of a skeleton in the family closet. She chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully. And that Faringdon skeleton was now her employer.

Two days later Judith’s reluctant acceptance of Sarah Russell’s new status had undergone a sea change. On receipt of a letter from Paris, she was indeed prepared to say more, and did so unequivocally on running Sarah to ground in the private garden at the centre of Grosvenor Square where, despite the blustery weather, she threw a ball for John to chase and catch.

‘Sarah! I have just received a letter from my brother. I am entirely convinced that you should not take up the position in his house.’ The fact that the letter was remarkably frank and detailed had given her only a moment’s pause. If she had known how painstakingly Lord Joshua had constructed it, how much time he had spent in plotting the scandalous content, and how much he was prepared to gamble on his flighty sister’s inability to remain silent when in possession of a delicious piece of scandal, she would have been astounded. But she did not know any of these things and so jumped to the hoped-for conclusion. Presumably Sher did not care one jot about the comment that he was about to provoke in London. He was entirely without principle and honour, despite his birth and upbringing as a gentleman. As a Faringdon! It all went to prove that Sarah should not find herself in the role of housekeeper in the resulting den of iniquity.

‘Why on earth not? What can he have said?’ Sarah handed the ball to the nursemaid who accompanied her and joined Judith on one of the wrought-iron seats, which provided some limited degree of comfort and shelter from the wind. The day was too cool for them to sit long.

Judith did not reply directly, but allowed her thoughts on her brother to develop. ‘I had thought that with age his lifestyle might be less rackety. After Marianne’s death I had thought he was a little sad. And he has a daughter to consider, of course … But it is not so. He is as irresponsible as he ever was.’ She frowned down at the closely written sheets that she still clutched in her hand as if she might detect the reason for her brother’s outrageous manner by absorption from the paper and ink.

‘More scandal?’ Sarah enquired.

‘Scandal! Sher has written to tell me the reason for his return. I am not surprised that he did not tell Mama!’

Sarah merely tilted her head in enquiry.

‘It seems that he has suffered some injury. Caused by the husband of the lady whom he …’ she leaned close and whispered sotto voce ‘… the lady whom he was intent on seducing. That gentleman was unfortunate enough to discover Sher and his … his most recent flirt in a secluded anteroom at a reception at the British Embassy where they were … Well, I am sure you can imagine—but the gentleman was irate—there was some violence—and the result is a terrible scandal in Paris. As well as being physically incapacitated, Sher is not being received. So has decided to return to London until another on dit takes its place and he will be accepted again.’

‘He told you that?’ Sarah could not imagine a brother regaling his sister with such salacious detail. Clearly he had.

‘Yes. I did think … I wonder why? But perhaps he thought that news would spread and lose nothing in the telling—so he would tell me the truth first.’

‘I suppose.’ Sarah hid her doubts—could the gossip be worse then the truth?—but decided that perhaps the reason for the detailed letter was irrelevant.

‘Furthermore—’ anger now flashed in Judith’s eyes and her voice began to rise, regardless of the proximity of the nursemaid ‘—he informs me that he will be bringing with him to London none other than the Countess of Wexford. Would you believe it!’

Sarah remained complacent enough. ‘I think I do not know the lady.’

‘Of course not. No one of good ton would claim to know the Countess of Wexford!’ Bristling with disgust, Judith abandoned the letter and snapped her parasol into place as a stray sunbeam slanted across the garden. ‘I expect that you will not have crossed her path. She is a lady of considerable presence and … and questionable morals. Rumour says that her origins are not what they might be. Merchant class from Dublin.’ Judith wrinkled her nose. ‘But she is quite lovely, a widow, titled and with enough wealth to take her place in polite society. She is accepted by everyone except the highest sticklers—you can meet her anywhere, but she would never achieve tickets of admission for Almack’s. It is generally accepted that she is on the hunt for a lover or a husband. I presume she is Joshua’s mistress! And, would you believe, will be living in the house with him in Hanover Square.’

‘Oh! She will?’ Lord Faringdon’s new housekeeper did not know what she felt about this revelation, but still decided that, in truth, it would have little bearing on her own position.

The Countess of Painscastle thought no such thing. ‘Indeed, Sarah, it is not suitable for you to take on the running of that house. I would even go so far as to forbid it!’

‘Judith …’ Sarah sighed as she watched her son’s limitless energy as he dashed about the garden. ‘Your care for me overwhelms me—but I really do not see why I should not take the post. If Lord Faringdon takes the Countess of Wexford as his mistress, it will make no difference to my position in organising the smooth running of the house or in my appointment as governess to his daughter. And if your brother does not intend to remain here in London any longer than the brief life of the scandal in Paris—then I do not see the problem. Perhaps he will continue to employ me as governess when he leaves, if he approves my work. Presumably the child will then return to Richmond and I could go there with her. My reputation is in no danger, Judith. I see no problem.’

‘It will not be a respectable establishment, Sarah! That will be the problem! And although I hate to admit it, my brother appears to have abandoned all honour and principles expected of a gentleman. To have the Countess of Wexford living with him under the same roof. It is quite disgraceful. I am sure that you take my meaning. I hesitate to say this about my own brother, but you may not be safe in such a household.’

Sarah did understand, all too clearly, but knew with a lowering of spirits that her friend’s concern was not necessary. In a perverse manner, she almost found herself wishing that it was, that she was sufficiently beautiful and desirable to attract the attentions of a notorious rake. There was never any hope of that—not even when she was a young girl. When she looked in her mirror, she accepted what she saw there. Her fair curls did not have the brightness, her blue eyes lacked intensity, her pale skin would have benefited from a hint of delicate colour. No. Sarah Russell would never take the eye of Lord Joshua Faringdon.

So she expressed her sentiments with a wry smile and typical honesty. ‘Judith … Lord Faringdon is hardly likely to look at me, now is he? Particularly if an attractive woman such as the Countess is more than willing to accommodate his advances. I am not beautiful. I have no talent or skill beyond the average with which to attract his attention. He will see me as the housekeeper, a servant below stairs. Which is exactly what I shall be. That is if he notices me at all! And if the Countess of Wexford moves on to hunt in other pastures, as you put it, there will always be the ladies of Covent Garden to claim your brother’s attention.’ She silenced Judith’s objections with a little shake of her head. ‘His conduct in the house will have no influence on my life whatsoever. He can have any number of mistresses. He can hold orgies if he wishes. It is simply that this position is too advantageous for me to reject!’

Chapter Three

Within the week, before she could weaken and change her mind, Sarah saw to the packing up of her few possessions and those of her son, and their transportation over the short distance to Lord Joshua Faringdon’s town house in Hanover Square. She herself followed immediately. Hugged and kissed by Judith, they shed a few tears because, although the Countess of Painscastle promised to come and see her friend, and was lavish in invitations that Sarah should bring herself and John to visit in Grosvenor Square any time she wished, both were well aware of the social divide that Sarah was creating by her wilful decision. But go she would. As she stood on the shallow flight of steps leading to the imposing front door, flanked by decorative ironwork, John’s hand clasped firmly in hers, she wondered what the future would hold for her here, whether she would ever find the acceptance and depth of happiness that she yearned for. But for now she would settle for satisfaction in her new position and a sense of redemption.

Sarah discovered other members of the new household already in occupation and hard at work. The house, elegant and spacious with well-proportioned rooms and tasteful furnishings, had been closed up for more than a year, furniture shrouded in dust sheets and shutters closed. Newly appointed footmen and maids were already cleaning and organising under the strict eye of Judith’s butler Matthews, who had been sent to cast his experienced eye over the proceedings. For the moment, Sarah was pleased to leave the reins in his capable hands.

Sarah first took herself to the kitchen and sculleries to discover and make the acquaintance of the ruler of this little kingdom. Mrs Beddows was a small, thin, nervy woman who had already organised her domain to her exacting standards. Fortunately she appeared not to mind a small boy and sat him down at the scrubbed table, with strict instructions for him not to get under her feet, to drink a glass of milk whilst she cross-examined his mama. After half an hour, Sarah found herself in possession of detailed knowledge of every maid and footman under her authority and decided that she and Mrs Beddows would get along.

Instinct warned her that it would be a different tale with the new butler. Mr Alfred Millington, he informed her within condescending tones and a smooth smile. Former butler at Orford Place to the Marquis and Marchioness of Gainsford. Sarah did not like him. And why was he no longer engaged at Orford Place? Opinionated and superior, conscious of his own elevated status as butler in a gentleman’s establishment, he looked down his thin nose at her. And he made it plain that he did not like small boys. Sarah adopted a cool professional smile and determined to try hard to get on with this individual—she did not desire to make enemies unnecessarily—but he would bear watching. The rest of the new servants were still nameless faces. It would all fall into place eventually.

The house gradually began to come to life as dust and covers were removed. Oriental silk curtains and hangings were brushed and washed and fires were lit in cold rooms. It was sparsely furnished as yet, but perhaps his lordship would do something to remedy that if he planned to remain in London for any length of time. Sarah walked round her new responsibility, enjoying the stillness and order that they were creating, at the same time trying to absorb some sense of the absent owner. There was nothing. No personal possessions, no atmosphere of anyone having lived here. Even the paintings on the walls were impersonal, mostly dark rural scenes or lurid representations of Greek myths in heavily ornate frames. The family portraits, although clearly of Faringdons with their dark hair and well-marked brows, were from a distant age when the sitters wore whalebone stays and lace cravats. Even a farthingale was in evidence. Nothing to indicate the character or the preferences of Lord Joshua Faringdon. It was as if he had never lived here and Sarah, standing within the splendour of the polished wood and the leather-bound books in the library, had to admit to a disappointment. Judith’s brother interested her, despite his wicked ways. Foolish without doubt but she could not deny it.

The rooms set aside for her own use, high under the eaves, had traditionally been used as nursery and schoolroom, but were surprisingly spacious. A small private sitting room and bedchamber for herself, a smaller room for her son and then the schoolroom. Lacking the elegance and comfort of the family rooms of course, but not unacceptable. Beyond it were two rooms cleaned and prepared for the imminent arrival of Miss Celestine Faringdon. She inspected them all with John in tow.

‘Do we live here now, Mama?’ He bounced on the bed that would be his own.

‘Yes. Will you like it?’ She ran a finger along the edge of a small table to check for dust.

He thought for a moment. ‘Yes. Mrs Beddows gave me a sugared biscuit. She said that when Lord Faringdon comes there will be horses in the stable and I can go and see them.’

‘I expect she is right.’ Sarah smiled. Horses were her son’s present passion.

‘Has the little girl come yet?’ John dashed before her into the schoolroom. ‘From the country?’

No.’ Celestine was expected any day. ‘We must try to make her welcome. She will not know anyone in London. Think what it must be like, if everyone is a stranger.’

Opening a cupboard and finding it empty, shutting it again, John came to stand beside Sarah, suddenly anxious. ‘Will you be her mama as well?’

‘No.’ She ruffled his hair, which made him jump out of reach with a squawk. ‘I shall teach her—and you, both of you together. Her papa will soon be here.’

‘Where is her mama? Is she still in France?’ Sarah raised her brows at this evidence that her son listened in to the conversations around him. He was beginning to grow up. It surprised her that she felt a little sad at the prospect.

‘No. Her mama is dead.’

‘Like my papa.’ John pushed a pile of books neatly together, simple acceptance in his voice.

‘Yes. Like your papa.’ Sarah felt a sudden rush of loneliness to meld with the sadness. Then took herself to task. This was no good. She would soon be sinking in a fit of melancholia! They now had everything she had dreamed of. A home and a paid position that would allow them to live dependent on no one for charity. She had still to hear what her sister Thea might have to say to this change in her circumstances. As horrified as Judith and far more outspoken, if Sarah knew anything about it. But she did not care. Self-esteem was a very important thing, and, whatever Judith might say to the contrary, the need to make recompense to the family she had almost helped to destroy. The whole episode had left a stain, ugly and hauntingly persistent, on her soul. But now she nodded as she watched John climb on to the window seat to peer down into the Square, laughing excitedly at his height from the ground and the sudden swooping proximity of a flock of sparrows. Yes. She had done the right thing. She held out her hand to John.

‘Let us go and look at Celestine’s room, and see that it has been made ready for her.’

For better or worse, she was now a housekeeper.

Meanwhile, in Paris Lord Joshua Faringdon was making his own preparations to transfer his life to London, in the company, as advised by Wycliffe, of the Countess of Wexford. It would have surprised his sister beyond measure to know that her brother found the highly decorative lady to be everything that Judith had described to Sarah. Possessor of a beautiful face, an elegant figure, a range of talents that made her much sought after in some social circles for her undoubted charm, her outer beauty hid a grasping and selfish soul. The smiling lips and glittering eyes, the low provocative voice, were knowing and could be sly. They also masked an utter determination to achieve what would be in the best interests of Olivia Wexford. Her dead husband, Lord Joshua considered, sent to an early grave by a fall from a horse when hunting in the Shires, had had a lucky escape.

But without doubt the lady had her uses. Lord Joshua Faringdon would be seen and condemned by all as an unprincipled dilettante, returning to London in the midst of a scandal of the worst possible kind, in the company of his present mistress. Not only a lady of dubious morals, but one who was prepared to live openly with him under his own roof in Hanover Square. The ton could make of that what they would—and he could imagine every whispered aside. But nothing could be better in covering up his underground activities or the true reason for his return. No one would find a need to look beyond the obvious.

At the same time, he realised, as he sat at his desk to put his paperwork in order, he need feel no guilt over the masquerade. Olivia had been highly delighted to be invited to accompany him to London and made no attempt to hide it. The delicacy of his invitation had been lost on her. He might be little less than crippled with his broken ribs and damaged tendons, but Olivia smiled into his eyes and offered her lips for a kiss. Blatantly offered far more than that when he could manage to climb the stairs to her room without the use of a cane, when he was capable of pleasuring her body with finesse and some physical dexterity. She would like nothing better than to be his mistress and would enjoy ruling over his establishment in London, notwithstanding the resulting gossip. She might even hold out for marriage if she thought it worth her while to become Lady Joshua Faringdon. He stopped to think about that, his hands stilled on a pile of documents, a line engraved between his brows. She was without doubt an attractive woman. And he was not averse to a light flirtation when the object of his gallantry was so willing and responsive.

But no. He frowned at his wayward thoughts and continued to shuffle. His experience with the fair sex had not been felicitous and had left him with a sharp and lingering distrust. A woman’s professed love was conditional on the depth of a man’s purse. Or the value and sparkle of the jewels an unwise man might clasp around her elegant neck. And once she had you in her clutches, her claws would not willingly let go until all blood had been drained, uncomfortably like a leech—his lips twitched in semblance of a smile. Manipulative and untrustworthy. In his mind the image of Marianne was suddenly superimposed over that of Olivia Wexford until he deliberately blinked it away with gritted teeth, smile transformed into a cynical snarl. He would not allow himself to contemplate that episode of marital bliss again. Or willingly repeat it.

No. He would feel no guilt over the fair Olivia’s unwitting role in his return to London. She would get as much out of it as he did. But it struck him forcibly that the greater the distance he could keep between the woman and himself on a personal level the better. Not an easy task but an essential one. For, without doubt, Olivia Wexford had an eye to his body and his bed as well as his guineas.

The days passed, but Celestine Faringdon did not arrive in Hanover Square. No matter how many times John might rush into the entrance hall at the sound of a coach or large vehicle in the street, there was no sign and no letter to explain the delay. Sarah contemplated sending to apply to Judith to discover the whereabouts of the little girl, but decided that she should not. She must learn to accept her new position of service—where the actions of her employers and their family were no concern of hers.

The cleaning and polishing of the house was complete at last, flowers arranged in the reception rooms, the pantries and cellars stocked, all in readiness for the imminent arrival. Then there was nothing for the staff to do but wait on the inclinations of their betters.

So that as chance would have it, when a large and fashionably smart coach and four finally arrived to draw up outside the house early on a bright morning, luggage piled high on the roof, no one within was prepared.

‘Mama! Mama! She is here. The little girl is here.’ John jumped and hopped in excitement by the window flanking the front door. No matter how often Sarah had tried to explain their altered status, or the parts of the house that were out of bound to him—and how difficult that was to a child of nearly six years!—John still saw the new arrival as an object of endless fascination and a possible playmate.

Sarah joined him, grabbing hold of his hand. There was indeed bustle and noise on the pavement. Luggage was being unloaded. But no child emerged from the carriage. She clutched her son’s hand harder.

‘It is not Celestine. It is Lord Faringdon!’

Why had the man not sent word to warn them? Well, why should he? Swallowing against a sudden brush of panic along her spine, Sarah made a hasty dash to the servants’ quarters to gather up and send as many staff as possible to the entrance hall, where they might formally greet their new lord. They lined up just as the front door was flung open by a young and self-conscious footman. Sarah, the last to arrive, took a place at the end of the line, twitching her skirts and cuffs into place, thinking that it really would not do for her to meet her first employer in a state of disorder. Then realised that John was still watching the arrival in a frenzy of excitement. She should have banished him to the kitchens—this was no place for her child—but too late. Quick as a thought, she pulled him to stand beside her.

‘Stand still, John.’ Sarah managed to smile down at him, as nervous as the youngest scullery maid. ‘Don’t speak unless you are spoken to. Silent as a little mouse, mind!’

Eyes wide, John nodded and grasped his mother’s skirts.

Up the flight of shallow steps and into the entrance hall walked a lady. Tall with a slender, willowy figure, she was immediately the centre of attention. A glorious brunette with dark eyes under dark brows and dark lashes that could only have benefited from the careful use of cosmetics. And with a richly painted mouth that smiled, unlike her eyes, which did not. Rather they looked and assessed and discarded with elegant disdain as if used to better things. She took up a position—posed, Sarah decided—just inside the door as if to draw all eyes to herself. There was no difficulty here.

She was dressed, as Sarah supposed, in the height of Parisian fashion in a delectable shade of lavender. Row after row of ribbon and lace trimmed the hem, the same detail drawing the eye to the pleated yoke above the high waist. The sleeves were long and close fitting into pleated cuffs with little puffed oversleeves. The brim of the satin-straw bonnet was trimmed with similar pleating, the crown with flowers and curling feathers, its long satin ribbons fluttering as the lady glided across the tiled floor in matching satin shoes.

Sarah could not prevent a silent sigh of envy, immediately conscious of her own plain gown fashioned of dark blue silk, high necked, long sleeved, not a hint of decoration. As for the lace cap that she had reluctantly pinned to her rigidly controlled curls … all perfectly suited to her standing, demure and understated and of excellent quality. She had never felt quite so dowdy in all her life.

Sarah surveyed the visitor beneath lowered lashes, understanding at once who she must be. The Countess of Wexford, no less. Judith’s barbed comments came instantly to life and Sarah could well believe the truth of them. Her ladyship said not a word, not condescending to notice such lowly creatures as servants. Drawing off the softest of kid gloves with casual grace and perhaps a touch of impatience about her lovely mouth and a faint line between her brows, she surveyed the entrance hall, the rise of the staircase to the first floor, the side tables and hall chairs—almost as if she were looking for dust. Definitely impatience, Sarah realised, as the Countess tapped one foot, then swept her luxurious skirts out of the way to move back to the doorway to look out. But she smiled, her petulance swiftly disguised. Lord Faringdon was now here.

For Sarah, Joshua Sherbourne Faringdon was a far more attractive subject for her conjecture. She repressed a nervous smile as he came to a halt in the doorway, the sun at his back, casting his features into shadow but rimming him in gold. What would he say if he knew that she was a close friend of his sister, a less than discreet and loyal sister who had seen it in her way to pass on all manner of interesting information. But Sarah had no intention of allowing him this knowledge and had warned Judith of her desires. To Lord Faringdon, she would simply be Mrs Sarah Russell, his newly appointed—if most inexperienced—housekeeper.

It was immediately obvious as he approached the doorway that Lord Faringdon had suffered a number of recent and far from trivial injuries. He moved with a slow and agonising stiffness, using a cane to help him mount the steps, holding himself as if his ribs and one shoulder flared with pain with every unwise movement. Perhaps there was a tightness, a hint of strain around his mouth. But that, although she recalled in some moral indignation Judith’s confidences on the cause of the damage, was not what took Mrs Russell’s attention. From the moment that his lordship set foot inside his own hall, when he turned so that the light could fall full on his face, for Sarah the glory of the Countess of Wexford became a matter of irrelevance, as tawdry as pinchbeck beside fine gold.

She recognised the Faringdon features, familiar as they were, immediately. Beautifully carved features, all firm planes and interesting hollows cast into relief by the bright sunlight that shone directly into the room. A thin, imperious nose and firm lips. But here there were arresting differences. Dense black hair she had expected, but not with the lustre of dull silver. And his eyes were neither disturbingly dark gray nor intensely blue. As Judith had so casually informed her, they were light, silver even, devastating as polished metal, clear as cut glass. As piercing as the gaze of a hunting hawk as he cast an eye over his assembled staff. And at this precise moment, Sarah decided, they were full of an intense irritation, although with whom or what she could hardly guess.

For Sarah it was an uncomfortable instant of shock and inner revelation. She took a deep breath as her heart gave one heavy beat, then sighed and tensed against a little flutter of butterfly wings in her stomach, a shiver of longing that spread its warm heat from her breast to the tips of her fingers. A delicate flush mantled her cheeks. Capable, sensible, practical—unworthy—Sarah Russell, who asked nothing more in life than forgiveness for the part she had played in her brother’s malicious plotting, and the chance to carve out a quiet life for herself and her son. Who wanted never to be dependent on the whim of any man ever again. Sarah Russell, who had lived in the same house with both Henry and Nicholas Faringdon, admiring both, acknowledging the charm of both, but without any danger of losing her common sense where they were concerned—or her heart.

And here, in this one blinding moment, her love for John Russell, although it could never be denied, paled into insignificance as the intoxication of longing swam through Sarah’s blood.

Why did it have to happen now? And with this man?

She took herself instantly to task, in typical stern fashion, despite the hectic beat of her pulse at throat and wrist. How foolish she was to allow so immediate a reaction to simply the sight of the man. Of what value was a handsome face if the owner lacked honour and respectability? Of course it was impossible to fall in love so instantly, so completely with someone of whom she had no knowledge, apart from the most damaging of gossip, and who was so far above her as to make the situation patently ridiculous. With a man who had arrived in the intimate company of the Countess of Wexford, who was certainly expecting to take up residence in the house, with no attempt to disguise her relationship with Lord Faringdon. How scandalous indeed! Of course Sarah could not have lost her heart!

But Sarah’s silent lecture did not at all seem to have the desired effect.

‘Joshua.’ The voice of Lady Wexford, although rich and sultry, could slice through flesh and bone. ‘At last.’ She allowed no recognition of his injuries, placing her hand on his arm in a possessive little gesture that merely confirmed all Sarah’s presumptions concerning their relationship. ‘If you would dismiss your staff, I can discover if there is a suitable room for myself and my maid. That is, if such has been made ready for me.’

‘One moment, Olivia.’ A flicker of some emotion in those remarkable eyes—far keener than mere irritation—was quickly banished. Sarah, watching carefully, was not even in the end sure of its existence. But Lord Faringdon turned from the lady and her demands with slow deliberation to make his halting way along the line, speaking one by one to the servants appointed to run his home. Sarah found herself listening to his voice. Soft, low. A masculine edge to trip along her senses. And his words—he found the exact greeting and comment for Mrs Beddows and Millington. Even the maids and footmen. When he smiled his eyes warmed, his face lit with a charm guaranteed to win their loyalty to the last drop of blood. Sarah looked away. It would be difficult for any woman to stand against it.

At last he came to Sarah, at the end of the line, by chance rather than status.

He saw a slight young woman, not overly tall but well proportioned, fine boned with an air of graceful competence. Far younger than he had expected, certainly immature for the position of authority denoted by her formal and severe clothing, the little high-standing ruff of her gown drawing attention to her face. Her fair hair was swept back into a neat twist, but allowing no curls around her face to soften her features. She wore a little lace cap. He gained an impression of a classically oval face, of pale skin, quiet blue eyes, an unexpected fragility. But also a calm composure, again at odds with her youth, as her gaze met his with no shyness on her part. Although … There might have been some momentary flicker of response there that he could not read. But then it was gone—perhaps he was mistaken. But he was not mistaken in noting the soft glow of colour that invaded her cheeks during his lengthy scrutiny.

‘So you must be my housekeeper?’ he asked at last. A mere process of elimination. He looked at her, cool and assessing. He supposed that Lady Beatrice had known what she was about in appointing so youthful a person.

‘Yes, my lord. I am Mrs Russell.’ Sarah performed a neat curtsy, no expression other than the polite response of a servant.

‘You are younger than I might have expected.’

‘I am not inexperienced, my lord. The Countess of Painscastle recommended me personally for the position.’ She would make use of her connections if she had to and prayed that he would not see a need to question his sister too closely.

‘So this is all Judith’s doing. I should have realised.’ Absorbing Lady Beatrice’s rejection of his initial request for help, his lordship’s eyes grew flat and dark. But what other had he expected? He turned his attention back to the fair young woman who was addressing him again in a pleasingly educated voice.

‘I am also engaged to undertake the education of your daughter when she is in London, my lord.’

‘Ah. Has she arrived?’

‘No. We expect her any day. All is in readiness, my lord.’ A confident voice, he realised, soft and well modulated. Somehow, it matched her appearance exactly. On first impression he approved his sister’s choice.

He would have turned away when his attention was caught by the slightest movement at Sarah’s side. He looked down.

‘And who are you?’

The small boy moved a foot to the left, out of the shelter of Sarah’s skirts, yet still keeping a fold tight in his fist. But he smiled and answered readily, ‘I am John.’

‘What are you doing here, John?’

‘I live here. My lord,’ he added at a slight nudge from Mrs Russell.

‘Well, now. And why is it that you live in my house?’

‘I …’ A question beyond him. John glanced up at his mother with sharp anxiety.

‘He is my son, my lord.’

And he could immediately see the resemblance in the fair hair and light complexion.

‘Is it fitting to have a married person as your housekeeper, Joshua?’ The Countess, resenting the intrusion of servants into Lord Faringdon’s attention to herself, had come to stand beside him, now looking Sarah over from head to foot with frigid disapproval. ‘And with a child? Surely that is not appropriate in a gentleman’s household. Besides, children are so noisy.’ Her glance at the small boy was one of sharp distaste, barely masked.

Sarah stiffened, recognising an enemy in the supremely self-absorbed, supremely beautiful Countess, but addressed her reply with perfect equanimity to her employer. ‘I am a widow, sir, and have been so for five years. Forgive me, my son should not have been here.’ She would not apologise or explain further. ‘He will not be a nuisance—to yourself or to her ladyship, I do assure you.’

The Countess promptly turned her back, walking leisurely towards the staircase, choosing to signal her displeasure by ignoring the situation as one of no interest to her. ‘Has a room been made ready for me?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Good. Then be so good as to direct my maid Hortense with my luggage. I need to rest. Is this the withdrawing room? Perhaps you will send tea.’

Lady Wexford made her languorous way to the withdrawing room, leaving his lordship to remain for a long moment, looking after her with a distinct frown between his brows and making no effort to hide it. Then, with the slightest of shrugs, which caused him to wince, he handed over coat, hat and gloves to one of the waiting footmen and limped heavily after her.

To leave behind him in the entrance hall a flurry of comment and interest. Lord Faringdon and his mistress now in residence! A situation promising much food for gossip below stairs. But for Sarah there was considerable personal conflict. She disliked the Countess of Wexford on sight and knew instinctively that the feeling was reciprocal. Perhaps the lady disliked any woman, even the housekeeper, who took the lord’s attention from her for even a moment. Whereas Lord Faringdon … Sarah pressed her palms to her heated cheeks. She could not believe the immediacy of her response to him. How her heart had leapt, her blood warmed, her pulse beat with furious intensity. But it could not be. It was merely an attack of nerves, brought on by her first meeting with her employer. Love without prior knowledge, without a desire to seek it, so blinding and uncomfortable, was merely a foolish romantic dream that had no place in reality, certainly not for a careful woman as she knew herself to be. Nevertheless, Sarah was forced to accept that entirely the best policy was to banish his lordship from her mind and keep her distance. After all, there was nothing surer than that she would never hold any place in his thoughts.

Celestine Faringdon followed close on the heels of her father and the Countess of Wexford on the following day, escorted from Richmond by her nurse, Edith Watton, a lady of extreme age who had been nurse to both Joshua and Judith, and who would remain with her young charge in London. Hardly had the two new arrivals set foot inside the house than Sarah was called to the library to be introduced to the girl.

Lord Faringdon was standing by the fireplace, his daughter at his side, and turned to Sarah as she entered.

‘Mrs Russell. This is my daughter Celestine.’ She could read little from his cool manner, but was aware of some undercurrent in the room. If she had not known better, she would have suspected a plea for help in that commanding stare.

The girl made an instant impression on Sarah of being far older than her eight years, a reserved child who perhaps would not readily give affection or confidences. Celestine was, her new governess decided, a child who had grown up much in the company of adults, who had not been encouraged to laugh or play or forget her dignity as Miss Faringdon. How serious she was! With a surprisingly plain and solemn face, her skin was sallow and her eyes so dark as to be almost black. And unblinkingly direct. Her hair, equally dark, was ruthlessly drawn back into a severe braid. She was tall for her age and a little thin, and pale despite country life where she could have run out of doors. And most notably, in Sarah’s quick assessment, was the fact that she did not smile or show any animation, either in her polite greeting to Sarah or her responses to her father.

Not at first glance an attractive girl, yet Sarah thought that one day she would be lovely in a dramatic fashion. Her perfect oval face had excellent bone structure, promising high cheekbones and a straight nose. Her skin had the translucence of rippling stream water, and her hair shone as dark silk. When released from its braid, it might even curl. Now she faced her father in the library, quietly obedient, with nothing to say for herself. She acknowledged Sarah as instructed, but did not raise her eyes above the hem of the lady’s skirts.

Lord Faringdon appeared to be somewhat baffled by this small contained person as he attempted to draw her out, in the interest of Mrs Russell getting to know her new pupil. Did you have a pet in Richmond? Do you like to ride? What do you like doing when not at your lessons? Which lessons do you enjoy best? Finally he gave up after a string of monosyllabic and un-informative answers, and addressed his comments instead to Mrs Watton.

‘I trust that you will be happy here, Mrs Watton. I owe you much for the care of my daughter. Mrs Russell will be in charge of your comfort here …’ Again it seemed that his quick glance at Sarah held almost a hint of desperation. Celestine remained distant and silent as her father outlined his arrangements for her, standing straight and prim, hands folded before her, in a dark dress, ruched and beribboned in a manner far too old and sophisticated for her slight figure.

The uncomfortable episode was brought quickly to an end, and Celestine was sent off with Sarah, who readily imagined the sigh of relief behind her. They climbed the staircase side by side.

‘I will show you to your room, Celestine. And the room where we shall take most of the lessons.’

‘Yes.’

Sarah opened the door and ushered the child in. ‘Here is your room.’

It was a pretty room, light and airy, where efforts had been made to furnish it suitably for a young girl with floral patterns in shades of pale green and primrose and with frivolously frilled curtains on the half-tester bed. Celestine walked round, taking her time, to touch the curtains and the soft cushions on the window seat, to run her fingers along the edge of the little inlaid dressing table. To inspect the paintings on the walls.

‘Do you like it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps not as comfortable as your room in Richmond.’ Sarah had no idea, simply wishing to persuade the girl to talk. ‘It will soon look like home when you have your own possessions unpacked.’

‘It is very nice.’

‘Tomorrow we shall begin your lessons and see what you can do. But today it is enough for you to settle in. It must all seem very new and strange.’

‘Of course.’

‘Come then, Celestine. I am sure you are hungry after your journey.’ Sarah was turning to leave when Celestine at last ventured an opinion. But not one expected by Sarah.

‘My father does not want me here, you know. He does not like me.’

Sarah angled her head to watch the girl who still stood before the window, looking out at the vista of sky and clouds, hands clasped behind her back and giving the air of a prisoner in a locked room. Why would the child make such an extravagant claim? She tried to keep her expression and her tone light and calm.

‘But why do you say that? Who told you such a thing?’

‘He has never wanted me with him before. Neither did my mother.’

Sarah tried to hide her astonishment, a little unnerved by the cool acceptance of the situation, if it were indeed so, the flat statement of what might very well be true, given Sarah’s knowledge of this troubled household and the child’s solitary upbringing.

‘Do you miss your mama?’

‘No—not really. She was not often in England. I barely remember her.’

‘Did you not live in Paris?’

‘When I was a baby. I do not remember. I have visited since then—but not for long.’

‘I am sure that your father is very pleased to have you here.’ Sarah tried for a reassurance she did not feel. ‘It was his idea that you should join him, after all. And that I should be here to care for you.’

‘Perhaps.’ Celestine made no further reply, as if the truth were clear enough without any clarification from herself.

‘Come and have tea.’ Sarah encouraged the girl through a connecting door into the schoolroom and then on to the door into Sarah’s sitting room, where a table was laid for tea. As Sarah opened the door John burst through it from the outer corridor, hair tousled, eyes shining, cheeks pink with effort.

‘There are even more horses in the stable now, Mama—but not as fine as Lord Faringdon’s. And a coach—’ He slid to a halt, chest heaving.

The two children sized each other up.

‘This is Celestine who has arrived at last. This is my son, John.’

‘Hello.’ John grinned. ‘Why did it take you so long, Cel—Celst …?’ He blushed in some confusion, but was in no way embarrassed. ‘I cannot say it! I do not know anyone called that.’

Sarah chuckled as she reached to draw her son to a halt at her side. ‘I think he finds your name difficult,’ she explained to the formal young lady.

‘It is French.’

‘I know. And very elegant. But John is younger than you and has not met French names before.’

It seemed for a moment as if Celestine might sneer at such childishness, but then said, ‘I have never met a boy your age before. How old are you?’

‘Nearly six.’ John eyed her warily.

‘I have had my eighth birthday. I shall soon be nine.’ The dark eyes watched, weighing up the boy, coming to a decision. ‘I have another name.’

‘And what is that?’ Sarah asked.

‘Elizabeth.’

‘We could call you Elizabeth,’ Sarah ventured, ‘if you did not object.’

Celestine flushed a little, her colourless skin warming to a hint of prettiness. ‘I think I would like to be called Beth. No one has ever called me that. Can you call me Beth, John?’

‘Of course I can! I have been waiting for you for so long, Beth. I have been lonely here with no one to play with. Are you hungry? I am. Mrs Beddows has made a cake for us. Come and see.’

Sarah watched the outcome with interest. Celestine—Beth!—hesitated, but only for a moment. Then stepped out to take John’s hand with all the condescension of her three years’ maturity.

‘Yes. I am hungry. I would like you to show me the cake.’

They sat down at the table, John explaining that after tea he would show Beth his own room and then …

Sarah allowed a silent sigh of relief as she noted the surprisingly tolerant expression on Beth’s face. The way she listened as John prattled on, waving his arms about with typical enthusiasm. The girl took little part in the conversation, but nodded when John looked to her for confirmation of some trivial matter. Well! If Miss Faringdon saw herself in a maternal role toward John, it might just be the means to get this frighteningly composed young lady to settle into the household. As for her relationship with her father—Sarah had no idea. The child felt unloved and unwanted, of which sins Lord Faringdon might very well be guilty for all she knew. One more transgression to lay against his soul if he could be so cruel as to neglect his own child. Yet Sarah found herself hoping that it was not so, for how could she have fallen headlong and ridiculously into love with a man she did not know, one with a contemptuous reputation and who could be so needlessly heartless to his daughter?

But that was a matter for the future, she decided as she allowed the children to leave the table. Enough that today Beth was here and was not averse to her new home.

Chapter Four

In the following days Sarah could convince herself that it would be an easy matter to keep a distance from Lord Faringdon. The only immediate ripple on the tranquillity of her pool was a note from Judith, hoping that Sarah would be able to find the time to visit for tea in Grosvenor Square. Sarah did not comply, but penned a brief apology, citing pressure of work since Lord Faringdon was now in residence. She knew that she had made the friendship well nigh impossible by her stepping across the social divide. It hurt, but she had deliberately made the decision and must not, therefore, dwell on any regrets. Judith would realise and accept—she was not so naïve as to be ignorant or careless of the situation. In private, Sarah shed a few self-pitying tears.

Her energies were soon directed towards other matters, not least diplomatic negotiations between a number of strong-willed and self-important individuals. Lord Faringdon’s valet, a severe gentleman, was not given to personal chatter, but would hear nothing wrong of his employer, quick to depress any slighting comment with a stern frown and biting words. The Countess of Wexford’s maid, Hortense, was very different—a superior little madam, French, of course, who kept herself to herself, yet demanded the best of everything for herself and for her mistress. Celestine’s nurse, Mrs Watton, was a comfortable old body who did not regret in the slightest passing authority over her charge to Sarah. The child took too much after her mother. Not that they had seen a great deal of Marianne Faringdon before her untimely death. But even so! Blood would always out.

The gravest problem for her was the one most unlooked for. Mr Millington, the butler, developed an unexpected and completely inappropriate tendre for Sarah and followed her with a gleam in his pale eyes. Nor was he averse to glasses of port in the seclusion of his pantry. Sarah avoided him as much as possible after an embarrassing incident in the wine cellar, when the self-controlled housekeeper made her position very plain in a remarkably austere voice, which destroyed all Mr Millington’s pretensions.

The Countess of Wexford was demanding, thoughtless, selfish and patronising. She objected to being woken, but complained when her cup of hot chocolate did not arrive on the instant that she opened her eyes. Hot water was expected to appear at the very moment she required it, earning for one of the maids a sharp and quite unnecessary slap; the same intolerance was applied to the laundering of her beautiful clothes, with never a word of appreciation or a genuine smile.

Her smiles were gifted solely on Lord Joshua, offering a source of much interested gossip and speculation. Not that speculation was needed. Of course she was his mistress. What other reason could there be for a lady to be residing in the house of an unmarried gentleman, and one with such presence and address as his lordship? Fortunately, with his lordship somewhat incapacitated, the Countess was frequently away from the house in Hanover Square.

Lord Joshua proved to be an enigma, spending much time at home, nursing his wounds. The library became his personal domain where he read the Morning Post, drank brandy and wrote many letters. Millington proved to be a fount of knowledge for the household. His lordship had few visitors, but the gentlemen who called at the house did so at unusual times, often late at night. They never gave their names or left a visiting card. Quite respectable, dark-suited individuals, as might be expected from the legal profession, but Millington did not think they were connected with the law. Lord Joshua also received an inordinate amount of mail, over and above the gilt-edged invitations.

Otherwise his life was very quiet, which did not seem to Sarah to be at all in keeping with what she imagined the lifestyle of a notorious rake to be. But, of course, he had the companionship of the Countess. Millington swore on his own authority that his lordship visited her room at night. What man in his right mind would not, with so glamorous and seductive a lady living under his roof and casting out lures. Millington whispered rumours of outrageous orgies and scandalous parties hosted by his lordship in Paris. Not perfectly sure that she knew what an orgy entailed, Sarah’s suspicions were aroused when, on entering the morning room, she encountered the couple unawares. She was able to retreat, but not before she saw the Countess of Wexford brush her hand through his lordship’s hair and reach up to kiss him full on his mouth.

Sarah found herself thinking vengeful thoughts against the lady, disappointed that Lord Joshua Faringdon could not see the Countess of Wexford for what she was. At the same time she admitted, with a blush, that she would like nothing better than to take the Countess’s role in this little scene. Standing in the scullery, a newly polished silver tureen in her hands, her fingers itched to stroke through that silvered hair. Her lips trembled at the thought of the man’s intimate caress. Sarah blinked at the shattering image, putting down the tureen with unnecessary force and little thought to its value.

When Sarah’s cheeks had cooled and she had scolded herself out of her bad temper, her thoughts turned to Lord Joshua’s daughter. So young and yet with a studied and disturbing composure. Beth had already been taught the rudiments of reading by someone in the household in Richmond. She loved to turn the pages of books, poring over the illustrations, and even more to listen to Sarah read the stories, following the words with her small hands. She was soon close to having read all the suitable books in the schoolroom. On the whole Sarah found that her role of governess was not onerous, particularly as Beth took on the role of an elder sister toward John. She reprimanded him and hugged him in equal measure. John at his most good-natured accepted the attention with equanimity.

Given Beth’s blunt statement that she was not wanted, it surprised Sarah that Lord Joshua took it upon himself to visit his daughter every day, although there was little obvious progress in developing a closer relationship. His lordship made every effort, inviting her to ride in the park in the barouche. Beth declined, most politely. He asked if she would care to visit her Aunt Judith. Yes, of course, but first she must finish an exercise for Mrs Russell. Beth rarely raised her eyes from her book, almost as if she feared to make contact with her father. It worried Sarah. How she would have hated if John had reacted so toward his own father. If Lord Joshua wished to learn more about his daughter and was not the careless parent as he had been painted, he was having no success. So, certain of one sure way to the child’s heart, Sarah decided to take some action.

She arranged to visit his lordship in the library one morning, knowing that the Countess was from home. He looked up as she knocked and entered.

‘Good morning, Mrs Russell.’ Although he might be surprised to see his housekeeper seek him out, with innate good manners he pushed himself to his feet and approached.

‘Forgive me if I intrude, my lord. May I speak with you about your daughter?’ There he stood. An imposing figure, a little withdrawn, but not unwelcoming. Sarah swallowed against her breath, which had for some reason become lodged in her throat.

‘Of course. Is there some difficulty? She seems well enough.’ He was blandly gracious.

‘Not exactly a difficulty, my lord. Your daughter is keen to read and she loves books. Would you be willing to allow her to come and read here in the library when you are at home? She is very careful and will cause no damage. Perhaps after her morning lessons? I thought that she would care to see the plant illustrations and the books with the coloured pictures of animals and birds.’ If anything would create a bond between them, this might be the answer. At least it would put them in the same room together. But would he refuse? Would he say that it was her responsibility to entertain and educate his daughter?

‘Of course. Let her come.’ He would have turned away, the matter as far as he was concerned settled.

‘Also,’ she added as an apparent afterthought, ‘she enjoys stories.’

‘Are you suggesting, then, that I should read to her?’ The Faringdon brows rose.

‘It is not my position to suggest that, sir.’

‘No? You are, after all, her governess.’ A line marred his brow as his attention was caught by this fair lady who had such an air of insistence about her.

‘Beth will enjoy it, sir.’

‘Beth?’ The brows rose again.

‘Forgive me, my lord.’ Sarah sighed inwardly. She had forgotten her somewhat high-handed change of the child’s name. ‘Celestine. It is just that John does not pronounce it well. And she enjoys being called Beth.’ He would probably demur, she decided as she awaited his reply. It might be that it was a family name that he would wish to keep.

‘I see.’ He narrowed his eyes at his housekeeper. Neat and self-effacing, yet supremely competent, as he always saw her. But with a strong managing streak, it would seem. He felt as he came under the gaze of her guileless blue eyes that he had been penned very neatly into a corner, although for what purpose he was unsure. Even to the change of name of his daughter! But if it was acceptable to the child …

‘Then Beth it shall be. Let her come here, as I said.’

In considerable relief at this anticlimax, Sarah curtsied and turned to go, leaving Lord Joshua to return to his seat by the window. Without thought, he moved awkwardly so that he took his full weight on his damaged hip, staggered a little, and in so doing brushed against a book on the edge of his desk. It fell to the floor, a minor mishap. Sarah’s immediate instinct was to pick it up.

‘Leave it.’ The order was instant and harsh. ‘I am not a cripple.’

Tension, sharp and diamond bright, crackled in the still room.

‘I was never under an impression that you were, my lord,’ Sarah replied immediately, as if the tone had not startled her. She bent to pick up the book.

‘Leave it, I said.’

She straightened, eyes wide on his face. ‘But why, my lord? There is no need for you to stoop, to put added pressure on your strained joint. It would be foolish of you to do so.’ For a brief moment she saw the raw, unguarded expression in his eyes. A sharp physical pain. But an even sharper humiliation. And she understood without words that such a man would detest his dependence on others. Her instinct, her driving need, was to approach him. To touch, offer comfort, soothe with soft hands and kind words. But she could not. She was a servant and it was not her place. And he was not, she thought, a man to accept such comfort.

Lord Joshua stiffened under the gentle but totally unexpected reprimand. She was looking at him, he realised, as if he were a spoilt child in her care, one who had been ill mannered enough to reject a kind offer. And she was right, of course, he accepted with a disgust as the housekeeper continued to upbraid him with perfect propriety. ‘I am employed as your housekeeper to pick up after you, my lord.’

‘Yet you will disobey me, Mrs Russell.’ Inner fury still vibrated through his body.

‘You can, of course, dismiss me if that is your will, sir. For picking up a book.’ There was the faintest question, a suggestion of censure in her voice and her composure challenged him. He flushed with a sense of shame, even as her forthright words earned Sarah a sharp glance. But he had seen the stupidity of his rejection of her help, born of lack of patience and clumsy frustration at his inability to move about with the readiness of before, his incarceration within the four walls when used to a life of action and involvement. His behaviour was unpardonable. His manners must disgust. He took a steady breath and tightened his control.

‘Forgive me, Mrs Russell. I was not considerate.’

‘No. But as my employer you do not have to be so.’

She placed the book back on to the desk and went out, leaving him more than a little astounded at the parting shot. So meek and mild as his housekeeper appeared. Nothing like. The lady had teeth! And a confidence above the norm for a housekeeper of such tender years.

Sarah closed her eyes as the door shut behind her and wondered what she could possibly have been about, what fierce dragon she had unleashed from its cave. Seeing the frustration and impatience, she had appreciated its source and her heart had been touched in that moment of physical weakness. But to tell her employer that he was stupid and illogical—if not in so many words—what had she done?

Yet there were no repercussions other than the child spending time in her father’s company, in an undertaking that the little girl could not resist. All those books with their coloured plates and leather bindings with gilt and red tooling. Altogether a neat little plot that Sarah prayed would be beneficial for both.

As it proved to be.

Lord Joshua found his daughter to be not tentative or shy, but painfully reserved with an equally painful desire for approval. She came into the library next day, wished him good morning, chose a book and sat in silence, curled up in a window seat, turning the pages with uncanny deliberation. He looked over at her. What did one say to an eight-year-old child whom one did not know? She seemed content with her own company and yet here was a chance he should not overlook since Mrs Russell had effectively thrown them together. He must make a beginning.

‘Celestine …’

‘Yes, Papa.’

‘Mrs Russell says that in the schoolroom you are called Beth.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you prefer it?’

‘Yes, Papa.’

‘Shall I call you Beth?’

‘If you wish it, Papa.’ Not exactly enthusiastic, but it was not an outright no.

‘Then I will. It is a pretty name.’ He smiled at her across the width of the library. And, after a heartbeat, she smiled back.

Which was enough for one day, his lordship decided. Mrs Russell and her stories could wait. They both returned to their silent perusal of the printed word, at least one of them aware that an important bridge had been crossed. Lord Joshua found a smile touch his lips as he watched his daughter and considered the possible tactics of Mrs Sarah Russell.

Lord Joshua met the other child in his establishment in the stables. John withdrew into one of the empty stalls as his lordship came in to inspect the horseflesh. Lord Joshua noted the quick movement and spoke to the silent shadow.

‘Do you like horses?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Come here.’

John edged forward. ‘My mama says I must not be a nuisance or speak to you unless you speak to me first, sir.’

He laughed ‘Does she now? Then come and tell me—where were you born?’

‘In London, sir.’

‘Have you always lived here?’

‘I have been to New York in America. I have—’ John would have said more, but then stopped and frowned. ‘My mama says that I must not say.’

The child ran off before tempted into further indiscretions.

Which admission Lord Joshua thought was probably a tall story, embroidered by a child’s desire for adventure—yet there was something about him and his mother that was beginning to take his interest. He sensed secrets here. And the lad’s mother had clearly laid down instructions. What was Mrs Russell? Gently born, of course, presumably fallen on bad times. He wondered idly about the boy’s father. Perhaps he should ask Judith when they next met since she had employed the lady.

But of course it was not of very great importance. His mind turned to other matters.

Meanwhile, imperceptibly the Countess of Wexford began to make her presence felt more and more in the household, encroaching on the reins of power. It was not appreciated. Nor was her antipathy to Mrs Russell. Her intense dislike was patently evident, for what reason no one could guess, but which had no effect other than to unite the servants’ hall against the Countess in support of the housekeeper. What right did she have to look down her supercilious nose at Mrs Russell? If there should be any criticism levelled against the servants, it should be at the hands of Lord Joshua Faringdon. And he appeared to find no cause for complaint in the running of his household.

It had become customary for Sarah to present herself every morning in the breakfast parlour to discuss the menu and any particular needs for the day. It was unfortunate that within the second week the Countess of Wexford was completing her breakfast alone. Her tight smile on seeing Mrs Russell was not pleasant.

‘Ah. Mrs Russell. The menu for another tedious meal.’ She held out an imperious hand for the list. ‘Tell me, Mrs Russell. Where were you last employed as housekeeper?’

‘I have never been in employment as housekeeper, my lady.’ I have never been employed at all!

‘Never? That would account for it, I suppose.’ The sneer was most marked as the lady perused the list. ‘So how can you presume to know the needs of a gentleman’s establishment such as this?’

‘I have had no complaints from Lord Faringdon, my lady.’ The perfect housekeeper kept her hands folded, her eyes lowered respectfully, her intense irritation veiled.

A glint of anger in the Countess’s eyes was hardly masked. ‘Who provided your references for this position?’

Well, there was only one way out of this difficulty. Sarah looked up. ‘I was employed for this post by the Countess of Painscastle.’ She refused to allow her direct gaze to fall. ‘Her ladyship found my abilities highly appropriate. Perhaps you could apply to her if you have some concerns, my lady.’

On which challenging statement, Lord Joshua entered, easily catching the tenor of the exchange. ‘There will be no need, Mrs Russell. I am more than satisfied with the arrangement.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Sarah found it difficult to keep a stern countenance. She was human enough after all to be tempted into what could only be described as a little crow of triumph. But she suppressed the urge.

‘Of course not, Joshua.’ The Countess’s smile was deceptively sweet as she lifted her face towards his lordship. ‘I would imply no other. I merely wondered about Mrs Russell’s history.’ She patted a chair beside her, an obvious gesture that Lord Joshua had no difficulty in ignoring. ‘But another matter, my dear. I would wish to entertain. On Friday. Is there a problem if I arrange a little dinner party?’

‘No.’ Apart from some surprise at the request, he could think of no suitable reason why not. Other than a disinclination to spend an evening in the company of Olivia’s set.

‘Then I would like to hold a banquet for some particular friends. A French banquet—something a little out of the ordinary, to impress, you understand.’ The curl of her lips in Sarah’s direction was lethal in intent. She cast an eye over the light dinner menu for that evening again with delicate disdain. ‘Nothing of this nature, of course. So plain and uninteresting, do you not think? Only two main courses and a mean selection of side dishes apart from the dessert. Do you think that our kitchen might be capable of producing something suitably impressive, Mrs Russell?’ Sarah’s earlier challenge was thus returned in good measure.

‘Of course, my lady. A French banquet.’ I will do it if it kills me in the process. But her heart sank at the prospect.

‘I really do think that we should employ a French chef, Joshua. So much more imaginative and exciting.’ The Countess sighed heavily and dramatically. ‘I suppose that I must leave it in your hands, Mrs Russell, on this occasion. I trust that I shall not be disappointed.’

‘We shall make every effort to ensure your satisfaction, my lady.’

Sarah took herself back to the kitchen, seething in anger.

‘What on earth is the matter, my dear?’ Mrs Beddows replaced a lid on a steaming pan and wiped her hands. ‘Is it That Woman again?’

‘Yes! Of course it is! Can we produce a French banquet for twelve guests on Friday night?’

‘A French banquet?’

‘The Countess wishes to test our mettle, Mrs Beddows. And if we are found wanting, she will insist on his lordship appointing a French chef!’

‘Does she indeed?’ Mrs Beddows bridled, her slight bosom swelling. ‘You tell me what we need and I will cook it. We will not have that hoity-toity madam or a foreigner interfering in my kitchen! What do I cook?’

‘I have no idea. I have never been to a French banquet.’ Sarah thought, tapping her fingers against the heavy dresser with its array of blue porcelain. ‘But I know someone who has.’

Thus a series of notes passed rapidly between Sarah, Judith and her mama, Lady Beatrice Faringdon, resulting in a formal manuscript arriving in Hanover Square, inscribed on thick cream vellum, being a copy of the menu for the French banquet served on the fifteenth of January in 1817 by the Prince Regent himself within the splendours of Brighton Pavilion.

Sarah, Millington and Mrs Beddows sat down to dissect it with varying degrees of horror and near-hysterical laughter at the splendour and scale of it.

‘We cannot do this, Mrs Russell. Indeed we cannot,’ Mrs Beddows finally decided, aghast, slapping her hands down against the table top. ‘Four soups, followed by four fish and then—well, I never!—thirty-six entrées, four of them with side dishes—and thirty-six desserts. Not to mention eight patisserie! And look at this. Turbot with lobster sauce, pike with oysters … eel with quenelles, truffles and cock’s combs.’

‘Roast larks in pastry lined with chicken livers!’ continued Millington. ‘And truffles mentioned six—no, seven times in all!’

‘Such extravagance!’ Mrs Beddows shook her head. ‘With the best will in the world, we cannot—’

‘No, no, Mrs Beddows. Of course we cannot.’ Sarah patted her hand consolingly. ‘But look. We can follow the same pattern of courses and simply select what we require. We can use some of the same dishes, but not the most extravagant. Alter some of the ingredients if necessary. And if we give them their French title … Millington can be sure to tell the Countess when she asks, as she most assuredly will. And since his lordship has placed no restrictions on our expenditure, then I suggest that money should be no object!’

‘Well … If you think so …’ A competitive spark had entered the cook’s eye.

‘I do. We have something to prove here. We will also, I suggest, serve it à la française, with the dishes arranged in the middle of the table so that the guests help themselves and then pass them on to their fellow guests. Very fashionable in the greatest houses, I understand, and highly inconvenient for those who wish to sample a dish from the far end of the table, but if that is what her ladyship wishes …’ A wicked little smile crossed Sarah’s face as she contemplated the possibilities. ‘What’s more, I shall write out the menu, à la française, which will be highly uncomfortable for everyone if they do not recognise the dishes. Haute cuisine is what she demanded, so haute cuisine is what she will get. Whatever happens, we do not want one of the Countess of Wexford’s creatures lording it over this kitchen.’

‘Certainly not.’ The agreement was unanimous.

So they would do it. The servants’ hall declared war. The result was a positive tour de force. A French banquet in exemplary fashion, served by Millington and the footmen with style and panache. The guests were impressed beyond measure. Millington, when asked, wielded French phrases as expertly as Mrs Beddows wielded her boning knife. The turbot à l’Anglaise (turbot without lobster sauce) was mouthwatering, the noix de veau à la jardinière (veal with fresh vegetables) exquisite, the côte de boeuf aux oignons glaces (roast beef garnished with glazed onions) a perfect dish, the meat cooked to a tender delight. As for the petits soufflés d’abricots—one of a handful of memorable desserts—what could one say? Olivia Wexford’s guests could not but be impressed.

The results were beyond expectation. Lord Joshua sent his compliments and words of approval to his housekeeper and cook with suave and amused appreciation. Never had he been host to so fine a banquet in his own home. Not a vestige of a grin was allowed to warm his stern features as he recognised Mrs Russell’s throwing down of a culinary gauntlet. It had certainly added an element of tension and comment to an otherwise tedious evening. A frisson of sheer pleasure.

The servants, flushed with effort and triumph, ate well from the left-overs and probably would do so for days. It was a pleasure to toast the achievements of Mrs Russell and Mrs Beddows in the half-dozen bottles of claret spirited magically from the proceedings in the dining room by a cunning and slick-handed Millington.

The Countess of Wexford was furious, her pleasure in the whole evening spoiled beyond measure, but unable to express her true sentiments in the face of such overwhelming satisfaction, particularly from Lord Joshua. She had lost this battle and had to accept it with a gracious smile and flattering words. Her fingers curled around her fruit knife like a claw.

So the evening ended with food for thought. A delicious pun, Lord Joshua thought, much entertained at having seen the light of battle in the eyes of his intriguing housekeeper. And there was an undoubted gleam in his eyes, a gleam that could be interpreted as pure mischief, as the Countess took herself off to her bed at the first opportunity without a word and a disgruntled flounce. He had not been so amused for many weeks.

There was no further discussion of a French chef.

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