Shall We Dance?. Kasey Michaels

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ definitely had at least one tall candlestick shoved up under her apron.

      The one he’d decided had to be an upper servant, if not the butler, secured himself a hack within a half mile. So he’d followed the others on foot, all the way to the nearest pub, and sat himself down behind them to listen to their conversation.

      Good, thoroughly stupid English citizens, the trio of them, all of them appalled by the charges brought against their queen. And all of them finding her guilty because it suited their judgmental spleens, with no need to hear a single fact when supposition was so juicy, and unwilling to spend another night beneath the roof of such a disgraceful woman.

      And he’d been right. The fourth person had been the butler, who had already promised to assist them in gaining new employment in a more Christian, God-fearing household.

      So the queen needed a new butler, did she? Well, it had been about time Bernard Nestor’s luck had changed for the better! And it wasn’t as if he wouldn’t know how to go on. He had lived in his father’s house, hadn’t he? He’d survived in that small office behind Brougham’s butler’s suite of rooms—rooms for a butler, with only a single, near-hole-in-the-wall for his most devoted assistant. Yes, he knew how to go on, and that knowledge, plus that niggling problem with the workings of his brain box, gave him untold courage, if not a chin.

      Now he knocked again when no one answered, imperiously this time, and when the door finally opened, he stepped inside, declaring, “This is unpardonable. Never before have I been kept waiting! Who are you, woman? A name! Give me a name! Mrs. Fitzhugh? Housekeeper, I’ll assume, for your sins. I tell you, now that I am butler here anyone who doesn’t know how to behave will be shown the door, do you understand me? Even you, Mrs. Fitzhugh. Already the queen has been left unattended too long, which is highly upsetting to Miss Fredericks, you know. Well? Cat got your tongue? Show me to my quarters, search out the attics for suitable clothing I’m sure is kept there for upper staff, as my baggage has been stolen by a pair of ruffians on the dock. Oh, and you may call me Mr. Nestor.”

      THE HOUSEKEEPER headed toward the main drawing room, wringing her still-trembling hands and talking to herself. “I tell you, Mrs. Fitzhugh, I don’t remember Mistress Fredericks saying a word about someone to replace Mr. Carstairs. It hasn’t been above a few hours since he left. She’s a quick one, I’ll say that for her.”

      “Now, now, Maryann,” she answered herself, “just because you took the man in dislike doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong. Best to keep mum. Could get you the sack, seeing as how your background couldn’t exactly stand up straight to much of a look-see, even if he said he’d made things all right and proper and—”

      “All right, all right. But I can’t like the man. He’s got no chin. Our uncle Oliver had no chin, remember? Those same shifty eyes. And he never missed a chance to pinch our bottom. I’ll not be turning my back on the likes of Mr. Nestor. Shh, footsteps.”

      Both of Maryann Fitzhugh peeked around a corner of the hallway to see Gerado pacing with his head down, muttering to himself in that suspicious foreigner tongue.

      “Here, here. You’re not to leave your post. Po-st. Position.” She raised one fist, pantomimed a rapping motion. “Door. Knock-knock.”

      Gerado rolled his eyes. “Visitors for Miss Fredericks. Tea and cakes, si? And to tell Miss Fredericks? And, si, the knock-knock.” He raised both hands, palm up, and shrugged. “Where to go first, capire?”

      “Yes, yes, I understand,” Mrs. Fitzhugh crowed, thrilled at this breakthrough. Why, she was almost talking Italian herself! She pointed to Gerardo’s chest. “You…go knock-knock Miss Fredericks. After, you go back to door knock-knock.” She placed both hands on her bosom. “I…go kitchen for cakes and tea.”

      “Idiota,” Gerado said, nodding his head as he turned and walked away.

      Feeling quite generous, now that she’d managed to settle a domestic crisis Mr. No-Chin Nestor should have by rights dealt with, Mrs. Fitzhugh returned to the kitchens, just in time to answer yet another knock on the service door. Busy place, a queen’s residence. How was she ever supposed to do what she came to do?

      “Yes?” she asked imperiously, more prepared than she’d been when Mr. Nestor all but barged into the kitchens.

      The woman on the doorstep was much of Mrs. Fitzhugh’s own age, fairly round—well cushioned—and marginally attractive in a faded sort of way.

      She didn’t quite look the housekeeper in the eye as she dropped into an abbreviated curtsy. “My name, ma’am, is Esther Pidgeon, and I once served as maid in the queen’s household, when she was Princess Caroline. I know I am being horribly bold, and I have no current references, as I left service several years ago to marry. But now that Mr. Pidgeon is gone, and once I saw that the queen, that dear, sweet woman, has returned to our shores, I had hoped, foolishly, I’m sure, that I could possibly once more be of service?”

      Mrs. Fitzhugh took in every word. “So, you’re not here because Miss Fredericks called you here somehow?”

      “Miss Fredericks? No, I’m sorry. I can’t say as I can place the name. We worked under a succession of housekeepers, but that name is not familiar to me.”

      A silent conversation ensued:

      Maryann: She seems decent enough. But no references? He had to have them for me, so they must be important things to have.

      Mrs. Fitzhugh: Oh, cut line, Maryann. You don’t have the foggiest notion how a housekeeper goes on. If this weren’t a household of crazy foreigners, that strange girl and one batty old woman, you’d never have gotten a toe in the door, no matter what he wrote. As it was, best thing could have happened was for that fool Carstairs to take a flit. He was looking entirely too hard at you.

      Maryann: It would be lovely to have some say in who is hired, wouldn’t it?

      Mrs. Fitzhugh: There you go. You want that odd Nestor fellow saying who stays and who goes? Call her your assistant, why don’t you? The girl wanted someone else anyway. Partridges and all that.

      “Very well. You’re hired,” Mrs. Fitzhugh said, and then bullied one young housemaid who most obligingly burst into tears. All while Esther Pidgeon looked on approvingly.

      NATE WATCHED, standing back to keep himself safe from the exuberant hugging and rather hysterical female screeching as Miss Fredericks and his Georgie greeted each other. His Georgie? What was he thinking?

      “I didn’t know you were in London,” Amelia Fredericks said, holding tightly on to Georgiana’s hands as the two of them sank onto the couch. “I’ve already sent you a note, hoping you could come visit, but to your mother’s country house.”

      “No, no, they brought me here, to marry me off to any poor fool who would have me,” Georgiana said, then quickly looked up at Nate, panic in her eyes. “That is, um, Amelia? I should like to introduce to you my…my, um…”

      “Sir Nathaniel Rankin, Miss Fredericks, although you may feel free to think of me as a prospective poor fool,” Nate said quickly, executing what he knew to be an impeccable leg. “A delight, I’m sure. Georgiana has told me that you and she are great friends. How affecting it is to see such joy in Georgiana’s eyes.”

      “Sir Nathaniel,” Amelia said, allowing him to bow over her hand. “I cannot thank you enough for bringing Georgiana to me.”

      “Yes,” СКАЧАТЬ