The Gamekeeper's Lady

Too bad she couldn’t leave well enough alone. He caught her fingers and pressed them to his lips. ‘What? Be tied to just one woman when there are so many to enjoy?’

‘You are a bad man,’ she said. And I adore you.’

She whirled around in a rustle of skirts, a cloud of rose perfume and sex. She opened the door and dashed down the stairs to her waiting carriage.

Yes, Robert thought, he would miss her a great deal. Now whom did he have waiting in the wings to fill his Tuesday afternoons? A knotty, but interesting problem. The new opera dancer at Covent Garden had thrown him a lure last week. A curvy little armful with come-hither eyes. And yet, somehow, the thought of the chase didn’t stir his blood.

It wouldn’t be much of a chase. Perhaps he should look around a little more. Looking was half the fun.

He whistled under his breath as he readied himself for an evening at White’s.

Kent—1816

It was almost perfect. Wasn’t it? She just wished she could be sure. In the library’s rapidly fading daylight, Frederica Bracewell narrowed her eyes and compared her second drawing of a sparrow to the one in the book. The first one she’d attempted was awful. A five-year-old would have done better. Drawn with her right hand. She sighed. It didn’t matter how hard she tried, right-handed she was hopeless.

Devil’s spawn. An echo of Cook’s harsh voice hissed in her ear. Good-for-naught bastard. She rubbed her chilled hands together and held the second drawing up to the light. It was the best thing she’d done. But was it good enough?

The door opened behind her. She jumped to her feet. Heat rushed to her hairline. Heart beating hard, she turned, hiding the drawings with her body.

‘Only me, miss,’ Snively, the Wynchwood butler, said. A big man, with a shock of white hair and a fierce bulldog face, but his brown eyes twinkled as he carried a taper carefully across the room and lit the wall sconces.

Her heart settled back into a comfortable rhythm.

‘I didn’t realise you were working in here this afternoon or I would have had William light the fire,’ the butler said.

‘I’m not c-c-cold,’ she said, smiling at one of her few allies at Wynchwood. She didn’t want him losing his position by lighting unnecessary fires.

She picked up her rag with a wince. She’d completed very little of her assigned task: dusting the books. Uncle Mortimer would not be pleased.

In passing, Snively glanced at the pictures on the table. ‘This one is good,’ he said, pointing at the second one. ‘It looks ready to fly away. People pay for pictures like that.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘I do.’ Snively’s face hardened. ‘You ought to have proper lessons instead of copying from books. You’ve a talent.’

Always so supportive. Sometimes she imagined the starchy butler was her father. It might have been better if he was. Who knew what kind of low man the Wynchwood Whore had bedded.

‘It is not s-seemly for a woman to d-draw for money,’ she said quietly, ‘but I would love to go to Italy and see the great art of Europe. Perhaps even s-study with a drawing teacher.’

His mouth became a thin straight line. ‘So you should.’

‘Lord Wynchwood would never hear of it. It would be far too expensive.’

Snively frowned. ‘If you’ll excuse me saying so, the wages you’ve saved his lordship by serving as housekeeper these past many years would pay for a dozen trips to Italy.’

‘Only my uncle’s generosity keeps me here, Mr Snively. He could just as easily have left me at the workhouse.’

He glowered. ‘Your turn will come, miss. You mark my words. It will.’

She’d never heard the butler so vehement. She glanced over her shoulder at the door. ‘I beg you not to say anything to my uncle about these.’ She gestured at the drawings.

‘I wouldn’t dream of it, miss. You keep it up. One day your talent will be recognised. I can promise it.’

She smiled. ‘You are such a d-dear man.’

The library door slammed back.

Frederica jumped. Her heart leaped into her throat. ‘Uncle M-M-Mortimer.’ The words came out in a horrible rush.

The imperturbable Snively slid the book over her drawings and turned around with his usual hauteur. ‘Good evening, Lord Wynchwood.’

Uncle Mortimer, his wig awry on his head, his cheeks puce, marched in. ‘Nothing better to do than pass the time with servants, Frederica? Next you’ll be hobnobbing with the stable boy, the way your mother did.’

Beside her Snively drew himself up straighter.

She trembled. She hated arguments. ‘N-n-n—’

‘No?’ the old man snapped. ‘Then Snively is a figment of my imagination, is he?’

‘My lord,’ Snively said in outraged accents, ‘I was lighting the candles, as I always do at this time. I found Miss Bracewell dusting the books and stopped to help.’

‘I’m not chastising you, Snively. My niece is the one I need to keep in check.’ Frederica wasn’t surprised at her uncle’s about face. A butler of Snively’s calibre was hard to come by these days.

‘S-s-s—’ she started.

‘Sorry? You are always sorry. It is not good enough.’ He frowned. ‘Didn’t you hear me ringing?’

She took a quick breath. ‘N-no, Uncle. You asked me to d-d-dust the books in here. I d-d-did not hear your bell.’

‘Well, listen better, gel. I’ve some receipts to be copied into the account book. I want them all finished by supper time.’

Frederica hid her shudder. Hours of copying numbers into columns and rows. Trying to make them neat and tidy while not permitted to use anything but her right hand. Her shoulders slumped. ‘Yes, Uncle.’

‘Come along. Come along, don’t dilly dally. It is cold in here. My lungs cannot stand the chill. Snively, send word to Cook to send tea to my study.’

Snively bowed. ‘Don’t worry, miss, I’ll return everything to its proper place.

He meant he’d put her drawings in her room. If Mortimer found she’d been wasting her time drawing, he’d probably lock her in her chamber for a week. Which might not be so bad, she reflected as she hurried out of the room. She threw the butler a conspiratorial smile.

Without Snively and her impossible dream of travelling to Italy and learning from a real artist, her life would be truly unbearable.

Refreshed and relaxed after his afternoon with Maggie, Robert strolled through the front door of White’s and handed his coat and hat to the porter. ‘Lord Radthorn here yet, O’Malley?’

The beefy red-haired man blinked owlishly. ‘No, Lord Tonbridge.’

Robert didn’t bother to correct the fool. It never did any good. Only close family, friends and the odd woman could ever tell him and Charlie apart.

He took the stairs up to the great subscription room two at a time. The dark-panelled room buzzed with conversation and laughter despite the youth of the evening.