Rogue's Lady

“About as much as I do about farming. But Lucilla insists I have naught to lose by attempting it. Perhaps ’twill be entertaining to attend some ton parties.”

“You’ve always derived enjoyment from your cousin’s company,” Barrows pointed out. “And I have perceived of late that you seemed disinclined to accept some of the lures cast at you. Why, Lady Marlow practically—”

“Not you, too,” Will groaned.

“If pursuing the improper sort of female has left you dissatisfied, attempting to entice the other sort might at least add a spice of variety to your life.”

“I expect we shall see. Count how many coins we’ve set aside, won’t you? It seems I must visit the tailor. I’m to make my grand entrance soon at Lady Ormsby’s rout.”

“At once, m’lord.” Raising the glass to him, Barrows walked out.

Add a spice of variety to his existence. Yes, entering the ton should do that. After a lifetime of being an outsider, the child not wanted, the student left behind at school during term breaks, he had no expectation that Lucilla’s experiment would do anything more.

CHAPTER THREE

TWO WEEKS LATER, as she helped Mrs. Bessborough stack freshly laundered sheets in the linen press, Allegra reflected wryly that the changes the housekeeper had predicted had begun sooner than—and not at all in the manner—that good woman had predicted.

Captain Lord Lynton had still not arrived, although the household continued to expect him at any moment. Apparently unconcerned with how Lynton House’s new owner might view her actions, however, the day after her husband’s funeral Sapphira summoned a small army of merchants and craftsmen to measure windows, floors, mantels and stairs. She intended, Allegra overheard her telling friends, to refurbish her late spouse’s fusty old town house from attic to cellars.

And so she had, banishing the Chippendale mahogany furniture and brocaded hangings and replacing them with draperies in the startlingly bright colors she preferred and furnishings in the new Egyptian style.

When Hobbs, begging her pardon, objected to her wreaking a similar transformation upon the library until the new master determined what he wished to have done with his private domain, she’d sacked him and hired a sharp-faced younger man. She’d gone on to demote Cook to a mere assistant and hire a French chef whose expertise, she informed Mrs. Bessborough, would better please her discriminating guests.

“I visited Mr. Hobbs during my half-day,” Mrs. Bessborough said, pulling Allegra out of her contemplation. “So sad it was to see him, stripped of his duties, and he a man still in his prime!” She shook her head. “I expect at any moment she will turn me off, as well.”

“You needn’t fear that,” Allegra assured her. “Whatever her failings, Aunt Sapphira is clever enough to understand that with Stirling still finding his way about his butler’s duties, the household would come to a complete halt without your steadying hand at the reins.”

The housekeeper sniffed. “Indeed, for who would smooth down Cook’s hackles or calm the maids after one of Monsieur Leveque’s tantrums? She oughta be grateful you’re here, too, speaking that Frenchie’s tongue sweet as a lark and soothing his devil’s temper like you do. I declare, even with the both of us, sometimes ’tis a pure miracle she gets her morning chocolate and her fancy dinners on time!”

At a jangling sound, Mrs. Bessborough glanced over at the bell case. “The front parlor—that will be the mistress. Now, where is Lizzie?”

“I’ll go.” With a half-smile, Allegra added, “Aunt Sapphira is probably looking for me anyway.”

Wondering what chore her aunt would try to foist on her now, Allegra gave the last sheet to the housekeeper and took the stairs to the parlor.

Allegra suspected Lady Lynton’s speedy sacking of Hobbs and demotion of Cook was intended both to begin restaffing the household with key employees loyal only to her and to deprive Allegra of anyone in authority who remembered her as a valued family member instead of a poor relation kept to do Sapphira’s bidding. Welcoming the struggle as a distraction from her grief, since the new butler’s arrival Allegra had been fighting a small rearguard action to stymie Sapphira’s attempts to relegate her to servant status.

The day of his arrival, most certainly upon Sapphira’s order, Stirling had stopped her in the hall and commanded her to clean the fireplaces in the guest bedrooms. With a hauteur that would have done Lady Grace proud, Allegra raked the man with a frosty glance and informed him that as Lord Lynton’s cousin, she would determine for herself which tasks, fit for a gentlewoman, she wished to perform. Shrewd enough to realize the imprudence of challenging Allegra—at least not until the new master returned and made her position clear—he’d since ignored her.

Allegra also refused to Sapphira’s face any chore the widow tried to assign her that did not fall, by Allegra’s definition, within the scope of a lady’s duties. Though her aunt had several times vowed she’d have “that ungrateful foreign brat” thrown into the street, nothing so dire had come to pass. Allegra concluded that Sapphira either did not trust her new butler to lay hands on a self-proclaimed lady—or realized she could not count on any of the footmen to assist Stirling in carrying out an order to eject her husband’s unwanted relation.

Balked at forcing Allegra into menial duties, Sapphira countered by devising a never-ending succession of the most tedious but genteel chores she could imagine. Wondering whether she would be taxed to answer letters, sort the tangle of embroidery threads in Sapphira’s sewing basket, pour tea or fetch the shawl, fan, sewing scissors or other item Sapphira inexplicably could not locate, particularly when there was an audience to watch Allegra do her bidding, Allegra knocked on the parlor door.

She entered to find Sapphira entertaining Lady Ingram and Mrs. Barton-Smythe, the two among her friends Allegra most disliked. At least, she thought with relief, it wasn’t any of Sapphira’s sycophant admirers, who, emboldened by her husband’s death, paid her calls nearly every day.

After glancing at her when she walked in, Sapphira looked away, pointedly ignoring Allegra as she returned her attention to her friends. Allegra set her teeth and waited.

“You hadn’t heard?” Lady Ingram was saying. “The divine Lord Tavener gave up Clorinda a month ago. Felicia Marlow’s been trying to fix his interest—to no avail. Now, there’s a man who could distract one from one’s grief!”

“Such presence,” Mrs. Barton-Smythe sighed. “Such eyes! Such physique!”

“Such technique,” Lady Ingram riposted, setting the women giggling.

Such a conversation to be having with a new widow, Allegra thought, her small store of patience exhausted. Compared to Rob, she doubted she’d find this Lord Tavener so “divine.”

Pasting a smile on her face, she dipped a graceful curtsey. “Aunt Sapphira, how might I assist you?”

Her expression disapproving, Mrs. Barton-Smythe said, “Anyway, I understand Tavener’s finally looking to marry. That should set off some fluttering in the dovecotes of London!”

“Indeed!” Sapphira replied. Finally deigning to acknowledge Allegra, she turned and waved an imperious hand at her, like a sovereign giving permission for an underling to approach. “I find the parlor chilly, Allegra. Fetch my shawl. And do put an apron over that gown while you help Stirling polish the silver, for if you spoil the dress, I shan’t buy you another!” Turning to her friends, she said with a shake of her head, “So thoughtless—but what can one expect of a chit of her background?”

Curling her nails into her palms to stifle the first response that sprang to her lips, Allegra laughed lightly. “Poor Aunt Sapphira, grief is making you forgetful! Polishing silver is a footman’s task, as you know quite well. Although,” she added in a thoughtful tone, “forgetfulness is said to be a sign of an aging mind. By the way, dear aunt, should you not take a seat out of the sunlight? ’Tis so injurious to the mature complexion.”

Sapphira had opened her lips, probably to give Allegra a set-down, but at that last remark, alarm flared in her eyes. Clamping her mouth shut, she jumped up from the sofa and hurried over to the mirror.

Just then the front door knocker sounded. “Answer that before you get my shawl,” Sapphira ordered as she peered into the glass, searching her reflection.

Suppressing a chuckle, Allegra exited the room and walked down to the entry hall. Bypassing with a rueful shrug the footman who stood ready to perform that task, she threw open the door.

Allegra’s breath caught and her hand clutched the doorknob as her gaze locked on the tall officer in scarlet regimentals. “Rob!” she gasped.

A thin scar made a white arch over the left eyebrow of a face bronzed by a life in the saddle. Standing on the threshold was not the lighthearted Oxford student she remembered, but someone older, rather stern-looking, every inch the seasoned commander who had led men in battle.

Still, with his hair the color of ripe wheat and his deep blue eyes set off by the brilliant red of his uniform, Rob Lynton was even handsomer than the university student of six years ago. She exhaled in a rush as something fluttered in her chest.

He was staring at her, as well. “Is that—Allegra? Heavens, how grown up you look! But what are you doing answering the door?”

“Oh, R-Rob!” she stuttered, his dear face suddenly reminding her so vividly of his father’s that grief razored through her, bringing tears to her eyes.

Seeing them, his expression softened. Stepping past her to close the door, he murmured, “Ah, Allegra, ’tis a heartache indeed,” and drew her into his arms.

Savoring the feeling of his closeness, she clung to him, fighting the urge to weep. A sharp “harrumph” made her straighten. She turned to see Stirling watching them, disapproval on his face.

Eying her askance, he inclined his head to Rob and said icily, “How may I help you, soldier?”

With one hand resting on her shoulder, Rob looked him up and down. “It’s ‘captain’ to you, sirrah. And who are you? Where is Hobbs?”

“Rob, this is Stirling, your, ah, new butler,” Allegra interposed.

Stirling’s face registered shock, followed by an almost comical dismay. “Lord Lynton, f-forgive me!” he stammered, bowing low. “Please allow me to express my own and the staff’s great pleasure at your safe return!”

Frowning, Rob glanced around the entry at the crocodile-legged table and brightly striped hangings. “Is this home?”

“Perhaps I should take you in to meet Sapphira,” Allegra suggested.

Rob grimaced. “Ah, yes, my lovely new mama. No point postponing that pleasure, I suppose. My batman will be arriving shortly,” he said to Stirling. “Assist him in stowing my kit.” Turning his back on the butler, he grasped Allegra’s arm. “Shall we go?”

Stirling bowed deeply as they passed. “At once, my lord, Miss Allegra!”