Читать книгу The Wastrel - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 13

Chapter Six

Clara was now convinced by Lord Mulholland’s mischievous eyes and friendly smile that he wasn’t angry, which pleased her. It would not do to upset their host. Unfortunately, she suspected that other emotions were now coming into play, at least on her part. In self-defense, she forced herself to meet shallow levity with a similar nonchalance. “I left all my brews behind in London,” she answered.

“There is no need to banish the cat.”

“You won’t mind him in the house? What about your dog?”

“Jupe will recover, I’m sure,” he said, “although his primary caretaker is an irresponsible lout.” He frowned with what looked like genuine dismay.

“If he is, surely you have several people who could care for the dog.”

“I was referring, my dear Miss Wells, to myself.”

“Oh.” Clara fell silent. She was no longer in any humor to play games, nor did she wish to remember that he had called her “my dear” in that sinfully wicked voice of his.

“I daresay he’ll avoid your pet the next time,” Lord Mulholland said, “so all should be well.”

“I’m sorry. But you did say the household,” she repeated, trying to avoid looking at his face, which she felt was far too close to her own.

“I meant your servants.”

Clara bit her lip and blushed. “We don’t have any servants.”

“Who keeps your household organized?” he asked. “Your aunt, worthy woman though she may be, hardly seems the type. And your uncle—I cannot see him shopping in a market.”

“We are not of your class, my lord,” Clara pointedly observed.

“I daresay there are plenty of people who would say I’m not worthy to belong to any class,” he replied flippantly. “I suspect, Miss Wells, that it is you who sees to the orderly running of your household, the cat included.”

“Someone has to, and since I am not a gifted painter, nor can I write, much to my uncle’s chagrin, those tasks fall to me,” she admitted.

His expression softened and his blue eyes were full of sympathy. “That must be very difficult.”

“No more than trying to keep a large dog under control,” she replied, attempting to sound matter-of-fact. She was determined not to let herself get weak and silly in his presence. “I must say, my lord, I would have expected you to have a purebred hunting dog. I would not have thought a mongrel elegant enough for a man of your distinction.”

Then something happened that Clara would not have expected in a hundred years. Lord Paris Mulholland blushed. “I caught a fellow trying to drown a bag of puppies. Jupe was one of them,” he explained.

Clara took a step back. She should get away from this man at once. She was proof against his foolish-wastrel persona; against this sincere and handsome man who had saved drowning puppies, she had fewer defenses.

His gaze met hers and he paused, then straightened his shoulders as if attempting to resume his usual languid attitude—with some success, Clara noted regretfully. “I tried to give him away once he was recovered, but the poor chap looks upon me as his savior apparently. If I give him away, he keeps coming back. Foolish, isn’t it, but there it is.”

“I don’t consider loyalty a foolish characteristic, my lord,” she replied. “I hope you will forgive Zeus. And me.”

“Since the destruction of the kitchen was also the fault of my dog, I could hardly hold you responsible, could I?” He stepped in front of her, so that she had to look at his face. “Quite frankly, I’m relieved to be spared the social necessity of teatime. Besides, I detest the beverage, and Mrs. Macurdy, while a dear old soul and the maker of the finest pies in Christendom, is utterly defeated when it comes to sandwiches.”

There was something so winning in the way he said this that Clara had to smile.

“I’m delighted to know I can make the iron maiden laugh,” he remarked, with a truly warm smile that, had Clara known him better, she would have realized was very rare indeed.

Unfortunately, she did not know him better, and it did not please her to be called “the iron maiden” by anyone.

“Clara, my dear!” Aunt Aurora called out from upstairs, just as if they were at home. This time, her aunt’s lack of social polish didn’t trouble Clara. She was far too glad of an excuse to get away.

“If you will excuse me, my lord,” she said coldly. “I must see if my aunt requires assistance.”

This time, his smile was charming and completely devoid of meaning. “Of course, Miss Wells.”

With her slim back as straight as Witherspoon’s, and her chin high, she walked past him and up the stairs.

She marched along the upper corridor. She could tell from her aunt’s rather loud tones which room had been given to her, and headed toward it.

Iron maiden, indeed! Was she supposed to be flattered by his attention? Did Lord Paris Mulholland think, in his smug, bold way, that he could make her laugh?

If she seemed hard or cold, it was because somebody in her family had to be, or her poor aunt and uncle would be at the mercy of every tradesman, merchant, landlord and swindler in London.

What would this lazy, selfish man know of her troubles? What gave him the right to call her names?

She suddenly realized a short, thin man stood at the other end of the corridor staring at her. He had thick, dark, wavy hair brushed back and oiled, a thin mustache, well-tailored clothes in the latest fashion and a very shrewd expression in his beady black eyes. “Greetings, mademoiselle, ” he said in a French accent as he came toward her. He stopped and made a gentlemanly bow. “Permit me to introduce myself. Jean Claude Beaumaris, valet de chambre to Lord Mulholland.”

“Enchanté de faire votre connaissance, Monsieur Beaumaris, ” Clara replied in French.

“Ah, mademoiselle!” he cried with pleasure. “Votre accent est excellent.”

“Merci, monsieur. Excusez-moi, s’il vous plaît. Ma tante a besoin de ma présence.”

“Certainement, ” he replied with another bow as he backed away, a wide grin on his face that made him resemble the mask of comedy.

She rapped once on Aunt Aurora’s door. What a strange fellow, she thought as she heard Aunt Aurora respond. Almost as strange, she supposed, as one would consider her guardians.

She entered the bedroom. Aunt Aurora was sitting in front of a large gilt mirror wearing her brightly patterned dressing gown and attempting to arrange her heavy, hennaed hair. The furniture was Oriental in design, with beautiful gold inlays in the dark lacquer. The bed had an ornately scrolled, gilded partial canopy. The bed curtains, of a light chintz pattern, matched the embroidered satin coverlet and the Oriental wallpaper.

Clara could think of no room in the world that would appeal to Aunt Aurora more, because of her love of all things exotic, except perhaps one in a sultan’s palace.

The moment she saw Clara, Aunt Aurora swiveled on the chair and looked at her niece worriedly. “What on earth happened below?” she asked. “I hope his lordship isn’t too upset!”

“No, he didn’t seem to be,” Clara replied. “I was letting Zeus out of his basket when the kitchen maid dropped a pot. Zeus was frightened, so he ran. Then Lord Mulholland’s dog gave chase.”

“Oh, dear, I knew bringing Zeus was not a wise idea.”

“It was the dog’s fault, too.”

Aunt Aurora continued to look concerned. “I don’t want to anger Lord Mulholland and have to leave,” she said. “I didn’t want to alarm you before, Clara, but we have not the funds we should and this commission is rather important.”

Clara was surprised that Aunt Aurora suspected the perilous nature of their financial situation; nevertheless, she hastened to reassure her. “He wasn’t so very angry,” she said placatingly. “More annoyed, I believe, and he was soon over that.”

“I should have known you would make things right,” Aunt Aurora said with satisfaction as she turned back to regard her reflection. “He is a most delightful young man. Just think, my dear, if your foolish grandfather was not so stubborn, you would be enjoying such society as a matter of course.”

Clara said nothing as she began to unpack her aunt’s gowns. What was there to say?

“Lord Mulholland is perfectly charming,” Aunt Aurora went on enthusiastically. “And so handsome! Paris, indeed!” She glanced at Clara. “He looks so much better in these bucolic surroundings, don’t you think?”

“He is handsome,” Clara agreed.

Who could disagree, she thought, recalling his casual attire of an open-necked white shirt, his surprisingly broad shoulders that were certainly not the result of the tailor’s art and his fawn-colored riding breeches that emphasized the muscularity of his thighs.

Aunt Aurora tried another arrangement of her front hair. “He’s a perfect gentleman, too, I’m certain.”

“I hope so,” Clara replied absently, staring at the brilliant colors of her aunt’s wardrobe and mentally contrasting them with the muted tones of the wallpaper.

“Not like some of those other young men who’ve come to my studio.”

Clara slowly turned to look at her aunt. Until this moment, she had assumed Aunt Aurora had no inkling of the antics of some of her male customers and models.

“Why, you needn’t stare so, Clara, although I’m sure a girl of your moral fiber didn’t even notice their cruder behavior.”

Clara certainly had; the wonder of it was that Aunt Aurora had not been oblivious. “You...you never sent anyone away,” she said slowly.

“Why should I? They were harmless enough, and I certainly had no fear that you would not see them for the vain puppies they were!”

Clara didn’t know whether she should frown or smile. It was good to think her aunt had faith in her perception, but was it not her guardian’s place to guard Clara from her customers’ attentions?

There was a soft knock on the door, and Clara opened it to find a pretty, smiling young woman in a maid’s uniform who dipped a curtsy. “Good day, miss,” she said nervously. “I’m to be your maid while you’re here.”

Clara was about to protest that they didn’t need a maid when Aunt Aurora rose as majestically as any queen and gave Clara a most triumphant look. “How thoughtful of Lord Mulholland! I am Aurora Wells, and this is my niece, Clara.”

The maid dipped another curtsy. The young woman looked so keen and anxious, Clara didn’t have the heart to send her away, and on second thought, it occurred to her that it might be a pleasant break not to have to help Aunt Aurora for a little while.

Nor should she make too much out of Lord Mulholland’s generosity. Providing a maid for their assistance was surely to be expected of any gentleman.

Of course, it still remained to be seen if Lord Mulholland was worthy of such an appellation.

Paris opened the door of his bedchamber at the far end of the corridor to discover that his valet was in a state of such excitement, the fellow could barely stand still. He looked not unlike one of the drunken revelers depicted in the medieval harvest tapestry hanging in the small drawing room.

“My lord!” Jean Claude exclaimed with true Gallic enthusiasm. “At last you bring home a young woman worthy of your attention!”

“What are you talking about?” Paris demanded as he closed the door, although he thought he could guess what Jean Claude was talking about. “The only young woman new in the house is Miss Wells,” he said coolly, shooting the bolt home when he recalled Hester’s tale about another young lady spying on him. “And she’s no beauty. Pretty, perhaps, but surely not worth your fulsome praise. Now where’s my dress shirt?”

He went over toward the large canopied mahogany bed and began to undress, still wondering why the laughter in Clara Wells’ beautiful hazel eyes had died and her mouth had become a hard, grim line.

Because he had teased her a little?

Then, when her aunt had shouted for her, she had started and looked around as if she expected to see a bevy of Robert Peel’s bobbies waiting to arrest her. Because her aunt was a little boisterous?

Perhaps he would regret his hasty decision to have Aurora Wells paint his portrait, he thought grimly as he unbuttoned his shirt. It was not going to be a blissful experience, having such a stern, censorious miss in his household.

He could send them away, he supposed, and he had to admit that the thought was tempting. However, he couldn’t deny that Clara Wells was rather tempting, too, in a challenging sort of way. Besides, the family could use the money this commission would provide.

Jean Claude frowned darkly as he brought forth a fresh white shirt while Paris divested himself of the one he had been wearing. “Ce n’est pas possible! Am I in the presence of a dolt? A fool? A simpleton? Have I not taught you better than that, you...you Englishman! Anyone of any breeding and discernment would see that she is une jeune fille très magnifique!” He handed the shirt to a half-naked Paris and crossed his arms, daring his employer to disagree.

Which naturally Paris did, for it appeared that Jean Claude was going to outdo himself in defending Miss Wells—and his own judgment, of course. “I think she’s a prim-and-proper bourgeois prude,” he said.

“Are you blind?” Jean Claude demanded as Paris changed his trousers. “That woman is a powder keg waiting for a match!”

“Why don’t you try lighting her up then?”

“Because she is not French,” Jean Claude announced huffily.

“I’ll agree she’s explosive,” Paris replied, lifting an aristocratic eyebrow as he tied his white cravat. Jean Claude impatiently adjusted it before providing Paris with his white satin vest. “However, that is not a quality guaranteed to recommend her to me.”

“It should be,” Jean Claude retorted while Paris put on his tails.

The valet picked up a clothes brush and attacked Paris’s jacket furiously, nearly knocking Paris backward with the violence of his strokes.

“Besides, she is not of my social class,” his lordship said.

Jean Claude’s brush strokes became even more aggressive. “You are not such a pigheaded cabbage to think that way,” the Frenchman admonished. “And even a pigheaded cabbage could see that she must have royal blood in her veins.”