Practical Widow to Passionate Mistress (Transformation of the Shelley Sisters 1)

Ross found himself surprised, almost shocked. He had expected revulsion, horror, condemnation and instead he had received understanding and thoughtful sympathy. Something hot burned shamefully at the back of his eyes and he made an abrupt gesture, rejecting her kindness. Meg did not really understand, that was all. It was impossible that she could see into his motives and his conscience and absolve him.

She looked, for a moment, as though she would speak, then her lips tightened, perhaps in response to his rejection. ‘And now, kindly explain why you let me think this place was no larger than a country squire’s house?’

‘Because you would never have come otherwise.’

‘And just how many servants are there? How many rooms?’ The questions were obviously rhetorical, for she swept on, ‘And how on earth do you expect me to manage it all, even for a few weeks?’

He was saved from answering as the door opened without warning. Mrs Fogarty stalked in, tossed the bunch of keys on to the desk and smiled pure acid at Meg. Ross admired the way Meg’s chin came up. Yes, she was a lady to her fingertips.

‘You be careful, young woman. This one’s his father’s son, whatever else he is. The temper of the devil and his pride too. And no woman’s safe either, not with the B

randon men. A good thing this one ran away before any babes got laid at his door, which doesn’t mean there weren’t any to lay. You think you’re the one and only? They all think that.’

Ross got to his feet. ‘Get out.’ He found he was so angry he could hardly speak. She thought that after his father’s whoring he would treat women the same way?

The door shut behind the housekeeper. He stormed out from behind the desk, too angry to sit still, and was brought up short by Meg’s expression as he passed. He stopped, bent over her chair, one hand on each of the arms pinning her in place, and stared into her face, searching for the disgust and the condemnation that she must surely be hiding.

‘Don’t go looking askance at every twelve-year-old brat around here,’ he said. ‘They won’t be mine and my father did his whoring in Truro.’

‘How awful for your mother,’ Meg said. She looked back at him steadily, nothing but compassion in her eyes. ‘And not pleasant for you and your brother, either. I cannot imagine what it must be like…That is one good thing about having a father who is a vicar, and a puritanical one at that.’

Ross straightened up and limped over to stare out of the window. The rose garden had been neglected, he noticed with the part of his mind that was not fighting bad memories. His mother would have been upset about that. What the devil were the gardeners about?

‘He had enough sense of decency not to foul his own doorstep, except once with the daughter of Billy Gillan, the poacher who taught me how to shoot. How does a girl like that say no, when the family is in a tied cottage? He could pretend it wasn’t rape, of course. When he left her with child Billy marched up to the front door to tell my father what he thought of him, so the family got thrown out of their cottage with its scrap of land anyway. Billy’s poaching was all that fed them. I tried to pay him for shooting lessons, but he wouldn’t take it, so I gave the money to Lily direct; at least it helped her bring up my baby half-brother.’

‘Where did you get it from?’

‘I stole it from my father, of course. I never took so much at any one time that he’d notice. He’d come home, his pockets full of winnings from the card tables and stuff it into this big lacquer box without counting it. It is the only useful skill I seem to have inherited, the ability to play to win. The money was a bagatelle to him, life and death to Lily and her family.’ Ross felt all over again the hot pleasure that had coursed through him when he succeeded in picking the lock on his father’s strong-box for the first time, the pleasure of sliding out the shiny coins. It was as good as sex.

‘And Billy taught me about girls too. Told me never to take anyone who wasn’t willing and how to make sure I didn’t leave any mongrel pups behind. A bit agricultural in his metaphors, is old Billy, but a good teacher for all that.’

‘He is still alive then?’

The thought had never occurred to him that Billy could be dead. ‘Must be. He’s the indestructible sort,’ Ross said with a confidence he did not feel. A cold trickle of fear ran down his spine. How old had Billy been when he left? He’d go down tonight once he had introduced Meg to the staff and done all the things the returning fourth Baron Brandon was supposed to do on the day he came home.

The clock struck. ‘Time to review the troops,’ Meg said, as she got to her feet, a little pale around the mouth. Nerves, or the realisation of just whom she was working for?

‘Here.’ Ross handed her the housekeeper’s keys on their chain and she took them gingerly. ‘Your badge of office,’ he said and something changed in her expression. Her lips firmed, the lashes came down over those clear eyes, but she only nodded.

Mr Heneage had arrayed the staff in the Great Hall as he had on the steps, women to one side, men to the other, in ascending order of priority. Meg saw Perrott standing beside the butler: valets, like ladies’ maids, took the status of their employer in the servants’ hall. He looked as pale as she felt. Ross walked to the foot of the stairs, drawing her with him by a touch on the arm.

‘Good afternoon.’ He stood on the first step, towering over her. ‘Some of you will remember me, others will be new since I left. You will find that I do things differently from my father, but I am sure you will adapt.’ From their faces they had no trouble interpreting that: accept my ways, or you may leave.

‘There are some immediate changes,’ Ross continued. ‘Usborne, as you know, is unwell and is retiring. Perrott is my valet. And Mrs Fogarty has also retired. Mrs Halgate is our housekeeper from today and I expect her to receive your unwavering support in managing the Court. Mrs Halgate is used to managing Portuguese households,’ he added smoothly. ‘There will doubtless be some differences. Heneage, will you introduce the staff?’

Meg fixed a tight smile on her lips and fell into place one careful step behind Ross.

Portuguese households, indeed! Army tents, rather. Wretched man. He has got a sense of humour, I do not care how well he tries to hide it, and a wicked one it is too.

Here, for one hideous moment in the study she had thought Ross was confessing to murder. She had been prepared to believe that of him. Guilt lashed through her; she should have known better. He was brave and stoical and kind, under his scowl, and he did not deserve her mistrust. Meg could only hope and pray she had kept her feelings from showing; he needed to heal, to forgive himself, not deal with even more condemnation.

All she could do for the moment was to carry out her new duties as best she could and make his home comfortable for him. The keys swung heavy from her belt as she walked up the line of maids, trying to fix names in her head, but all she could manage was to hope the face and the position were clear. Three scullery maids, two kitchen maids, two laundry maids, the laundress, the four downstairs maids, the four upstairs maids and Mrs Harris, the cook. Then over to the men. Boot boy, page, three underfootmen, three footmen, Perrott and Heneage. And all the outdoor staff still to come.

She and Mrs Harris, Heneage and Perrott comprised the upper servants and she could not hope to manage this large house without their willing co-operation. Meg smiled at the cook and received a guarded smile in return.

‘Where is my estate manager?’ she heard Ross ask the butler who murmured a response. ‘At the Home Farm? Then send someone out for him; I want to speak with him as soon as possible. That will be all. Carry on Heneage, Mrs Halgate.’

Carry on, Sergeant-Major, Meg thought with a twitch of her lips. Time to exert some authority. ‘I shall need a maid.’ She studied the array of eight young women.