“That’s none of your business! When a gentleman throws a dinner party one must be prepared for any possibility. And the floors need scrubbing—you did a terrible job the first time.”
Maddy kept her face blank—any sign of rebellion would simply add to her duties. The floors were spotless—she’d been on her knees for hours that day, and as long as she was a maid she was determined to be the best damned maid in the history of the world. Besides, in the gaslight there would be no way Mrs. Crozier could see any imperfections. “Yes, Mrs. Crozier.” She needed to keep track of how many times she said those damned words, she thought, trudging over to the scullery to fill a bucket of hot water. When she married her fabulously wealthy, titled old man she would buy herself a piece of jewelry for every time she’d said “yes, Mrs. Crozier.” Her collection would rival the crown jewels.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE ADVENT OF GWENDOLYN Haviland and the kitchen crew, including her friendly Polly, had given Maddy new energy, energy that vanished before she was halfway up the narrow, winding stairs. The pail of steaming water was abominably heavy, and in the tension of the captain’s return she’d forgotten how tired she was. She’d forgotten how much he disturbed her. What was behind that look he’d given her? Maybe it was simply that he finally remembered kissing her, though she had her doubts whether he’d actually forgotten in the first place. Granted, he hadn’t expected to see her in his household, but it had only been a few hours earlier. And it had been quite a kiss. Kisses.
At least for her. It may have, probably had, meant absolutely nothing to him. A salutary lesson for a stupid girl. But why? A married friend of hers, one who had never been at home to her once her father’s scandal hit, had confided to her that men didn’t really enjoy kissing. It was simply the price they paid for deeper intimacies, and most of them would prefer to do without it entirely.
But the captain had seemed to enjoy it, and there certainly hadn’t been any question of further intimacies.
What had that look, in front of the watchful, jealous gaze of his fiancée, signified? Did he suspect she might not be who she said she was? No, that was impossible. She’d done everything right. Maybe she was imagining things—after all, there was no denying that the man unnerved her in a particularly intimate way.
She expected she would have reacted the same way to him whether she’d met him in that alleyway or not. A great number of men had stolen kisses from her during her social season, stolen them or been graciously granted them. Some of them she’d enjoyed immensely. But none of them had ever caused her to look at the giver of those kisses with such a feeling of dread and excitement and, yes, longing.
A longing she had every intention of ignoring. This had nothing to do with the way she’d felt about Tarkington. The giddy excitement of his attention, the soothing pleasure of his compliments, the mild thrill of their secretive flirtations. Nothing to do with the stupid tenderness she’d felt for Tarkington when he lay spent in her arms.
No, the captain was clearly a dangerous man. She didn’t need to be anywhere around him to find out whether he’d been involved in her father’s death. All she had to do was get into his library and the locked room. She already knew enough of him to realize he was a far cry from the usual men her father had hired to captain his ships. Never trust a pirate, he’d said, words so obvious she should have them emblazoned on her heart.
She scrubbed the floor first, while the water was still hot. It scalded her hands, but she was getting used to it, and no amount of salve and kid gloves were going to fix the ruination of her skin overnight. It was one more thing that she could deal with later. It was amusing—when Eastham asked for her hand in marriage he wouldn’t know the state of the appendage he was requesting. At least she was relatively sure it would take more than chapped hands to discourage the libidinous aristocrat.
“There you are.” The words made her jump, and she almost spilled the bucket of water. She sat back on her knees, drawing an arm across her damp brow, and looked up at Matthew Fulton.
“What are you doing up here?” she demanded in a whisper.
“Told him I needed to use the water closet.”
“There’s one downstairs. What do you want, Matthew? You’re putting me in jeopardy.”
“While you’re indulging in this little bit of playacting the world goes on,” he said in a tight voice. “There are some papers you need to sign.”
She looked up at him warily. “What kind of papers?”
“You were left certain commodities that the courts have taken away from you in order to satisfy the people your father cheated.”
“He didn’t…”
“I know, I know,” Matthew said hastily. “And if by any rare chance you manage to prove it, the ensuing legal mess will provide us with work to last the rest of my natural life. But in the meantime it’s no longer yours and you need to sign off on it.”
“It?”
“The Maddy Rose.”
“No,” she said mutinously.
“You can say ‘no’ all you want and it won’t make a difference. If you can’t be found, the courts will simply make an arbitrary decision and terminate any rights you might still have.”
“But if I still have rights…”
“You don’t. It’s all merely a technicality. I need you to come to the office when, or if, you get a day off from this ridiculous drudgery. I don’t suppose you’ve come to your senses? Surely by now you realize that Thomas Morgan could have had nothing to do with your father’s debacle, both legal and otherwise. I can spirit you away tonight—just give me the word.”
“I have no intention of signing any bloody paper.” The muscles in her arms were quivering from overuse, her legs were numb, and she didn’t dare sit still for long. “Or leaving this place until I’m damned well ready. I haven’t had a chance to get into his library.”
“You look worn to the bone, Maddy,” he said earnestly. “And your language is appalling for a well-bred young lady.”
She grimaced. “I’m afraid it always has been. I was the despair of my father. And I’m all right. Russells are built strong—I’m no frail society lass to drop at the sight of hard work. Not like your Miss Haviland.”
He stiffened. “Miss Haviland is a very fine young lady.”