Never Trust a Pirate (Scandal at the House of Russell 2)

It was a narrow terrace house, painted blue, with a ship’s flag flying from a post near the front door. She looked up at the windows and sighed. They were dirty, and she had a sinking feeling she knew who was going to be cleaning them. She shifted her valise to her other hand.

It was a blessing that Mrs. Beeton’s Guide to Household Management had gone into its second edition. Inside that heavy tome was everything she ever needed to know about the duties of a maid and the arcane details of housekeeping. She knew how to clean a grate and set a fire, wash windows and sweep, make beds and iron sheets. Nanny Gruen had seen to it, at Maddy’s insistence. She had no intention of living a life where these skills were required, but once she married her viscount or duke she would be a better mistress of the household if she understood the details of the tasks required.

The front steps needed scrubbing as well—wayward seagulls had left their calling card. She sighed, hefted her valise, and started down the basement stairs next to the front entrance. Maddy Russell was gone. Mary Greaves was now onstage, and she had no intention of fumbling her lines.

She knocked politely on the door, setting her bag down, and waited. It took less than a moment for a thin, sour-faced woman to swing the door open, eyeing her up and down.

“You must be Mr. Fulton’s young lady,” the woman said in dubious tones.

Maddy kept her head lowered just slightly. If they were dogs she’d be cringing at a lower level, letting the woman have dominance. Unfortunately at five foot seven Maddy stood taller than most women and a great deal of men as well, so she was immediately at a disadvantage in the act of appearing humble.

“I’m Mary Greaves, missus,” she said. She’d decided on a bit of a Northern accent. She’d never been terribly good at accents during their childhood theatrical endeavors, but a cross between Lancashire and Yorkshire would do her well. Irish would be easier, but that carried with it all sorts of trouble, and plain English kept things simpler.

“Well, come in, girl. No need to shilly-shally out there in the cold, and freeze us all,” the old woman muttered.

Maddy walked in, standing in place when she longed to sit. It had been a longer walk than she’d expected, not to mention her unsettling encounter, and her feet hurt despite the comfortable shoes. She was going to have to build up her stamina, and fast, if she was going to succeed at this deception.

The kitchen, at least, seemed cleaner than the front of the house. The wide table in the center had only four chairs around it, and the stove was putting out vast, welcome amounts of heat. It had felt a great deal colder with the brisk wind off the ocean, and Maddy surreptitiously moved a little closer to it.

“I suppose you ought to sit down,” the woman said grudgingly, and Maddy didn’t wait for a second invitation.

The housekeeper was a thin woman with a beaky nose, sharp eyes, and a narrow mouth, but it took more than a crabby nature to intimidate Maddy.

“You’re too pretty,” the woman announced in a flat voice, taking the seat opposite her. “That’s never a good thing in a household, but fortunately my Wilf is the only other male here and he’s too old to even notice.”

Maddy was about to ask about the aging sea captain, then realized he must be even older than Mrs. Crozier’s husband. That, or in the world of the serving classes the master wasn’t considered a viable male.

She ducked her head, trying to shield her face. “I’m a hard worker, Mrs. Crozier.”

“You’d best be, or you’ll have no place here,” Mrs. Crozier warned. “We’ve been understaffed for too long, and there’s only so much I can keep up with in a place this size. Captain Morgan doesn’t pay attention to the household—he’d rather be at sea, and he looks at this place like a hotel. But he’s getting married and the new mistress isn’t going to accept such slovenly lack of attention to details.”

“Yes, Mrs. Crozier.” It seemed the most likely response, instead of the “indeed?” that almost popped out.

“There are four rooms on the ground floor—the kitchen, scullery, laundry room, and Wilf’s and my quarters. On the first floor are Captain Morgan’s study, a large salon, and a dining room. On the second are four bedrooms, one for the captain and the other three unoccupied. There’s also a modern bathing room. You’ll be sleeping in the attics. No one’s been up there in a while so you’d best allow yourself enough time to make a habitable space for yourself.”

“So the only members of the household are the captain and the three servants?”

“Oh, we have another member of the household: Mr. Quarrells. He was at sea with the captain, and he serves as his secretary, best friend, and business partner. He lives in the apartments over the stables, back in the mews. He’s a formidable man, is Mr. Quarrells, but you shouldn’t have any trouble with him as long as you do your duty and don’t ask too many questions.”

That was a direct answer to her previous, impertinent question. If Mrs. Crozier thought she’d ended up with a complacent, well-behaved servant she was due for an unhappy surprise. Asking questions was one of Maddy’s main occupations in this dank old house, in between searching every space she could find.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said politely. “And when is the captain planning to marry?”

“I imagine by summer. I suppose it’s possible Miss Haviland will insist he sell this place and buy something fancier. A very pretty, very determined young woman is Miss Haviland, and she’s used to getting what she wants. They haven’t called the banns yet, so I imagine there’s still time.”

“Time for what?”

Mrs. Crozier eyed her grimly. “You’re just full of questions, aren’t you? That doesn’t concern you. All you need to know is I’m in charge, and you’re to keep out of the captain’s way. In fact, don’t even go into the captain’s study without me. I don’t know where the term shipshape came from, but it certainly don’t apply to Captain Morgan. He says he has his own way of organizing but many the times I’ve heard him cursing and throwing things while he searches for something. Looks like a rat’s nest to me, but he says he knows where everything is, and if I so much as dusted it would disturb his careful arrangements.”

Clearly getting into the captain’s study should be her first order of business. “Yes, Mrs. Crozier,” she said meekly. That seemed to be the obvious response to most things. She was a servant, she reminded herself, and at the bottom of the pecking order, just one step above the boots. Which reminded her… “What are my duties?” she asked, trying to keep her voice

humble.

Mrs. Crozier bristled. All right, not humble enough. “Anything I tell you to do. You’ve been hired, against my will, I might add, as a maid of all work, which means you’ll do exactly that. All that I can think of.”

“Against your will? Didn’t you want more help?” Another question, but this time Mrs. Crozier’s flat black eyes met hers straight on.

“Of course I want help. Any fool would. But I’m the housekeeper here, and I prefer to hire my own staff, not have someone forced upon me by the captain’s solicitor.”