Page 7 of His Forgotten Bride
“Yes, my lord.” The cool, bland response had him squeezing his eyes shut in humiliation. Ofcourseit would be his new housekeeper who had responded to his summons. He had never liked the feeling of helplessness that assailed him in the throes of a migraine, and he had liked even less the effects of one being observed.
But there were no muffled, retreating footsteps. Instead her voice washed over him again. “Should you like breakfast as well, my lord?”
His stomach rebelled at the thought of food. “Tea,” he said. “Justtea.” Tea, he could manage. Tea might even settle his stomach somewhat. But if so much as a scone appeared on a plate before him, he wasn’t altogether certain that he could wrestle his nausea back under control.
“Of course,” came the reserved reply. And then her footsteps wereat last retreating, and he was alone again, until a few minutes later when a footman scratched at the door and let himself in, ostensibly to carry cans of hot water through his room and into the attached bathing room.
Even with the lure of a hot bath, it still took Gabriel several minutes to rise, and he managed it with arms that shook like limp noodles. He wrestled with the clothing he hadn’t had the energy to remove last evening, shucking his shirt over his head and prying his boots from his feet with something akin to desperation. But when his hands were fumbling with the placket of his breeches, the door opened once again, andsheappeared—Mrs. Hotchkiss, his new housekeeper.
She carried a tray containing a teapot and a single cup, and, thankfully for the both of them, not one crumb of food, and she hesitated in the doorway, her cheeks stained a delicate rose as her gaze settled first on his bare chest and then snapped back up to his face.
So. Likely not married, then. If she had been, this would hardly be enough to unsettle her.
But he was not at his best, and he was well aware that his hair stuck up at odd angles and his jaw was bristled with stubble and he was weak as a babe and likely pale as a ghost and stinking to high heaven. It had been one thing for Mrs. Cartwright to see him in such a state; she’d been with his family for years and years. Hell, she’d likely wiped his arse in his infancy.
Still, he found himself annoyed that Mrs. Hotchkisshad seen him in such a condition. It embarrassed him, against all reason.
He cleared his throat. “Probably you should have knocked.”
She cleared her throat. “Probably I should have,” she allowed. And then that crisp, businesslike intonation settled once more into her voice as she inquired, “Where would you like your tea, my lord?”
“The bathing room.” He flicked his hand toward the door. “Thank you, Mrs. Hotchkiss.”
She slanted him a queer glance, as if he had startled her with his politeness, but she headed for the bathing room, and he saw just a slice of her skirts through the open door as she bent to place the tray on the floor near the tub. It was an unusual choice—in similar situations, whoever had brought him tea had inevitably placed the tray upon the counter, undoubtedly the proper place to put it. But it spoke to her dedication to her profession that she had considered not what therightplace would be, but thepreferredone for her employer.
He was not a man who relished change. He had done the correct thing, of course, and offered up a pension to the housekeeper who had served him and his family commendably for some thirty years now, but he hadn’t looked forward to acquiring a new one who would need to learn the workings of his household and the inconveniences it would doubtless entail.
Mrs. Cartwright seemed to have made her decision regarding whom her replacement would be, and damned if he didn’t just approve of it after all. He might not have wanted it, wantedher—but perhaps, given her intuitive understanding of her role in seeing to his basic comforts, Mrs. Hotchkiss would turn out to be a pleasant addition to his household.
Respectfully she averted her eyes as she exited the bathing room and headed once more for the door. He, however, had no such scruples—the moment her back was turned to him, he admired the smooth slope of it, the slender curvature of her spine and narrow waist neatly encased in a dark blue serge gown, an allowance to the chill of winter in the air.
It was a perfectly proper gown, in point of fact. Exactly the sort of thing a housekeeper ought to wear. There were no feminine fripperies, no ribbons or flounces or frills or even the tiniest concession toward vanity. It wasserviceablein every regard; demure, proper, and plain. But it did not disguise the enticing twitch of her hips.
He heaved sigh. He was not the sort of man who preyed upon his female servants. They were functions of the house, necessary to keep his life running smoothly, and only the basest of men would violate that boundary between them. He might be a right arse in nearly every other regard, but at least hecouldstill claim that last, tiny bit of honor left to him.
Still, it had been a damned sight easier to cling to that honor when there was no one who existed in his household to tempt it.
∞∞∞
Several hours later, once he had enjoyed a leisurely soak in a tub and a few bracing cups of tea that had, curiously, been flavored with ginger, Gabriel found himself seated across from a Bow Street Runner called John Bascomb. The Runners were an investigative force to themselves, taking up commissions to apprehend thieves and investigate crimes. For a price, nearly any sort of inquiry might be handled. It had been an uncomfortable interview so far, and promised further indignities still.
Mr. Bascomb had ceased his note-taking and leaned back in his chair to stroke the points of his mustache in consideration of the task he had been charged with. “My lord, if I understand your request,” he ventured, “you are seeking a young woman whom you would have known some seven years ago.”
“That is correct,” Gabriel replied.
“But you cannot give me her name,” Mr. Bascomb said.
“No.”
“Nor a physical description.”
Sincenondescript, per his father’s description, would hardly be helpful, Gabriel replied, “Also no.”
“Nor any other pertinent information about her,” Mr. Bascomb said. “Not where she might have lived, or anyone who might have known her. Not the slightest crumb of information that might lead to her.”
“Well, when you put it in those terms, it does seem a trifle difficult,” Gabriel said acidly.
“You understand my dilemma, do you not? It can be difficult enough to trace a person with all information in hand. To find a person who without even the vaguest of details is…problematic, even for someone in my profession,” Mr. Bascomb said. “My lord, is there a particular reason why these details have escaped you?”
