Page 8 of The Rake's Daughter
“No, there’s only—” Leo broke off as a thought occurred to him. “Now I come to think of it, I do have a female relative in London—my aunt Olive—and as it happens, she also lives in Bellaire Gardens, a short step across from my own house.”
The lawyer’s brows snapped together. “You don’t mean Lady Scattergood, do you, because I hardly think—”
“Aunt Olive will be perfect. She will enjoy the girls’ company, and the location couldn’t be better. They can staywith her and still be close enough for me to supervise.” He could scarcely keep the satisfaction out of his voice.
He’d had quite enough of responsibilities being heaped on him unwanted—since the age of sixteen—and he didn’t want any more. He wanted to get back to his life—his own life. Not continue dancing to dead men’s tunes.
“But, my lord—”
Leo rose. “Anything else, Melkin? No? Then thank you, I’ll be off. I have arrangements to make.”
He left the building, pleased with himself. It was all but settled. He’d make the er-relative a handsome allowance—hang the expense; let the girl depart with some dignity—and give the other girl to Aunt Olive. His aunt was hardly the social type, but he was sure she’d enjoy a bit of youthful company.
Yes, Studley’s will had thrown him at first, but now Leo had it all under control.
***
He returned to the house in Bellaire Gardens to find it a hive of activity, with women scattered about the place, scrubbing and polishing, and men up ladders, washing windows, stripping paper off the walls, and more. And at the center of all this activity was his valet, Matteo, apparently in his element.
“There is only one room fit for you at the moment, milor’,” Matteo greeted him. “I will bring tea”—he eyed Leo closely—“or per’aps this is a day for wine?”
Leo had come across Matteo living on the streets of Naples‚ and employed him initially as a temporary guide and then later as valet and general factotum. He had made himself increasingly indispensable, and when Leo was moving on, heading for Greece and Turkey, Matteo had begged Leo to take him, too. An orphan with no living relatives, he assured Leo he was free to follow milor’ anywhere.
Within weeks, Matteo had more or less taken charge of all Leo’s travel arrangements and had proven his mettle in ensuring the cleanliness of Leo’s accommodations, finding delicious—and safe—local food, and was able to produce reliable transport and good local guides, even when he didn’t speak the language.
And now, in London, Matteo had taken one look at the house, shuddered comprehensively and set out to find cleaners. And had obviously found them, though how, Leo had no idea.
Leo shook his head. “I’m going to call on my aunt.”
Matteo brightened. “You have the aunt here in London, milor’? Oh, that is good. Is not good for a man to have no family. She live far, this aunt?”
“Not far. Just across the garden.” Leo gestured to the back of the house. The houses of Bellaire Gardens were built around one large private garden square. Invisible from the street, access to the shared garden was only gained through the back gate of each house.
He allowed himself to be persuaded into a glass of wine and a plate of sandwiches in a room that had somehow become a haven of cleanliness and peace. Thus fortified, he braced himself for the interview with Aunt Olive. Matteo, insisting that an aunt must be paid due respect, had somehow procured a large box of sweetmeats, a good bottle of sherry and an extravagant bunch of flowers, and thus armed, Leo rang the front doorbell.
Her butler, a desiccated ancient clad in dusty black, eyed him with weary indifference.
“Afternoon, Treadwell,” Leo said, and then when the butler didn’t respond, he added, “Lord Salcott, here to see my aunt Olive,” in case the man was as senile as he looked and had forgotten him. It had been more than a year, after all, since he’d last visited.
Treadwell sniffed. “I am aware of who you are, my lord. I will ascertain whether my lady is at home.” He gesturedat Leo to wait, then took himself upstairs with a slow, spidery gait.
Leo waited. He was quite certain Aunt Olive was at home. She hadn’t left the house in years, but whether she wanted to see him was quite another matter. Leo might be her only nephew as well as head of the family, but Aunt Olive was a law unto herself.
Eventually Treadwell reappeared. “M’lady will see you now.”
As Leo and the butler approached his aunt’s favorite sitting room on the first floor, a flurry of barks greeted them. His aunt had always been a passionate dog lover.
Treadwell opened the door with a majestic gesture. “Lord Salcott, my lady.”
The minute Leo stepped inside, a pack of small scruffy dogs surrounded him, yapping and growling and sniffing. One of Aunt Olive’s more endearing qualities was that she took in abandoned dogs, usually bitches, invariably mongrels and rarely the kind of pretty creature that most ladies were attracted to.
Resigning himself to the probable ruin of his boots, and bracing himself for a nip or two, Leo carefully waded through the whirlpool of little dogs, set his gifts on a side table and bent to acquaint himself with the little creatures. He’d always liked dogs. While his hands and boots were being thoroughly sniffed and licked, he said, “Aunt Olive, how delightful to see you. You’re looking very well, I must say.”
His aunt, tall, gaunt and angular and swathed in several colorful Indian shawls, sat enthroned in a large chair inlaid with mother-of-pearl decorations. She eyed his gifts with dark suspicion. “Those are for me, I suppose, which means you want something of me. The answer is no.”
“You don’t even know what I want.”
“No, and I don’t care. Men bearing gifts are never to be trusted. Treadwell, put the flowers in water at once. Whypeople cut flowers when all they do is die is beyond me. And leave the bottle here,” she added sharply as the butler moved to take the sherry as well. “He drinks,” she said to Leo.
