The Enigmatic Rake. Anne O'Brien
beyond the obvious.
At the same time, he realised, as he sat at his desk to put his paperwork in order, he need feel no guilt over the masquerade. Olivia had been highly delighted to be invited to accompany him to London and made no attempt to hide it. The delicacy of his invitation had been lost on her. He might be little less than crippled with his broken ribs and damaged tendons, but Olivia smiled into his eyes and offered her lips for a kiss. Blatantly offered far more than that when he could manage to climb the stairs to her room without the use of a cane, when he was capable of pleasuring her body with finesse and some physical dexterity. She would like nothing better than to be his mistress and would enjoy ruling over his establishment in London, notwithstanding the resulting gossip. She might even hold out for marriage if she thought it worth her while to become Lady Joshua Faringdon. He stopped to think about that, his hands stilled on a pile of documents, a line engraved between his brows. She was without doubt an attractive woman. And he was not averse to a light flirtation when the object of his gallantry was so willing and responsive.
But no. He frowned at his wayward thoughts and continued to shuffle. His experience with the fair sex had not been felicitous and had left him with a sharp and lingering distrust. A woman’s professed love was conditional on the depth of a man’s purse. Or the value and sparkle of the jewels an unwise man might clasp around her elegant neck. And once she had you in her clutches, her claws would not willingly let go until all blood had been drained, uncomfortably like a leech—his lips twitched in semblance of a smile. Manipulative and untrustworthy. In his mind the image of Marianne was suddenly superimposed over that of Olivia Wexford until he deliberately blinked it away with gritted teeth, smile transformed into a cynical snarl. He would not allow himself to contemplate that episode of marital bliss again. Or willingly repeat it.
No. He would feel no guilt over the fair Olivia’s unwitting role in his return to London. She would get as much out of it as he did. But it struck him forcibly that the greater the distance he could keep between the woman and himself on a personal level the better. Not an easy task but an essential one. For, without doubt, Olivia Wexford had an eye to his body and his bed as well as his guineas.
The days passed, but Celestine Faringdon did not arrive in Hanover Square. No matter how many times John might rush into the entrance hall at the sound of a coach or large vehicle in the street, there was no sign and no letter to explain the delay. Sarah contemplated sending to apply to Judith to discover the whereabouts of the little girl, but decided that she should not. She must learn to accept her new position of service—where the actions of her employers and their family were no concern of hers.
The cleaning and polishing of the house was complete at last, flowers arranged in the reception rooms, the pantries and cellars stocked, all in readiness for the imminent arrival. Then there was nothing for the staff to do but wait on the inclinations of their betters.
So that as chance would have it, when a large and fashionably smart coach and four finally arrived to draw up outside the house early on a bright morning, luggage piled high on the roof, no one within was prepared.
‘Mama! Mama! She is here. The little girl is here.’ John jumped and hopped in excitement by the window flanking the front door. No matter how often Sarah had tried to explain their altered status, or the parts of the house that were out of bound to him—and how difficult that was to a child of nearly six years!—John still saw the new arrival as an object of endless fascination and a possible playmate.
Sarah joined him, grabbing hold of his hand. There was indeed bustle and noise on the pavement. Luggage was being unloaded. But no child emerged from the carriage. She clutched her son’s hand harder.
‘It is not Celestine. It is Lord Faringdon!’
Why had the man not sent word to warn them? Well, why should he? Swallowing against a sudden brush of panic along her spine, Sarah made a hasty dash to the servants’ quarters to gather up and send as many staff as possible to the entrance hall, where they might formally greet their new lord. They lined up just as the front door was flung open by a young and self-conscious footman. Sarah, the last to arrive, took a place at the end of the line, twitching her skirts and cuffs into place, thinking that it really would not do for her to meet her first employer in a state of disorder. Then realised that John was still watching the arrival in a frenzy of excitement. She should have banished him to the kitchens—this was no place for her child—but too late. Quick as a thought, she pulled him to stand beside her.
‘Stand still, John.’ Sarah managed to smile down at him, as nervous as the youngest scullery maid. ‘Don’t speak unless you are spoken to. Silent as a little mouse, mind!’
Eyes wide, John nodded and grasped his mother’s skirts.
Up the flight of shallow steps and into the entrance hall walked a lady. Tall with a slender, willowy figure, she was immediately the centre of attention. A glorious brunette with dark eyes under dark brows and dark lashes that could only have benefited from the careful use of cosmetics. And with a richly painted mouth that smiled, unlike her eyes, which did not. Rather they looked and assessed and discarded with elegant disdain as if used to better things. She took up a position—posed, Sarah decided—just inside the door as if to draw all eyes to herself. There was no difficulty here.
She was dressed, as Sarah supposed, in the height of Parisian fashion in a delectable shade of lavender. Row after row of ribbon and lace trimmed the hem, the same detail drawing the eye to the pleated yoke above the high waist. The sleeves were long and close fitting into pleated cuffs with little puffed oversleeves. The brim of the satin-straw bonnet was trimmed with similar pleating, the crown with flowers and curling feathers, its long satin ribbons fluttering as the lady glided across the tiled floor in matching satin shoes.
Sarah could not prevent a silent sigh of envy, immediately conscious of her own plain gown fashioned of dark blue silk, high necked, long sleeved, not a hint of decoration. As for the lace cap that she had reluctantly pinned to her rigidly controlled curls … all perfectly suited to her standing, demure and understated and of excellent quality. She had never felt quite so dowdy in all her life.
Sarah surveyed the visitor beneath lowered lashes, understanding at once who she must be. The Countess of Wexford, no less. Judith’s barbed comments came instantly to life and Sarah could well believe the truth of them. Her ladyship said not a word, not condescending to notice such lowly creatures as servants. Drawing off the softest of kid gloves with casual grace and perhaps a touch of impatience about her lovely mouth and a faint line between her brows, she surveyed the entrance hall, the rise of the staircase to the first floor, the side tables and hall chairs—almost as if she were looking for dust. Definitely impatience, Sarah realised, as the Countess tapped one foot, then swept her luxurious skirts out of the way to move back to the doorway to look out. But she smiled, her petulance swiftly disguised. Lord Faringdon was now here.
For Sarah, Joshua Sherbourne Faringdon was a far more attractive subject for her conjecture. She repressed a nervous smile as he came to a halt in the doorway, the sun at his back, casting his features into shadow but rimming him in gold. What would he say if he knew that she was a close friend of his sister, a less than discreet and loyal sister who had seen it in her way to pass on all manner of interesting information. But Sarah had no intention of allowing him this knowledge and had warned Judith of her desires. To Lord Faringdon, she would simply be Mrs Sarah Russell, his newly appointed—if most inexperienced—housekeeper.
It was immediately obvious as he approached the doorway that Lord Faringdon had suffered a number of recent and far from trivial injuries. He moved with a slow and agonising stiffness, using a cane to help him mount the steps, holding himself as if his ribs and one shoulder flared with pain with every unwise movement. Perhaps there was a tightness, a hint of strain around his mouth. But that, although she recalled in some moral indignation Judith’s confidences on the cause of the damage, was not what took Mrs Russell’s attention. From the moment that his lordship set foot inside his own hall, when he turned so that the light could fall full on his face, for Sarah the glory of the Countess of Wexford became a matter of irrelevance, as tawdry as pinchbeck beside fine gold.
She recognised the Faringdon features, familiar as they were, immediately. Beautifully carved features,