The Sins of Lord Lockwood (Rules for the Reckless #6)(9)

“He’s the other porter,” said Matthew Dunning, a naval mutineer. His sly smile dissolved when he noticed Liam’s approach.

“Ah.” The countess nodded, the jeweled comb in her copper hair winking in the morning light that fell from the skylight above. “Then with Danvers you will go.” She pointed a long finger toward the corner, where Tommy Danvers huddled miserably.

Liam hesitated.

It was a delicate situation, to be sure—for as his wife had pointed out last night, and he remembered all too clearly, her money did fund this household. And although they had been married in the Church of England, her fortune was Scottish—which made it subject to laws that granted ladies a good deal more control over their wealth than did sensible English patriarchy. Liam would not want to test it in a court, at any rate.

In short, the countess could probably make his life quite difficult if he countermanded her authority in front of the servants.

He chose instead to clear his throat and say, “Good morning.”

Her shoulders stiffened, and her posture drew impossibly straighter, before she faced him.

“This household is an abomination of order,” she said crisply. Her brief, increasingly dour survey of his figure suggested that he, too, was a piece of the mess. “Were you aware that your cook has no eggs? That your porter—both of them, evidently, though why you should require two, I can’t imagine—both your porters abandoned their posts for a night of carousing. And your footmen, sir, I found loitering with their feet on the chairs in your drawing room!”

“Ah, yes.” He’d hoped that some inspiration would come to him before he finished drawling that first bit, but nothing did, so he helpfully added, “Our drawing room, you mean.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it, looking nonplussed. “I—yes. Our drawing room, with the very expensive cushions paid for by me. So you will understand if I mean to make changes here.”

It was peculiar how good he’d gotten at never thinking about her. Looking at her now, listening to her, felt surreal, as though beholding in the flesh some long-forgotten fantasy from boyhood. Her lips, for instance, were much plusher and pinker than he recalled.

He’d wanted her so badly. She’d never known just how much he wanted her.

“Change is a fine thing,” he said. Change was all he had to offer. She was looking at him as though she knew him, when in fact the boy she’d married was dead now.

She thought that boy had abandoned her. Marvelous! He felt pity for the sap. That stupid boy had nursed grand plans for their marriage, wild and romantic hopes, while all the while his bride had held him in secret contempt—or so it seemed to Liam now. For why else would she have been so ready to believe him capable of deserting her?

She was scowling. Did his replies seem off? He did not feel quite sober, though he didn’t think Colthurst’s poison was to blame any longer. Looking at her rather nauseated him. It made him feel as though the world were tilting. No handholds, nothing to arrest the fall.

He took a deep breath. It would have been wiser to plan for her reappearance. But he’d imagined he had until mid-June. And thinking of her rather felt like grinding a burr into his brain; pleasanter to avoid.

“I am glad we’re in agreement,” she said. “The porters will need to be sacked, the footmen placed on a period of probation—”

Her voice died as he caught her elbow. “Alas, I haven’t yet had coffee.” With his hand at the small of her back, he urged her toward the corridor. “Let’s talk of this over breakfast, shall we? Dismissed,” he said casually over his shoulder, and pretended not to see the disappointment in the maids’ faces and the relief in the men’s.

Once in the hallway, he released her, his palm burning oddly, as though the wool of her gown were somehow toxic to him. Well, no doubt it was; certainly some kind of black magic was involved here, to bring her back to life so suddenly, a dead man’s dream.

She had turned pink, and was not meeting his eyes. “You should go back to Scotland,” he told her. “For your own comfort.” And for his. He felt disoriented, strange in his skin, with her so nearby. It was a dead man’s skin, a dead man’s role, which her presence forced him to adopt. “At least until I’ve straightened out the staff.”

“It isn’t all disastrous. The chambermaids appear satisfactory.”

“How good to hear.” He pushed open the door to the dining room, allowing her to precede him. “I rather like the chambermaids myself.”

She gave him an odd sharp look, but he forgot it in the next second as he drew up in amazement.

A full breakfast lay spread on the table. With china plates!

“No eggs,” said the countess bitterly. “Can you believe it?”

No eggs, to be certain—but rashers and potatoes and sausages, O divinities! And those plates—he’d felt certain that Beauregard had stolen and sold them weeks ago.

“This took more than two hours from the time I rang for it,” the countess continued, seating herself opposite. “Can you imagine? What was Cook doing down there? I’ll wager you that he had no food whatsoever, and had to send the scullery maids out to buy it all.”

He sank into his chair, then nodded gratefully as she lifted a silver pot.

The coffee was steaming hot. “You are invited to harass the cook whenever you like,” he said. He hadn’t known old Beauregard had it in him to lay a proper table. Toast and oatmeal, he’d thought, were the whole of it.