Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)(25)
Those well-trained eyes blanked in evasive consternation.
“No, you’re right,” Jenny said. “The gown’s too short for him.”
Boyishly puffy cheeks swelled in affront. The idea of laughing at Lord Blakely strained his mental abilities. Jenny sighed. Apparently, Lord Blakely’s predisposition toward dour looks was not an inherited condition. He spread it like some unhealthy contagion.
“Return it,” she said. “I’m not keeping it, and he’ll want to know.” She gave him a smile to soften the blow. Perhaps those could be contagious, too.
But the boy didn’t respond with a similar expression. Instead, he gave her a brisk, businesslike nod and set off at a lope.
It was nearly an hour before the footboy returned. His livery had lost any hint of crispness in the streets. His boots were covered in mud, clear up to his calves, and the red-and-gold coat was damp and dripping from the pervasive fog. And he was still carrying that brown package, much worse for the journey. A second note was tucked on top.
He thrust his armload at Jenny. She took it and plucked the piece of paper from where it had been secured under the twine.
Irrational. Unethical. Really, Madame Esmerelda, there’s no need to add “tedious” to your many sins. -B.
Tedious? Well. If there was anything more tedious than conducting this exchange via drooping delivery boy, Jenny couldn’t think of it. She pushed the wrapped gown back at the boy, but he raised his hands and stepped back.
“No, ma’am. I’m not to take it back. His lordship said so. He also said I was to tell you there would be no further debate, and he’ll accept your thanks along with your agreement.”
Jenny tapped her foot. Clearly Lord Blakely thought she was engaging in recalcitrance for the sake of recalcitrance. It wasn’t a poor guess on his part; it just wasn’t true in this particular instance. Well. She was not expecting clients to come by until the next morning.
If his servant wouldn’t tote the dress back, Jenny had little choice. Lord Blakely had no one to blame but himself.
“Will you wait for my reply?” Jenny asked.
He nodded, and Jenny dashed into action. She donned half boots and grabbed a heavy shawl and a bonnet. The footman bit his lip in growing trepidation.
“Right,” Jenny said, hefting the package into her arms. “I’m ready.”
“Um.” The boy scuffed his boots against her floor.
“Well? Lead on.”
“But—”
“None of that, now. He told you to bring the reply. The reply is me. He’ll fume if he doesn’t hear what I have to say.”
His gaze flicked up and down, from her head to toe. Even in his soiled state, he still looked grander than Jenny in her faded clothing. “He’ll fume if he does,” he finally said.
“Yes, but he’ll fume at me.”
That argument apparently carried the day. He shook his head, straightened his wig, and set off down the street at a brisk pace. Jenny followed. As the journey went on, the streets became cleaner and the houses larger. By the time they reached Mayfair, the rows of stolid houses rose over her head like a military encampment, heavy stone walls stretching up past the tops of the trees. Flowers bloomed. The squares were carefully curried: bushes trimmed to exacting geometric shapes, bits of lawn clipped to perfect smoothness.
The people they passed on the streets no doubt took Jenny for some kind of a delivery girl. Their eyes slipped right past her, as if she didn’t exist. After all, she carried a heavy package, and the washed-out pattern of her unfashionable skirts proclaimed her a member of the servant class.
Jenny felt increasingly out of place. The hem of her skirt was muddied, and her sturdy blouse was cut from heavy material designed to last for years. Its color had dulled to a nondescript gray.
That feeling of bone-deep dinginess only intensified as the footboy darted alongside a tall mausoleum of gray-streaked stone. She ducked after him, down a set of stairs and through the servants’ entrance. They entered an unaccountably clean pantry, its shelves stocked with dry goods. Two maids in the doorway took one look at Jenny and fell to squawking. They waved their arms and directed her to a corner of the kitchen where she was instructed to remove her muddy boots. As she undid the laces, a heated conference developed in the corner. A dour-faced butler appeared. He was gesticulating at a matronly housekeeper. Neither smiled. There was talk from the butler of his high-and-mighty lordship, who must not be disturbed at any cost. The poor master was working, agreed the housekeeper, and if he didn’t take time to eat—
They weren’t debating whether to let her upstairs to face Lord Blakely’s wrath. They were wondering whether to throw her out now, or let her clean up and warm by the fire first.
Jenny set her muddy boots in the corner. Thankfully, it hadn’t been so wet that her stockings were damp. They were still clean and serviceable. She had nothing to be ashamed of. She drew herself up, channeling Madame Esmerelda’s outward poise. There was no reason to be intimidated by this household, caught as it was in the contagious grip of a bad case of Lord Blakely’s grims.
Well, no reason other than the crisp starch of the scullery maids’ uniforms. And the gleam of scrubbed copper pots. And the wide, warm kitchen, larger than her rooms put together and trebled, smelling of the sort of savory things Jenny had only read about in books.
The poor footboy had been pulled into the argument. He did not hunch; that would have been poor posture. But he did bend enough to look unhappy.