Marquesses at the Masquerade(105)
“Sylvie was trying to fetch her doll,” Lucy went on, “which I have admonished her to remember to do over and over, and that woman, that manipulative, sly, flirting menace to the peace of the nursery, had the audacity—”
Lucy was pacing a circle around the smallest fountain in the garden and came smack up against his lordship.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I ought not to criticize my betters.”
“Mrs. Holymere is not your better. If I had any doubt of that before today, I’m convinced of it now. You must calm yourself, Miss Fletcher. Sylvie is safe. She was at no time in danger, and a few reminders about keeping us apprised of her whereabouts are all the repercussions she should face.”
“I am not calm,” Lucy said. “This is why I should leave. I love those girls, and that is unpro— unprofessional of me.” Her breath hitched, and she tried to turn away, but there was the marble sculpture of a laughing boy, his half-tipped urn eternally spilling into the pool at his feet.
Lord Tyne passed her his handkerchief, put his arms around her, and drew her close. “You aren’t going anywhere, not at the moment. Now, have a good cry—however one defines such an oxymoron—and then we must talk.”
Lucy indulged her tears, because the comfort Lord Tyne offered was irresistible. To be held, to be cosseted, to be allowed for once to share an emotional burden… The relief was as exhausting as her worry over Sylvie had been. She never cried—almost never—but to think of Sylvie in harm’s way, lost, alone, at the mercy of an unkind fate…. That was worth a few tears.
“My nose is probably red, and my cheeks are splotchy. Allow me some time to repair my toilette, and I’ll be happy to—”
“Miss Fletcher… Lucy, if I may be so bold. I hope you know I would never trifle with the help?”
She took a seat on the nearest bench, because his lordship’s reassurance was anything but cheering.
“Of course I know that, sir. You are all that is kind, and I’m simply overset.”
He came down beside her. “With good reason. Sylvie gave us a fright, or rather that Holymere woman did. I knew her husband, so I attempt to be courteous to her, but my courtesies are at an end.”
“You’ll cut her?” Lucy liked that idea exceedingly.
“I will be merely civil, which is all the rebuke allowed to me as a gentleman. You are quite fond of the girls.”
Hadn’t Lucy said as much? “Which is why I should find another post now, my lord. I will grow more attached, and that cannot end well for anybody.” The words hurt, but that pain was familiar, unlike the growing attachment Lucy felt for his lordship.
“And yet,” he said, “I cannot abide the notion of you leaving us.”
A sad silence went by. The garden was coming into its fragrant, colorful summer glory, but like the flowers blooming in such abundance, Lucy’s time in Lord Tyne’s household would soon be over. She nearly started weeping all over again, which made no sense.
A trip to Gunter’s was not an adventure. A man who kept his head when a small child went missing was not a dashing flirt.
Lord Tyne was so much more than that. “We can speak further of this later, my lord. I am, as you say, not at my best.”
He assisted Lucy to rise and stood staring down at her. Lucy could almost hear him rearranging mental chess pieces, hear him choosing the phrasing by which he might offer her a higher salary to remain in his employ. She did not want a higher salary—had no need of it, in fact.
“When we speak later,” he said, “please consider that while I would never trifle with a woman in my employ, and your privacy is inviolable, and I am not keen on being trifled with myself, if you should ever be inclined to show me the sort of regard that—”
“Excuse me, my lord, Miss Fletcher.” The first footman stood several yards up the garden walk. “I apologize for intruding, but the gentleman has been waiting for some time.”
“What gentleman?” Lord Tyne asked.
Regardless of the gentleman’s name, Lucy wished him to perdition. Whatever his lordship had planned to say mattered more to her than some gentleman pacing in the parlor.
“He’s an acquaintance of Miss Fletcher’s,” the footman said. “Says he’s an old friend, a Captain Giles Throckmorton, and he’d be very pleased if Miss Fletcher could spare him a few minutes of her time.”
*
“Miss Fletcher was wild with worry for you, Syl.” Amanda had been worried too.
“Mrs. Holymere said I was to come with her, and I needed to fetch Lady Higginbottom.” Sylvie situated her ladyship back among the other dolls on the nursery shelf. “I think Papa was angry with me.”
Amanda flopped into the rocking chair where, when she’d been smaller than Sylvie, she’d climbed into her papa’s lap and fallen asleep while he’d read to her. The memory made her sad now, which was silly.
“If Papa was angry with anybody, he was angry with Mrs. Holymere.”
Sylvie took the other rocking chair, her feet not reaching the floor. “John Coachman calls her Mrs. Holy Terror. She smiles too much. I told her I’d already had an ice, and I’d helped Lady Hig finish hers too, but Mrs. Holymere insisted I stay with her to have another.”
Mrs. Holymere’s agenda had become clear to Amanda when the woman had called upon Papa several weeks ago, pretending to need his advice about how to manage her domestics. Amanda had every confidence Mrs. Holymere was a dab hand at managing her servants, her friends, and half the bachelors in Mayfair.