The Bed and the Bachelor

Chapter 1

London, England

April 1813

Lord Drake Byron strode briskly into his study, wiping chalk dust off his hands onto a white silk handkerchief. He’d come directly from his workshop, where he’d been deeply immersed in formulating his newest mathematical theorem. But as his butler had interrupted to bluntly remind him, his appointment was waiting—and had been waiting for the good part of the past hour.

He cast a quick glance at the back of the bonnet-clad woman seated before his desk, noting the correct set of her shoulders inside her serviceable dark blue gown. He supposed she had every right to be irritated by the delay. Then again, waiting was a servant’s lot in life, was it not?

If he decided to hire her for the housekeeping job, she would simply have to get used to his erratic and unpredictable habits. She would also need to have a strong constitution, enough so that the occasional unintentional explosion from one of his experiments didn’t send her into a paroxysm of nervous terror. He’d lost more than one housemaid that way, girls too delicate to abide the bangs, booms and acrid smells that emanated through the town house from time to time.

His mother still worried that he might blow himself up, but over the years she and the rest of his family had come to accept his interests and eccentricities and given up any attempts at changing him. At present, however, she had no cause for concern since he was once again indulging his love of theoretical mathematics rather than his fascination for scientific invention.

Still, he hadn’t meant to be late for today’s interview. Though come to think, he never meant to be late for anything. He just got so involved sometimes, he completely forgot the hour.

My apologies for keeping you waiting, he said as he rounded his desk and took a seat. I was working and could not break away. Without looking up, he rifled through the papers scattered in tall stacks across the polished walnut surface, thumbing through several before pulling a page free.

The—um—employment service sent over your credentials, Mrs.—Greenway. He perused the page, still not glancing up. I haven’t had time yet to review your background in depth, so why do you not just tell me about yourself. I assume you brought references?

Yes, your lordship, she answered in a gentle, silvery voice that put him in mind of birdsong, summer breezes and, strangely enough, warm sheets tangled after a lusty tumble. I have them right here.

A shiver slid like the tip of a hot finger down his spine. Looking up, he stared.

He’d expected a middle-aged woman, someone plump perhaps, and motherly, like his previous housekeeper. But this woman was neither plump nor middle-aged, and she didn’t put him at all in mind of his mother. Nor any mother with whom he’d ever been acquainted, come to that. Quite the opposite, in fact, he thought as he took in her slender figure and youthful countenance.

How the deuced young is she? he wondered, studying her features.

Glancing down again, he gave the character in his hand a quick skim.

Name: Mrs. Anne Greenway

Marital Status: Widow

Age: 29

Nine-and-twenty? How could this young woman seated across from him be a full year older than he? If he hadn’t just read her credentials, he wouldn’t have believed it possible for her to be more than a handful of years out of the schoolroom. Then again, he supposed determining a person’s actual age was an inexact science. As were looks, for though she wasn’t pretty in the classical sense, there was something undeniably appealing about her. She was . . . vibrant, her ivory complexion and high, smooth cheeks dusted the delicate hue of just-picked apricots. Her face was heart-shaped with long-lashed, whiskey gold eyes, a long, straight nose and full, rosy lips that looked as if they’d been formed for the express purpose of being kissed.

But it was her hair, which she’d braided and ruthlessly pinned into a bun beneath her bonnet, that surprised him the most. From what he could discern, the strands were a lush array of autumnal colors ranging from deepest brown to warm red and pale gold. Yet threaded among them were a surprising number of silvery strands that gleamed like the precious metal itself.

She is going grey, he mused.

Maybe she really was nine-and-twenty, after all.

I believe you’ll find everything in order, she ventured in that lyrical voice of hers. Leaning forward, she held out a piece of fine cream-colored vellum, her hand small inside a dark blue glove.

Frowning, he paused for a moment before accepting the character. Opening the page, he began to read.

You appear to come highly recommended, he said. You last worked for the Donald family in Armadale, Scotland, I see. I’m not familiar with the town. Where is it located?

In the far north on the Isle of Skye.

Ah, and why did you leave?

A faint scowl briefly marred her features. The . . . family decided to emigrate to America, as so many of the Scots have done in recent years. I had no wish to follow them.

You’re not Scottish yourself, he said, his words a statement rather than a question. From your accent, you sound English. The Lake District, if I’m not mistaken.

Actually, she sounded amazingly cultured as well, he decided. Had he not known better, he would have taken her for a member of the gentry at least. But then, upper servants often worked at erasing the broad vowels and dropped consonants of their birth in an effort to improve themselves and their opportunities.

She raised an eyebrow in surprise. Yes, that is correct.

And Scotland? How did you come to be employed at such a distance from your home?

Her gaze lowered to her hands. The Donalds advertised, much as you have done, my lord. After my husband died, I found myself in need of a situation. Prior to my marriage, I’d worked in service, first as a housemaid, then as a lady’s maid. Employment as a housekeeper seemed a much better prospect.

He nodded, glancing again at her credentials. You have no children, correct?

No, none.

And you believe London will be to your liking? It’s very different from a village in the north. Briefly, he paused. There is also the fact that I am an unmarried man with a household that is not at all similar to the one to which I expect you are accustomed. With no wife, nor any wish to obtain one, I tend to come and go as I please with no regular routine. I may spend one week locked inside my workroom and the next decide to throw an impromptu gathering for friends. Should you find yourself in my employ, you will perforce need to adjust to a continually changing environment.

A curiously wry expression crossed her face. I believe you will discover that I am quite adaptable to any situation, my lord. As for the running of your household, I expect one domicile is very like another at its heart, so I see no difficulty in its management, however unpredictable your schedule may be.

She drew a breath before continuing. As for London, city life suits me perfectly at present. I am looking forward to the excitement and change of new things.

Hmmph, he said, the sound an indecisive exhale beneath his breath.

That is precisely what troubles me, he thought, new things and the potential excitement and change of having her in my house.

She was far too attractive, and despite her stated age, much too young-looking for comfort. Were he interested in taking a new mistress, well, that would be a different story entirely. He’d have her installed in her own neat little town house in a trice. But she wasn’t there to warm his bed, and he wasn’t the sort of man who took advantage of his maidservants—or his housekeeper. Then again, he’d never had cause before to be so sorely tempted by a member of his domestic staff, even a prospective one.

If only his former housekeeper, Mrs. Beatty, hadn’t decided to quit so abruptly last month. Entirely without warning, she’d given her notice and announced with a nervous urgency that belied her usually steadfast nature, that she was leaving for the seaside. My health isn’t what it used to be, she told him, and my doctor suggests a milder clime.

She’d always appeared in the peak of health as far as Drake could see, but how was he to argue? And so, with little more than a week’s notice, she’d packed her bags and taken a hired coach out of the city as fast as it could go.

Glancing down again, he studied the papers in his hand.

Mrs. Greenway seemed exceptionally well qualified to be sure, and heaven knows he had no interest in being put to the bother of interviewing more candidates, and yet . . .

Laying her credentials aside, he met her lovely golden gaze and prepared to do what he ought.

If only she weren’t so dashed appealing.

He’s not going to hire me, Sebastianne Dumont realized, her nails flexing deep into the brown cotton twill of the reticule on her lap. Her heart beat like a trapped bird in her chest, alarm squeezing painfully beneath her ribs.

But he has to hire me. Anything else is unthinkable.

The interview had seemed to be going so well at first, the answers she’d practiced with such determined concentration rolling easily off her tongue. She’d thought he seemed impressed, but then he’d grown quiet, contemplative. Her fingers clenched tighter as she mentally reviewed his questions and her responses.

Did I make a mistake?

Has he figured out that nearly every word I’ve told him is a lie?

But how could he know she was lying when her script had been so well researched, so carefully prepared by those who made a profession of deceiving others?

She knew Napoleon’s men had gone to great lengths to arrange this position for her so she could gain entry into Lord Drake Byron’s house. They’d made sure his former housekeeper left her longtime situation—using cash and threats to pave the way.

She knew they’d made sure she, Sebastianne Dumont, would be the one sent by the employment service for this interview.

She knew they expected her not only to obtain the housekeeping position but to retrieve the information they wanted as well.

There could be no failure. For if she did not succeed, the price would be beyond redemption and cost her everything she most loved in this world.

As for her prospective employer, he wasn’t at all how she’d imagined him.

Over the years, she’d heard her mathematician father mention Lord Drake as one of today’s brightest lights in the fields of science, theoretical physics, and mathematics. A prodigy who’d earned advanced degrees from Cambridge and Oxford before his twentieth birthday, he’d won a number of prestigious awards, including the Copley Medal.

Had there not been a war raging in her homeland of France and elsewhere across Europe, she was sure he would have been welcomed on the Continent with open arms. As it was, certain parties coveted his work, particularly the secret work he was presently undertaking for the British government in the realm of cryptography and mathematical ciphers.

Work she’d been sent here to acquire.

Knowing his background, she’d assumed he would be older, more of a contemporary of her father’s, with thinning hair, lined features, and a belly that had gone as round and soft as bread dough.

But there was nothing doughy or lined about Lord Drake.

Quite the reverse since he was young, handsome, and extremely fit. Tall and leanly muscled, he sported solid shoulders, a broad chest, and a flat stomach that belied any notion of his ever developing a paunch.

As for his features, he would catch any female’s eye whatever her age. From his head of thick chestnut brown hair to his aristocratic nose, sculpted lips and square chin, he was everything that was pleasing to behold.

Still, it was the intelligence and light of good humor shining in his translucent green eyes that appealed to her the most—eyes she had best be careful never to gaze into too closely for fear of being unmasked. For above all else, she must keep him from realizing who she really was and the wrong she planned to commit against him.

But first, she had to convince him to hire her, or all the rest would make no difference at all.

I am a hard worker, your lordship, she told him before he had a chance to speak the words that would end their interview. You will not find better, I promise.

His brows gathered close. I am sure that is true, Mrs. Greenway, still I am not entirely positive that—

I understand from something I heard mentioned at the employment agency that your former housekeeper was with you for a good many years, she interrupted.

He nodded. Since I first acquired the house here on Audley Street.

Then I am sure her departure has been most disruptive to your routine, even one as admittedly irregular as your own.

It has been, yes, he said, his mouth curving up at the corners.

Then allow me to put it to rights. Hire me for the position, and I shall have your household running again as smoothly and easily as it ever did. More so, I dare say.

More so, hmm? he mused in a mellow baritone that seeped through her like a draught of warmed brandy.

You don’t lack for confidence, I’ll say that. He paused, silence settling between them, as the frown returned to his brow. You are clearly qualified and yet—

Her chest squeezed painfully, fingers curled against her reticule to hide their trembling. Without thinking, she leaned forward in her chair. "Please, your lordship, I need this position. Travel from Scotland is not without expense, and my severance will only last me so long. Let me prove to you what an asset I can be. You won’t regret it, I swear."

At least not right away, that is, she added silently.

Her mouth grew dry, pulse thudding dully in her veins as she waited for his answer. He simply had to say yes. Otherwise, she would have to resort to other measures, desperate ones that frightened her to even consider.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze to hers, those clear green eyes of his burning into her own. Holding steady, she forced herself not to look away, not to flinch or in any manner reveal her duplicity.

Abruptly, he nodded. Very well, Mrs. Greenway, you’ve convinced me. Starting tomorrow, you are my new housekeeper.

Chapter 2

" . . . And this is your bedchamber," the upper housemaid, Parker, announced the next day as she led Sebastianne into one of the third-floor attic rooms inside Lord Drake Byron’s town house.

Glancing around, Sebastianne set her black leather portmanteau on the floor beside the plain pine bed with its clean but simple counterpane of faded blue chintz. As she did, she took note of the freshly whitewashed walls, narrow oak wardrobe and washstand with its blue china washbowl and pitcher arranged on top. A small painting of a shepherd tending his flock hung on the wall. Despite the room’s admittedly spare decoration, it seemed comfortable and tidy, any aspect of closeness held at bay by the surprisingly good quantity of summer light flooding in through a pair of dormer windows.

Nevertheless, her chest contracted with a wistful pang as she thought of her room at home, with its pretty buttercup yellow walls, flowered curtains and rosewood writing table. Since the war, the little cottage near Montsoreau had grown shabby. Yet she’d done everything in her power to keep it cheerful and bright, cherishing the few luxuries still left, as well as the memories of happier times.

She’d learned to make do these last few years, learned to accept hardship and struggle, and she would do so again now. She would do whatever was necessary to secure her family’s safety and be back with them once more in their petite maison near the Loire.

If all went well, she told herself, that reunion would not be long in coming. A couple of weeks—a month at most—and she would have the information she needed to satisfy her handlers. Then Anne Greenway, housekeeper, would cease to exist, and Sebastianne Dumont would be able to be her true self again. Until then, she had a part to play, one the young maidservant across from her needed to believe without question.

Sebastianne had already caught the look of curious speculation in the other woman’s dark eyes despite her outward show of friendliness. She knew she was going to be watched, measured and tested by her fellow servants every bit as much or more than by the master himself. If she had any hope of success, Sebastianne knew she would need to be on guard every moment of the day—and even, she feared, at night.

You’re to ’ave the room all to yerself, of course, you bein’ the housekeeper an’ everything, Parker offered, as if echoing Sebastianne’s musings about her nocturnal circumstances. Me an’ Edith—Cobbs, that is—share a room just down the hall, the maidservant continued, hands clasped behind her short, slightly rounded frame. Finnegan and Polk—they’re the kitchen maid and scullion—they share the room beneath the eaves. Last room belongs to Mrs. Tremble—she’s the cook and has been with his lordship from the first day he owned this house.

And how long has that been? Sebastianne inquired with polite interest.

Parker scrunched up her mahogany eyebrows in thought. Well now, going on eight year, I think. Mrs. Beatty was with him all that time too afore she gave her notice. She were the housekeeper here prior to yerself, ye see.

Yes, so I am given to understand, Sebastianne stated, straightening her shoulders at the sudden unspoken challenge in the housemaid’s voice and eyes.

Despite the fact that she and the other young woman were likely a similar age—two-and-twenty in Sebastianne’s case—she couldn’t allow herself to be intimidated. Forcing herself to hold firm, she met the housemaid’s gaze with implacable determination.

A few seconds later, Parker looked away.

Clearing her throat, the housemaid shuffled her feet beneath her starched black uniform skirts and crisp white apron. Here now, I’d best be getting along else Mr. Stowe thinks I’m turning lazy. He said I were to see you settled and invite you to join everyone belowstairs soon as yer ready. He’ll assemble the staff then fer a proper introduction.

Sebastianne nodded. Thank you. Please inform Mr. Stowe that I shall be with him directly. I am eager to review the household since I am sure there is a great deal of work to be done.

Oh there’s always plenty of that, Parker agreed, even if his lordship hardly pokes his head out of his workroom most days. He’s a deep one, he is, but fair. And sharp. He may seem dreamy-like sometimes, lost in his figuring and inventions and such, but still, he don’t miss a trick. Always knows what’s what, his lordship does.

Sebastianne swallowed against the fresh knot in her throat, wondering if the maidservant’s words had been spoken out of innocent observation or rather as a veiled warning instead? Either way, she decided, by the time this was over, she’d likely have enough knots tied in her insides to impress a bosun’s mate on His Majesty’s finest frigate.

Assuming I haven’t been unmasked as a spy by then and am locked in the hold of a prison hulk awaiting execution.

But that wasn’t going to happen, she assured herself. Her British accent was as flawless as a native’s, and she’d studied everything about housekeeping she could possibly need to know. There was no reason for anyone to suspect her of being someone other than the person she claimed to be.

Except for her youth, of course, since most housekeepers were in their forties or fifties or even older. Then too there was the fact that she’d never worked a day in her life as a servant. But those were minor details that could be overcome. She’d already faced the toughest challenge before her—getting hired. The rest would fall into place.

She hoped.

Well, thank you for showing me to my room, Parker, Sebastianne stated in a pleasant tone that also served as a clear indication of dismissal.

The maid stared for a moment before lowering her gaze. Yes, ma’am. As I said, lots to do.

I am sure.

She was also sure that Parker’s first stop would be the servants’ hall to gossip about her impressions of the new housekeeper, Sebastianne judged, as she watched the maid curtsey, then close the door behind her.

Only after the girl’s footsteps faded away did she release the breath she’d been holding and sink with trembling limbs onto the bed.

Mon Dieu, I am so alone, so afraid. May the good Lord watch over and keep me from harm.

Forcing herself to stand again after a minute, she opened her portmanteau and began to unpack her meager array of belongings.

In another part of the house, Drake came awake with a start, blinking in confusion for a moment before realizing he was in his workroom. Obviously he’d fallen asleep at his desk again, dozing off sometime in the small hours of the night as he’d been mulling over his latest theorem.

Sitting up, he stretched his arms over his head to ease some of the stiffness from his muscles before running a set of fingers through his disheveled hair. He glanced at a gilt mantel clock to check the time, its hands mirroring those of the other half dozen, gently ticking timepieces perched in various locations around the room—all of them accurately calibrated to within a half second of each other.

At present, they all read twenty-one past nine in the morning.

He supposed he ought to make his way upstairs for a bath, shave and change of clothes, particularly since he was expected at Clybourne House later that day. His sister-in-law, Claire, was hosting her first nuncheon party of the Season, and his mother had given him strict instructions that he was to attend.

Too much work will only make you dull, Ava Byron had declared last week when the subject arose after a family dinner. You’re forever wrapped up in one puzzlement or another, and a break will do you good.

He’d sent her an indulgent smile. But I like being ‘wrapped up’ in puzzlements, as well you know, Mama. Not to worry though. I shall be here for Claire’s fête since you ladies have both worked so hard on it.

He only prayed Claire and his mother hadn’t invited a gaggle of dewy-eyed ingénues to the party as well, each one looking to snare a husband during her first London Season. He had no interest in young misses just out of the schoolroom and even less in marriage.

At least the visit would give him a chance to talk to his eldest brother, Ned, about a few refinements he was making to the cipher he’d developed in secret for the British government. Edward, the Duke of Clybourne—or Ned as he was known to the family—was highly placed in the War Office, the duke’s involvement known only to a select handful at the top.

Because of Drake’s talents as a mathematician, Ned had approached him a couple of years ago about doing code work for the government. Intrigued, he’d agreed, finding the endeavor not only challenging but worthwhile since he was as committed as the rest of his family to seeing Britain prevail in her fight against Napoleon.

So far, his forays into the world of espionage were proving an excellent complement to his other intellectual pursuits. Plus, the Crown paid a surprisingly excellent stipend, remuneration that a younger son—even the fourth son of a duke—wasn’t at all loath to receive.

Without warning, his stomach gave an irritable rumble that brought him back to the immediate matter at hand, however mundane it might seem. Reaching out, he straightened the notes scattered across the scarred and stained oak surface of his desk, then returned the crystal stopper to its bottle of ink. He left a variety of pens, pencils and nubs of chalk where they lay, not far from a dish full of bolts, a coil of thin copper wire, an open penknife and a hammer.

He stood, then walked from the room.

Located as it was on the ground floor in the rear of the town house, his workshop was closer to the servants’ back staircase than to the main stairs. Often he found it far more convenient to use the servants’ stairs to make a quick jog up to his suite of rooms on the second floor than to go around to the front.

Opening the concealed door in the wall, he started up.

He was just rounding the landing leading up to the final flight of steps when a swish of dark skirts and a pair of small, leather-clad shoes appeared directly above him.

Oh! cried a woman, her voice skimming over him like a silken hand.

He stopped just in time to avoid colliding with her, the two of them crowded bare inches from each other on the narrow staircase. Mrs. Greenway, is that you?

Her gaze met his, her golden eyes bright as a pair of copper pennies. M-my pardon, your lordship, for not seeing you there.

He brushed her apology aside. No, no. Entirely my fault for taking the servants’ stairs. He paused, tipping his head back for a better view.

And what a view it was, he decided, finding Anne Greenway even more attractive than he remembered, with her graceful figure, winsome mouth and creamy complexion. A faint dusting of color spread across her cheeks, a pale pink that reminded him of the delicate inside of a seashell.

So, you’ve arrived? he said, the remark sounding foolish even to his own ears.

Yes, she agreed, her hands clasped at her trim waist. Only this hour past.

He crossed his arms, then lowered them again when he noticed that it only brought him closer to her. Are you finding everything to your liking so far? Your room? Is it acceptable?

A tiny V appeared between her eyebrows, her expression clearly indicating her surprise at the inquiry. Completely valid, he supposed, considering that most employers wouldn’t have bothered to ask at all.

Yes, she said. More than acceptable. Thank you, your lordship.

He rocked back on one heel. And the house? Have you had a chance to look around?

The frown and the look of surprise made a second appearance. No, not yet. I was just making my way belowstairs in order to meet the staff and acquaint myself with the premises. I am most eager to begin my duties.

A pleasing enough statement for a housekeeper, he judged, one any employer should be glad to hear. So why did he have the impression she wasn’t nearly as eager as she said but rather nervous instead? Then again, why shouldn’t she be nervous? After all, this was her first day of employment in a new city, in a new house with a new master and a houseful of servants who were strangers to her. Under those circumstances, he would likely be nervous too.

You’ll do fine, he said, surprising them both this time. First days are always difficult.

She paused, an arrested expression in her eyes. They are indeed. Thank you for your confidence in me, your lordship.

Her lashes lowered in a graceful sweep before she bent her head forward. As she did, a brilliant shaft of sunlight rained down from the window above, shining onto her neatly pinned hair. She wore no bonnet this time, her richly hued tresses creating a glorious riot of autumnal color—lush browns, gleaming reds and vibrant golds that ranged from pale ash to the deepest topaz. And entwined among them like rare strands of silver were those few grey hairs that ought to have once again reassured him of the appropriate advancement of her age.

Then he studied her face, finding her profile lovely and young.

Too young.

Too pretty.

Why did I hire her again? he wondered.

Because you’re an idiot, that’s why, came the answer.

Shifting his stance, he became uncomfortably aware of blood rushing to parts of his anatomy that he’d rather not think about at the moment and had no business feeling.

Well, I suppose I ought let you be on your way, he said, taking a step back so that she might move past him. Should you have any questions or concerns, pray address them to me without hesitation.

She nodded, then started forward. A second later, she stopped. Actually, I do have a question.

He pressed himself back against the wall of the staircase, fighting the impulse to step forward instead so he could press her against the wall and kiss her. His pulse sped faster, imagining the taste and sensation of her lips moving under his own. Instinctively, he knew she would taste delicious.

Yes? he encouraged, half-hoping she was going to make his fantasy come true and ask him to do exactly what he’d been imagining.

Do you wish to be consulted regarding the dinner menus? she inquired with quiet interest.

He gave her a blank stare, managing only by force of will not to betray his disappointment—or his desire.

Take charge of yourself, man, he thought, giving himself a firm mental slap. She’s the new housekeeper, and for her good and