Starling Page 3

  “Was the bed comfortable, Mrs. Seymour?” Ellen asked.

  “Lovely.”

  “I hope the master—”

  “Careful,” Alasdair warned. “It might be safer if you brought in breakfast without speaking.”

  “I was just going to say that I hope that the master enjoyed—”

  “Ellen!”

  “Supper last night, by himself. I thought he shoulda—”

  “For God’s sake, bring breakfast!”

  Ellen scuttled out of the room.

  Alasdair couldn’t imagine why he’d assumed Ellen was asking about his wedding night. Maybe she had meant to. She could be scurrilous at times.

  His “wife” sat silently while the maid served breakfast. Alasdair watched in amazement while Ellen set a slab of butter beside Starling, a full toast rack, and three eggs. He was left with one slice of toast and one egg. Ellen left the room with her nose in the air.

  He rested his hands in his lap. Starling waited. He cleared his throat. She stared at him.

  “Use the butter. The toast is getting soggy.”

  “I was waitin’ f’you.”

  He wondered why she had suddenly developed a strange accent when he had hired her because she spoke well. Or was she trying him again? If she continued, he would simply make sure she kept that rather lush mouth of hers closed most of the time. “Perhaps you don’t know that ladies begin first.”

  She picked up her knife, cut off a portion of butter, and began to spread it on her toast. Fortunately, she had graceful movements. She would pass as respectably born should she behave with the modesty and decorum he expected.

  When she reached for a second piece of toast, he noticed her chapped hands and ragged fingernails. He lifted his eyebrows. At least their work-worn condition showed that she could do something other than spread her legs.

  She piled her butter high, her shoulders lifted with expectation. “The food ’ere’s good. Do the cook serve lunch’n, too?”

  “Yes. Ladies have luncheon, gentlemen have a midday repast, and we all have dinner at eight.”

  “Will I be ’avin’ my lunch’n in the bedroom, too?”

  “I find it strange that you’ve suddenly lost your aitches and your gees. Unless you pick them up again, I’m going to find it mighty difficult to let you out of here.” He dropped his napkin on the table and stood.

  She stared at him, her top teeth clipped on her bottom lip and her eyes gleaming.

  Determined not to show a chink in his armor, he exaggerated the sternness of his expression and rearranged his neckcloth. “My sister will arrive sometime this afternoon.” He checked his appearance in the cheval mirror as he buttoned his jacket.

  She began eating her third piece of toast. “Is she older than you?”

  “Four years younger. Mary is twenty-three.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  “She’s tall and dark. Personally, I admire shapely blondes.”

  The slender-framed woman nodded and, assuming he had put her back into her place, he turned and strode out of the room, meaning to catch up with his paperwork. In a matter of hours, his sister would see his choice of bride as the final irony, being the antithesis of Lavender.

  “Mrs. Brighton,” he called as he paced down the hall. “Come and see me in the library.” He would send the housekeeper off to Seymour’s to get a suitable dressing set for Starling Smith.

  That would stop the wretch using his brush.

  Chapter 3

  “The Elliots’s carriage has just arrived.” Ellen’s pretty face edged around the doorway. “Let me take those plates.”

  Starling stood as the maid came into the morning room and began to pack up the dishes from the luncheon Starling had been served.

  She had enjoyed the idleness of the past few hours. After being escorted by Mrs. Brighton downstairs to the roomy kitchen at the back of the house, Starling had thanked the cook, Mrs. Trelevan, for her meals. She had then been introduced to the kitchen maid, Ellen’s sister, Freda, who was slightly younger and with darker hair. Next, Mrs. Brighton had taken her to meet the boot boy, Will, who’d bowed from the waist. She’d also met the women who managed the various daily cleaning jobs and the good-looking young gardener, Derry, who lived in a room off the stables.

  Left to her own devices and ignorant of the role of a wife in this efficient household, she’d let herself be directed to the morning room, and there she’d stayed. With idling to do, she had stared out of the window at the pretty garden, counted varieties of birds, plumped a few cushions on the comfortable sofa, and pondered exploring the house. Just as she had decided to wander, Ellen had delivered the cook’s list of the week’s meals, which had occupied her until now. She couldn’t wait to taste salmon poached in wine. Mousse confused her. She thought it might be a game meat.

  “Do you know what mousse is, Ellen?” Starling smoothed the brown-striped skirts of her gown.

  “Just a custard. I think it’s French.”

  “French.” Musing on the vagaries of the rich, Starling turned to check her appearance in the mirror above the marbled fireplace. Wearing the corset Mr. Seymour had bought for her gave her a shape, at least, but the mustard-yellow bodice of the gown reflected on her skin. Mr. Seymour had hired her and not someone striking for good reason, but perhaps she could have looked pretty in a clearer color. She couldn’t tell. She only knew that while she wore warm muddy tones, no guest of his would remember her name.

  “You’ll want to be with Mr. Seymour in the drawing room to greet his sister,” Ellen said. Behind the maid, through the window, the leaves on the fruit trees shifted restlessly. Clouds had begun to gather.

  Starling patted her hair to make sure none escaped her neat scraping back. She drew a deep breath. “To the drawing room.”

  The time had come to smile and earn her wages.

  * * * *

  Alasdair turned. Against the fashionable background of the gilded wallpaper, Starling Smith looked like a waning moth. He moved from the window of the drawing room where, over the high wall, he could see the top of the traveling carriage outside.

  Her head tilted slightly, Starling stopped to examine a large gilt-framed painting of a hunting scene, looking for all the world as if art interested her. He jammed his hands in his pockets. “So, you finally decided to join me?”

  Her lips opened, but her words were stopped by the sound of a female voice in the hallway, directing the placement of her trunks.

  “Remember, don’t speak unless you are addressed,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll do the talking.”

  On his last word, Mary, dressed in red and white, appeared in the doorway. She looked as elegant as usual. With a laugh of happiness, she dashed across the room and flung herself at him. “We’ve had such a trip! You wouldn’t believe the condition of the roads. So many potholes. Seven days, it took. Seven days! Could you believe that?”

  “Yes, Mary. It always takes you seven days. Now, how is my mother?”

  “Happily spoiling your two-year-old nephew, who has been left with her and, of course, his dear nanny. Mama’s in her element...” Her voice faded as she noticed Starling behind the armchairs. She shot a questioning smile at him.

  He held out his hand to Starling and slid his arm around her waist when she moved to his side, easing her closer. She stiffened, and he loosened his grip. He gave her a loving-husband smile. “My wife, Starling,” he said, assuming he looked suitably fatuous. “Starling, this is my sister, Mary Elliot.”

  “Your wife?” Mary said, wide-eyed. “Oh, dear! I don’t mean ‘oh, dear.’ I mean, oh, how do you do, my dear? So you’re my brother’s wife. How delightful.” Her expression somewhat fixed, she reached out and shook Starling’s hand.

  Starling smiled brightly but quickly took that hand behind her back with the other.

  “Starling. What an unusual name.”

  “A pretty name,” said her husband, Paul Elliot, the hand
some, good-natured gentleman who had married Alasdair’s loyal, if not misguided sister. The only son of a wealthy landowner, Paul had always been a fashion plate. His shirt was a dazzling white and his waistcoat a red patterned silk. A beautifully curved blonde dressed in a pale lilac gown clung to his arm. Alasdair stared at Lavender...lovely Lavender.

  Paul shook Alasdair’s flaccid hand, took up a position beside Mary, and bid Starling a good afternoon.

  Lavender gave a throaty laugh. She reached out and placed her gloved fingers in Alasdair’s. “Dare. How wonderful to see you again,” she said in a low voice. “How long has it been? Three years?”

  “Seven,” Alasdair managed to say.

  “Seven,” Mary emphasized in a precise tone to Starling. “I expect Alasdair told you we would be bringing a mystery guest. He and Lavender have known each other since, oh, years and years. And, because her mourning period is over, she thought she should look up her old friends. And since we were coming here for a visit...”

  “Mourning?” said Alasdair, his brain still not quite functioning. He discovered he was clutching at Lavender’s hand.

  Lavender lowered her fanlike lashes. “Indeed. Mary tells me your business is very successful—”

  “You’re a widow?”

  “Richard died two years ago.” Her gaze met his and her lips softened.

  “Lavender, before you catch up on too much history, I would like to introduce you to Starling, Alasdair’s wife.” Mary’s voice sounded a little high. “Mrs. Seymour, Mrs. Lavender Frost. And, Starling, this is my dear husband, Paul.” She tilted her head towards her poker-faced husband.

  “Mrs. Frost. Mr. Elliot,” Starling said, her pasted smile extending from ear to ear.

  “Paul. Call me Paul. We’re related now, Starling.”

  “Your wife?” Lavender fixed two stunned amethyst eyes on Alasdair. She directed a quick glance at Starling’s waist. “You married recently?”

  To save his life, Alasdair couldn’t have spoken at that moment.

  Starling glanced at him. “Yesterday.” She kept smiling.

  “You must wish us elsewhere in that case.” Lavender removed her hand from his. She turned her back on him and picked up a porcelain ornament from the nearest side table. “Exquisite,” she said, her lashes covering her expression as she glanced at the bottom. “Your taste seems to have...changed.” Her incredible eyes flickered back to Starling.

  “Indeed,” said Paul with a short laugh. “He has hidden depths. No doubt he will tell us later why he couldn’t remain a bachelor for one more day.”

  “He knew we would be arriving today,” Mary said in an off-hand tone. “And since he married yesterday, he must have wanted us to celebrate his marriage with him.” She shot Alasdair a dangerous smile.

  “Though perhaps not today,” Lavender said, running her fingers delicately across her forehead. “I, for one, am far too tired after our tedious journey. Every night a new hotel and every night a more uncomfortable bed. My sheets were damp in the first.”

  “I’m sorry you were given poor service,” Mary said, a crease between her eyebrows. “You should have let us know and we would have insisted on better.”

  “Well-trained servants are rare and I should never have said a word. You and Paul have been very gracious to me.”

  Alasdair at last found a voice, albeit strained. “As Mary said, I knew guests would be arriving today. I think you will find my servants polite and efficient and my home amply prepared for your stay. Lavender...” He stopped. Until he knew the purpose of her visit, he would not explain his ruse. From her, he had learned not to make assumptions.

  She gave him her profile, a straight delicate nose and a perfectly rounded chin. “I’m sure I’ll be looked after while I’m here...tonight.” She directed her glance at Starling. “You would be very pleased with this lovely house, Mrs. Seymour. You must have at least twenty rooms.”

  “Rooms?” Starling said, holding her smile as if it was the only expression she had ever known. “I don’t know the number. Until not long ago, I’d seen little more than the bedroom. Not that that was a punishment,” she added after a quick glance at Alasdair. “The bed is wonderful and—”

  “Eighteen rooms,” Alasdair relaxed his shoulders. The shopgirl was proving her worth. The implication that he and she had made much of their married life was not lost on Lavender, who straightened, her eyes clouding.

  Mary made an impish purse of her mouth. “Perhaps we should go to our rooms and rest before we hear Alasdair’s plans for us this week. I, for one, need a nap. I doubt I slept a wink last night.”

  “Nor I.” Paul gave his wife a grin. “I’ll nap with you.” Although always a gentleman, Paul could be mischievous. Perhaps the plan to withhold Lavender’s identity had been his.

  Taking Paul with her, Mary left the room, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll see you at dinner tonight, Starling, my dear.” Paul echoed her from the hallway.

  Alasdair glanced at Lavender, who’d moved to a large painting of the English countryside. Her figure was as graceful and curved, and her body was as breathtaking as ever. “A Ross Anderson,” she said with a glance at Alasdair. “One would know his style anywhere. The soft leaves, the shafts of color. Do you admire this painting, Mrs. Seymour?”

  Starling nodded. “Should we offer you refreshment?”

  Lavender shook her head. “Perhaps someone could show me to my bedroom. I’ll need to supervise the unpacking.”

  His pulse thundering in his throat, Alasdair said, “If I may? Starling is new to the house.”

  Lavender slowly pulled the ribbons of her silk-flowered hat undone. “Call for a maid, Alasdair. I’m sure you would prefer to stay with your new bride.” Her voice and expression conflicted, but in the past, she had constantly confused him.

  Now older and wiser, he tugged the call-bell. After giving his orders to Ellen, he went through to the billiard room and paced. He couldn’t let Lavender entangle him again. The shopgirl had been an inspired choice.

  Lavender deserved to see how happy he was without her.

  * * * *

  The drawing room darkened and thunder rumbled in the distance. Starling plumped down on the low, dark-gold velvet sofa, fidgeting, picking at her fingernails. Again, she’d been left alone in a strange room and again she had no idea what was expected of her. Lightning flickered outside. She glanced at the window, wishing she had kept her mouth shut, as ordered.

  Although she had not hesitated to try Mr. Seymour’s patience this morning, her tiny payback was for his lack of an explanation regarding the sleeping arrangements. She hadn’t deliberately annoyed him this afternoon. Her words about the bed had been meant well and offered because of his unexplained silence. Though, as a married couple... She lifted her chin. His sister had taken no offence at the accidental implication, and her belief in Mr. Seymour’s story had been bolstered.

  At least Starling could now understand why Mr. Seymour wanted to be protected from matchmaking. His old acquaintance, Mrs. Frost, was a cold woman despite her incredible beauty. Not even lilac, a color that made her look like a scented pastille, took attention from her huge blue eyes and her soft, pale hair.

  Mrs. Elliot, too, was a beautiful woman, with a hand as smooth and cool as silk and skin the texture of white rose-petals. She knew how to dress to complement her coloring. The red and white patterned gown with the fashionable fullness at the back flattered her dark hair and light eyes.

  With reluctance, after examining each painting, smelling each scented rose in each vase, and examining the bottom of each porcelain figurine and finding nothing but minute crossed swords, Starling decided the time had come to investigate the rest of the house. She could idle tomorrow instead. If the beautiful Mrs. Frost asked her about other rooms, she would need to know the answer.

  She crossed the marble-tiled hall and opened the opposite set of doors, finding a room the size of a meeting hall arranged with seating aroun
d the walls. At the back corner stood a rostrum with a red curtain on either side. She stepped across the parquet floor to adjoining double doors leading to a vast dining room, which displayed at least twenty delicately carved chairs placed around a long gleaming table. The carpet was flat-piled and multi-patterned. The room next to the drawing room was a library.

  “Oh, my,” Starling said, walking into the insulated silence. Shelves of books reached to the picture rail. Her nose tickled with the smell of wood polish and ink. Comfortable chairs upholstered in dark blue surrounded another white marble fireplace. A massive table, holding various stacks of papers, stood in the center of the room. Barely two steps inside, she reached reverently for a book named The Silk Routes with a spine embossed in gold.

  “Mrs. Seymour!”

  Heart leaping, she turned to face her accuser. “I didn’t—”

  “Sorry for startling you, ma’am.” Ellen’s face looked flushed and anxious, and she pressed one hand to her breastbone, as if trying to calm herself. “I can’t find Mr. Seymour. Tammy Burdon’s fallen in the well. They need him. They can’t get her out. When Derry tried, the bucket rope broke—”

  “Who is Tammy?”

  “The daughter of a neighbor.” Ellen’s eyes glistened and her mouth trembled. “She’s only six years old. She’s wedged, jammed, and the men can’t get down to her because the shaft’s too narrow.”

  “Where is the well?”

  “There.” Ellen pointed to the back of the house, in the direction of the river.

  “Mr. Seymour went into the billiard room. He might still be there.”

  “I’ll see. Thank you, ma’am,” Ellen spun on her heel. She ran off in a twirl of white petticoats, sprinting across the hallway.

  Starling heard her calling Mr. Seymour. She heard more than one set of footsteps thudding on the marble flooring. A faint voice shouted. Thunder rumbled. The curtains lifted with a gust of wind. Lightning flickered frantically.

  They need him.