Chapter Six #2
“This will never do. There’s no view.”
“There are some trees.”
“Even though I was living in a garret I had a glorious view, out over the rooftops of the city. It helped me write.”
“Are you a writer, milady?” Tessie asked, looking awed by the prospect.
“I am. I’ve written one novel already, although a publisher told me it was no good and I should write another.
If I stay here for any length of time I must have a tolerable writing desk, a supply of fresh paper, quills, and ink.
” The duke had said he’d buy her one hundred pencils.
He should be willing to supply other sorts of writing implements.
“I must finish half a novel in a little over a fortnight.”
“How exciting! What will it be about?”
“Have you heard of the Clovercote books by Lady Claridge? No? They’re romances.”
“Romances,” Tessie said dreamily. “I’d love to have time to read romances.”
“I’m going to write a Clovercote romance.”
“You are?”
“And you shall be my early reader. Should you like that? I’ll make sure you have time to read and tell me your thoughts.”
“Would I ever!”
“I’ll begin writing my novel as soon as I have a suitable desk. Do you know of any chambers on this floor with a view and a writing desk?”
“Loads of these rooms have grates need cleaning—I’ve been in almost all of them!
There is one room, at the end of the hallway.
It has a view of the square and the grandest desk you ever did see.
It’s shut up and no one uses it, but I think you would like it.
” Tessie blushed a bit at her own presumption, but obviously felt strongly enough on this point to persevere.
“I could take you there so’s you could see for yourself? ”
“Perfect! Lead the way.”
“But . . . milady”—she glanced doubtfully at the dressing gown sweeping the floor around Ana’s feet—“you’re not clothed.”
“No one will see us, we’re only going on an exploratory mission to find the perfect writing room.” She cinched the belt of the duke’s dressing gown even tighter, rolled the sleeves higher, and followed Tessie out of the room.
A distraught, quivering McArdle met Dex at the door. “Your Grace, I’m so relieved you’ve returned.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I must say, with apologies to Your Grace, that Miss Crewe is a most disruptive type of ward.”
“How much disrupting can she have achieved in one morning?”
“I caught her sharing her breakfast with the new scullery maid, and when I informed her that scullery maids were not to take meals with ladies of the house, she informed me that she’d chosen the girl as her lady’s maid, which won’t do at all.
The maid is untrained and barely able to perform her current functions. ”
Dex’s lip twitched. The thought of the petite firebrand upending the apparently delicate inner structure of his household so easily was not, upon reflection, difficult to believe.
“My ward has perhaps grown unaccustomed to the ways of polite society. You’ll be pleased to learn that my aunt Glynis has agreed to come and live here as Miss Crewe’s chaperone.
” She was a rigid disciplinarian and wouldn’t mince words when it came to instructing Miss Crewe in all things proper and decorous.
“That is good news, indeed. But it doesn’t make the current situation any less objectionable.”
“The current situation?”
“I assigned Miss Crewe the turquoise chamber, which I accounted to be the largest and most well-appointed, with a vanity mirror and large dressing chamber for the new wardrobe you will be furnishing her with.”
Dex hadn’t thought of that, but of course the lady would require new fashionable clothing if she was to be launched into society. “Very correct of you, I’m sure.”
“And yet Miss Crewe rejected my choice.”
“What was the reason given?”
“It doesn’t have a writing desk and she’s writing some manner of . . .” McArdle sniffed disdainfully. “Romantic novel.”
Dex recalled the pawnshop broker mentioning something about her writing a novel. Perhaps she was finishing the book he’d read several chapters of in the letters to her father. “So? Simply have a desk moved in.”
“You would think that solution would suffice, but apparently the desk must be positioned in front of a window with a view, because her previous desk, though rickety and scuffed, had a view of London’s rooftops that sparked creativity.”
“Then find her another room.” Dex was growing impatient.
“I have important business to attend to.” He meant to visit the boarding house and the bawdy house and fulfill his promise to ensure the unscrupulous Flanagan sisters stopped recruiting young, destitute ladies newly arrived from the countryside.
“Yes, Your Grace, I attempted to do so, but she chose a new chamber on her own.” An ominous pause. A trembling of his upper lip. “That chamber.”
There was only one room in his house that could be so described. “That chamber is always kept locked.”
“The lock must have broken, because she is inside, Your Grace. She and the scullery maid. And she enlisted several of the footmen to help her redecorate. It’s utter chaos, Your Grace! I’ve been unable to dislodge her.”
As though Miss Crewe were something stuck between his teeth.
Staid and stuffy, meet redheaded hellion.
“I’ve already had a clash of wills with Miss Crewe, McArdle.” And he hadn’t emerged unscathed. “Never fear, I shall win this round.”
He stalked upstairs and down the hall. He was willing to be lenient about fraternizing with serving girls, but breaking into locked rooms that were kept locked for good reason was going too far.
The door was cracked open. He flung it wide.
The scene that greeted him was chaos personified, to McArdle’s credit as descriptor.
A footman, holding steady a brocade-backed chair.
A chair definitely not designed for the task at hand, which was acting as step ladder for a young lady to climb.
The lady in question was wearing a heavy black silk garment that swallowed her up, the sleeves hanging loosely about her raised arms, the belt wrapped twice around her waist, the bottom hem skimming the seat of the chair, except for the part caught on the mahogany chair back, exposing a length of creamy leg that the footman was valiantly trying to ignore.
She was busily trying to remove the voluminous dustcovers housing a gilt mirror that lined most of the wall. Curtains that had long been closed to the day had been thrown wide, and a column of sunlight was making the dust motes dance, lending a celestial glow to her ruddy curls.
Why in God’s name was she wearing his dressing gown?
The footman caught sight of him and his face blanched. He let go of the chair and backed away. The young scullery maid took one look at Dex standing in the doorway, let out a high-pitched squeak, and scurried around him and out of the room. The footman hastily followed.
“I’ve got it!” Miss Crewe shouted merrily, wrapping the dustcover first around her hands and then around her torso, end over end. She wobbled on the chair, wrapped in the dustcover.
“Miss Crewe,” he said coldly. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
There was a muffled reply from inside the dust covering. She wriggled around to face him, the chair wobbling, and then she lost her balance.