Chapter 5 #3
Not that Harrison was ready to believe that the person who claimed to be Lord Lexham’s daughter truly was that lady. Others might be taken in by sentimental pieces in the newspapers, but he continued to take a dim view of the entire affair.
A proper lady would not visit a bachelor establishment without a suitable chaperon.
A great many people would not deem a lady’s maid sufficient chaperonage in the circumstances.
Having her mama by, or even one of her sisters or aunts, would have satisfied propriety.
But no, the inconsiderate female strutted round St. James’s Square on the master’s arm, with only a nobody maid following!
Still, Harrison prided himself on never being at a loss in any situation.
He couldn’t afford to be. The staff would interpret any sign of doubt or hesitation as weakness.
In Harrison’s view of the world, servants were like dogs or wolves: They could smell fear and weakness. Then their fangs came out.
“I shall deal with the matter,” he said.
Marchmont’s entrance hall was a great, echoing cavern of a place.
The tall servant, Zoe noticed, did not echo as he crossed the checkered floor. He wafted in like an aroma—like the faint scent of beeswax emanating from one of the rooms nearby.
Her family’s London house was an elegant one and efficiently looked after.
It was much smaller than Marchmont House, however, which sprawled over a sizable stretch of St. James’s Square.
Lexham House, too, was more obviously the home of a large family.
As diligent as its servants were, they could not always keep up with the endless comings and goings of Lord Lexham’s numerous offspring and their spouses and offspring.
One might spy a shawl here, a book tossed there, a table or chair not precisely in the correct position.
Such was not the case at Marchmont House so far as she could see, though mainly what she saw was the entrance hall, a handsome public place, intended to awe visitors.
It was scrupulously—no, scrupulous was nowhere near the mark. It was fanatically maintained.
The mahogany doors glistened. The marble floor’s sheen gave it the appearance of pearl and polished onyx.
The dark marble chimneypiece gleamed. The chandelier’s sparkle dazzled the eyes.
Not a single speck of dust, she was quite sure, had ever been allowed to alight upon any surface in this room—or anywhere else in this great house.
The tall man presented to her as Harrison, the house steward, would be responsible for this state of affairs.
Thanks to her sisters’ lectures on household management, Zoe knew that in the hierarchy of a great—or greatly rich—noble household, the house steward stood at the top of the ladder.
He answered only to the master and his land agent.
The house steward might be paid two or three times the salary of the next in status: the cook.
Slightly below the cook and equal to the master’s valet stood the butler.
The structure was quite simple, actually, and Zoe had no trouble making a diagram in her head of all the positions, down to the very lowest ranks, of both indoor and outdoor servants, in Town or in the country.
It was simple, at any rate, compared to the intricate spider’s web and ever-changing alliances and hierarchies of Yusri Pasha’s household.
Harrison, clearly, did no actual work. The instant the duke removed his hat and gloves, a lower servant appeared, smoothly relieved the master of the articles, and vanished. Other servants hovered in the vicinity.
None of them showed curiosity or any other emotion. All seemed to be at their usual posts. All were correctly dressed and neatly groomed.
And all stood in a state of high tension.
Zoe could feel it. Marchmont seemed oblivious. No surprise there.
“We’ve only come for the curricle,” the duke told his house steward.
“I’m taking Miss Lexham for a drive. Have the carriage sent round, and let Hoare know.
He’ll want to give me a change of something: hat and gloves, I daresay.
Meanwhile, we must remember our manners and offer the lady refreshment. ”
He turned to Zoe. The afternoon light, which made rainbows dance in the chandelier, glittered in his pale gold hair. The one unruly lock had fallen over his forehead, making him look like a careless boy, and she had to fist her gloved hand to keep from brushing it back.
She remembered the touch of his lips. She had not yet quieted the urges the uncompleted kiss had stirred. She had enjoyed that teasing moment very much. She would have liked to enjoy it longer.
“I wish I could say I shall be but a minute, but Hoare cries when I hurry him,” he said. “And if I dash out with the wrong gloves or hat, he’ll slit his throat. Why do I keep him, I wonder? Any idea, Harrison?”
“I would not venture to say, Your Grace. One might observe, however, that replacing Hoare with a valet of equally high qualifications would consume a great deal of Your Grace’s valuable time.”
“Harrison always knows the answers,” the duke told Zoe. “There it is in a nutshell: It would be even more bother to replace Hoare than it is to put up with him. I shall leave you in Harrison’s capable hands.”
With that, he sauntered across the hall and through the open door and started up a magnificent stairway.
Harrison flicked a glance at one of the hovering footmen, who hurried toward them. “Escort Miss Lexham to the library—no, no, never mind. That won’t do. No entertainment but books. The lady will find it dull.”
It was sly, very sly: disrespect couched in a seeming show of concern for her comfort.
But no properly respectful servant would presume to know what a lady would find dull or say anything that might be construed as slighting her intelligence.
Jarvis, behind her, understood what he’d done, for she gave a barely audible gasp, which she immediately turned into a cough.
The footman comprehended, too. Though he kept his face blank, Zoe saw the smirk in his eyes.
Well, this was interesting.
She beamed at the house steward. “How kind of you,” she said.
“I never would have guessed that the duke’s library was a dull, musty old place.
I supposed his collection must be one of the finest in all of England, and his library most elegant and comfortable.
But you would know. Yes, I should like to wait in a room that is more pleasant. ”
The footman’s smirk vanished, and he turned pale.
Jarvis made a smothered sound.
Harrison’s expression did not change, though his posture became a degree stiffer.
“The morning room,” he told the footman. “See that refreshments arrive promptly.” He bowed to her and wafted out of the room.
Neither woman spoke until they were comfortably seated in the morning room and the footman had run away.
“Oh, miss, I never,” Jarvis whispered. “What he said and what you said. His library musty.”
“It is not his library but the duke’s,” said Zoe. “He will do well to remember that. He should remember his place, always, and treat all of his master’s guests with the greatest respect. This much I know.”
“Yes, miss. He needed a setdown and you gave him one. But…well.”
“Do not be afraid of him,” Zoe said. “He is simply a bully. There is usually at least one in a household, though that one is not always at the top. You must never let such persons cow you, whether they are men or women. You do not answer to anyone but me. Remember this.”
“Yes, miss,” Jarvis said, looking about her doubtfully.
“There is no need to be frightened,” Zoe said. “I do not believe he will try to poison us.”
Jarvis’s eyes widened. “Good gracious, miss!”
“It is most unlikely,” Zoe assured her. “In the harem, they were always plotting to murder Yusri Pasha’s third wife, so disagreeable she was. But they were too busy quarreling with one another to organize a proper plot.”
“Oh, my goodness, miss!”
Zoe brushed off the maid’s alarm with a wave of her hand. “When my sisters were teaching me about running a great household, it seemed like the most tiresome of a number of boring duties. In a house like this, though, it could be most interesting.”
The Duke of Marchmont did not notice anything out of the way among his staff. He scarcely noticed his staff except when, as at the present moment, they were annoying him.
A full quarter hour after he’d left Zoe in Harrison’s care, the duke stood in his dressing room in his pantaloons and shirtsleeves, watching his valet take up and reject yet another coat and waistcoat.
“Hoare, we shall not drive in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour,” said His Grace. “No one will be taking any notice of me but the lady—and that will not last long. The fashion plates and fabric swatches will soon absorb all her attention.”
“Yes, Your Grace, but the lady—what is she wearing?”
“Ye gods, you don’t mean for us to match?”
“Certainly not, sir. But it is necessary to achieve the correct tone.”
Marchmont silently cursed Beau Brummell. Valets used to be sensible fellows before the Beau came along and turned dress into a religion. “Carriage dress,” he said impatiently. “Pale yellow with green trim. A year out of date, she informed me.”
The valet regarded him with a panic-stricken expression.
Marchmont did not know or care what had thrown the man into a panic. He only wished he had not hired the most high-strung valet in London.
They would be at this all afternoon and into the evening if the master didn’t take matters in hand.
“That coat,” he snapped, pointing. “That and the green waistcoat.”
The valet’s eyes widened. “The green, sir?”
“The green,” Marchmont said firmly. “It will amuse Miss Lexham.”
“Oh, dear. Yes, Your Grace.”
“When the lady is bored, appalling things happen. We must strive for a little inconsistency, perhaps a hint of originality. We do not wish to be thought dull, do we?”
“Good heavens, Your Grace. Certainly not.”
And at last, Hoare began to bustle.