Chapter 1 #2
This was her home, a place she had made for herself, with good friends and with Hilda Fairway, who had pushed into her life to save her from disaster, and taken up a space in her heart she could not put a name to.
A dear companion, certainly, and something like a surrogate mother, though she was not entirely the motherly kind.
Outwardly, Hilda could be prickly, and her sharp tone might make one think her cold and hard, but the truth was more complicated than that.
All Anne knew was that she loved the dear woman far more than she had ever loved her own mother, who had been beautiful and remote and far too in awe of her own husband to take Anne’s side in anything.
Anne had at once pitied and resented her, understanding the difficulty of her situation whilst despising her weakness.
But that was the past, and this was now, and Anne was happy.
Yet as she thought the words, a sudden tug of dissatisfaction nagged at her, a sense of something lacking that she could not put a name to.
She shrugged it off. No one was entirely happy, she reasoned.
But she had a life that was busy and fulfilling, especially since both Beaumarsh and Stonehaven had told a few discreet people—the kind who would inevitably chatter to everyone—how they had discovered the most select and delightful little hotel in the entire country.
Her bookings for next year were quite overwhelming, and some of the illustrious names she had written in the diary were remarkable.
Now, however, with winter upon them and the weather closing in, the roads would become harder to traverse, making none but the most determined traveller eager to visit Little Valentine until late spring at the earliest.
“It will be nice to have a bit of peace after the excitement of the past weeks,” Mrs Fairway mused, her thoughts having taken a similar turn to Anne’s. “It will give us the chance to give the rooms a good clean, too.”
“Yes, and I’ve a mind to do a bit of redecorating.
Now that we’ve such a noble clientele to satisfy, we must give them no reason for complaining.
I shall have to employ more staff too. We’ll certainly need a porter, for poor Mr Cogger is getting too old to lug such heavy valises and cases up and down the stairs. More kitchen staff too, I think.”
Martha’s eyes grew round at this information, the idea of no longer being the girl at the bottom of the ladder making her pink with pleasure. “A scullery maid?” she suggested. “And a kitchen boy?”
“Now don’t you go getting airs and graces,” Mrs Fairway warned her.
Anne laughed. “Oh, don’t burst the girl’s bubble, Hilda. Yes, Martha. You will be promoted from maid of all work to kitchen maid, and you shall be paid appropriately.”
“Oh!” Martha clapped her hands to her cheeks, grinning from ear to ear. “Thank you ever so, Mrs Adamson!”
“Hmph,” Mrs Fairway said. “Only on the condition she minds my teaching and don’t burn the gravy again.”
“Oh, it was only the one time!” Martha replied hotly, before subsiding in the light of the quelling glare Mrs Fairway returned.
Anne watched in amusement as Mrs Fairway relented somewhat upon viewing the girl’s crestfallen expression. “Well, so it was, and some time ago. I reckon you know better now.”
“Oh, I do—” she began, only to stop at the sound of a bell ringing shrilly upstairs.
“Good heavens,” Anne said in surprise. “Who could that be at this hour on a Sunday?”
“Captain Dearborn, most like,” Mrs Fairway said shrewdly, earning herself a tut from Anne.
“You know very well he and Major Hancock are dining at the vicarage today. With the kind of hospitality he’ll get from Reverend Honeywell, he’ll likely crawl home to bed in the early hours and not be seen for several days,” she said tartly. “So, I had better see if we have a new guest.”
“Well, well,” King said, gazing up at The Mermaid’s Tale with interest. “How very elegant.”
It had always been a lovely building, with its graceful painted columns and wrought-iron balustrade and it was clear the place was exceptionally well cared for.
Though the day had turned chilly, a damp mist settling on King’s hat and coat, there was still a cheerful display of geraniums bursting through the railings and trailing down towards them, a welcome splash of colour on such a dull day.
Repton, who knew nothing of King’s association with Mrs Fairway or that he had once owned the property himself, gave his employer a speculative glance but said nothing.
King did not find this surprising. He had been in a rare mood since they had left that morning and Repton wisely held his tongue whenever his employer’s temper showed.
King appreciated his restraint, struggling to appear relaxed when his guts had tied themselves into a knot for no good reason.
Despite telling himself he was not afraid of ghosts, returning to the place of his birth, a place he had not seen in fifteen years, was unnerving.
Especially unsettling was his discovery that the town had changed so little.
He could have left yesterday for all the difference he could remark.
Repton shifted from foot to foot, his only indication of impatience.
“Yes, yes, we’re going in,” King said dryly, hefting his own bag and instructing his coachman to take the carriage and horses around the back to the stables.
Repton followed him at a discreet distance, carrying two smaller valises and with an expression of such regal hauteur, King wondered if they’d believe he was the guest instead of the valet.
Inside the building was no less lovely. A display of fresh flowers and greenery greeted them as the warm glow of a lamp chased away the gloom of the afternoon. King walked to the desk and picked up a small brass bell, giving it a decisive ring.
There was a brief silence before light footsteps sounded and, a moment later, a door opened farther along the corridor.
At first, he could distinguish little about the person other than that they were female, something about the graceful way the figure moved piquing his interest. An inevitable swish of skirts and petticoats reached him in the seconds before his gaze took in a face of such exquisite proportions, King could only stare.
The golden spill of light from the lamp enriched hair of vibrant red, a colour so rare and extraordinary King’s breath caught in his throat.
Slender brows arched over green eyes, putting him in mind of spring and the burgeoning explosion of life that returned after months of dreary winter.
Here then was Persephone herself, goddess of spring, emerging from the dark, he thought, struck dumb by his sudden descent into fancy.
King was never fanciful. Yet the desire to play Hades to this exquisite creature and drag her down into the darkness with him was a shaft of unalloyed desire, the like of which he had never known before.
“Good afternoon,” she said, her voice resonating inside him in the oddest manner.
This was Mrs Fairway’s lady, then, the young widow she had done everything to keep safe. Did the lady know who he was?
Her gaze was direct, but her expression gave nothing away, her smile politely welcoming. “I am Mrs Adamson, proprietor of The Mermaid’s Tale. How might I help you?” she added, forcing King to realise he had forgotten his manners in favour of gazing at her like a complete pillock.
“Good afternoon,” he replied belatedly, watching her make assumptions about him from his clothes, his speech, all of which were then muddled when her eyes drifted to the diamond in his ear.
A flicker of something that might have been interest glimmered in her eyes, there and gone so quickly he would not have noticed if he hadn’t been studying her reaction so closely.
“I would like a room, one with an adjoining chamber for my valet.”
“Certainly,” she said, opening the ledger before her and finding the relevant page. “For how long?”
“I am not sure. Perhaps only a night or two. Perhaps longer,” he added slowly, his gaze falling to her mouth and discovering it wide and alluring.
He wondered idly if the lovely widow had since remarried, and if she had, if her husband was suitably attentive. King smiled a little, considering how amusing it might be to return here and cause havoc of the kind that would surprise no one at all.
If she noticed his interest, she gave no sign of it, merely nodding. “I am afraid you will find the place sadly quiet and devoid of entertainment at this time of year, though of course, it is the perfect place for fresh air and peace and quiet, should that be what you are looking for.”
There was a note to her voice that suggested she thought this most unlikely, and King grinned, disliking to disabuse her of the notion. He knew what he looked like. The devil in his Sunday best was Mrs Keller’s favourite description of her employer, and she was fond of him.
“Ah, peace and quiet is exactly the thing. Is it not, Repton?” he said carelessly, glancing at his would-be valet.
“As you say, sir,” Repton replied coolly.
“Well, then I imagine you will pass a comfortable few days. Might I take your name, please?” she asked, dipping her quill in the inkpot on the desk and waiting expectantly.
“Certainly,” he replied, holding her gaze. “I am Jasper King.”
She nodded, the name apparently meaning nothing to her, but as she bent her head to write it in the ledger, he saw the moment it resonated in her mind.
Her hand jerked before it met the paper and stilled for a moment.
She did not look up, but King thought he noticed the slightest tremor as her elegant script placed his name in the book.
“Sign here, please.”
Dutifully, King did so.
“Breakfast is at eight, the dining room is through that door,” she said crisply, gesturing to her left.
“Dinner is at six thirty. I am afraid we keep country hours out of season. You may of course eat at any time you wish, but only by arrangement and only in your room. There is an extra charge for this, naturally.”
“Naturally,” he echoed, smiling warmly at her.
She gave no reaction. “You will find a list of prices for all our services on the dressing table in your room.”
“Thank you, you are most kind.”
“One thing. We have a small gathering of ladies for a musical recital tomorrow. I am afraid the dining room will be off limits for the entire day. During this time, we shall serve you in your room free of charge, with our apologies for any inconvenience. You may, of course, prefer to eat at The Ship Inn,” she said graciously, before thinking about it and adding, “Or mayhap you’d prefer The Dog and Duck. ”
King fought to hide his amusement, knowing as well as she must that the Dog and Duck was frequented by smugglers. “Oh, no,” he said, a faint note of reproach to his voice. “Surely not the Dog and Duck.”
To his delight, she coloured a little, a tinge of rose pink settling high on her delicate cheekbones. Before she could ask him any probing question, such as whether he had ever visited Little Valentine before, he held out his hand. She gazed at it for a moment, nonplussed.
“The key, if I may?” he prompted gently.
She gathered herself with remarkable speed, handing him the key. “Do you require help with—?”
“No, we can manage, I thank you. However, I should be grateful for coffee, and a bite to eat, and hot water to wash with. If it is not too much trouble.”
“Certainly. I shall see to it at once,” she said, brisk now. “I’m afraid there is no fire lit as we did not expect you, but I shall have the maid set it at once and come and air the beds. If you would like to follow me, I will show you up.”
“Please do not trouble yourself,” King replied, glancing down to see the number six engraved on the key fob.
“Up the stairs and to your right,” she said, not forcing the issue.
“Thank you, Mrs Adamson,” he said, his voice low as he sent her a look of blatant admiration. “I am certain we shall be most comfortable.”
Anne watched them go, an unaccountable sense of alarm singing through her blood.
From the moment Mr King’s dark eyes had settled upon her with that wicked glint shining so brightly, Anne had been aware of him in a visceral manner she had never experienced before.
Her instincts had prickled, nerves jangling.
Having taken a good look at him, she could hardly wonder at it. One look at Jasper King and that diamond glittering as brightly as his too knowing gaze, had one word ringing through her ears—trouble. Mr King was trouble, the words writ large and in red ink and more likely underlined several times.
Despite the cut of a suit, which to her educated eye could only have been created by one of London’s finest tailors, and despite his snooty valet and a refined accent that was almost but not quite perfect—Mr King was no gentleman.
At least not in the conventional sense of the word.
What he was, she could not say, other than best treated with the utmost care.
Recognition had galvanised her bones from the moment he had given his name.
Could this be the same King who had bought her rubies from her?
King of the Rookeries, Mrs Fairway had called him.
She could see that, she thought, biting her lip, remembering the diamond that had glittered against his honey gold skin.
Never in her life had she seen a man wearing an earring, and it put her in mind of pirates.
Yes, he was the closest thing to a pirate she had ever seen in her life.
Making a mental note to keep Isabelle Honeywell far away from him, she hurried down the stairs, eager to tell Mrs Fairway all about their new guest and see what she thought.