Chapter Three
Deo knew an unaccustomed excitement. Today was the day the applicant would arrive at ten o’clock.
At least he hoped she was coming. He’d received no reply, but perhaps there hadn’t been time.
He’d been so anxious to move things forward he hadn’t given her a lot of options.
In fact, none at all. Perhaps I should have?
He got out her application and read it over again. Miss Bromwich. She’d signed it Miss E. F. Bromwich. He wondered what the E and the F stood for. Esme, Elizabeth, Fanny, Fiona?
She claimed to be fluent in Latin and Greek and had included some snippets of translations in the application in support of her claim.
She had also included a couple of sketches.
And she had said she had penned an article on Celtic burial customs which she had submitted to the Quarterly Journal, one of the most prestigious journals available.
Admittedly she hadn’t said it had been accepted or published, but at least she knew what the Quarterly Journal was.
And clearly, she read British Antiquities, or she would never have found his advertisement.
She was twenty-four years old. The perfect age.
Old enough to be sensible—he hoped. Young enough to—well—his thoughts balked at that point and ran down another alley.
What will she look like? He had an image of a tall, slender lady with dark hair and striking grey eyes, with a calm demeanor and pleasant smile. She would be restful and competent. And best of all, she would put up with him. I hope.
Kester, picking up his mood, capered round his legs, anxious for a walk.
“It’s not ten o’clock yet, Kes.” Then it occurred to him, he had scheduled the interview for ten o’clock.
I can’t take Kes for a walk and do the interview at the same time, can I?
He was reluctant to break his routine. He never broke his routine for anyone or anything.
He didn’t mean to start now. He hoped fervently Miss Bromwich would prove suitable, for he’d had no other applicants, which was disappointing.
But if she proved suitable, she would need to fit into his routine and respect it.
*
It was a warm day, despite the cooling breeze with the refreshing tang of salt to it, and Emily was hot inside her cloak and bonnet.
She struggled with her bag, which seemed to have gotten progressively heavier throughout the journey.
It was nearing ten o’clock as she battled up the driveway of Cheetham Court. But she was a day late.
It had taken far longer to get here than she had thought it would. Cheetham Court was on the coast, and when she had realized she wasn’t going to make it on time, she had burst into tears. But she had continued on anyway. Because what else could she do? I can’t go home.
So here she was. She trudged up the steps of the Corinthian-columned entry of the sprawling, two-storied, sandstone brick mansion and lifted the large brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head.
After a few minutes, the door opened and let out a whoosh of cool air, revealing a dim entry hall with large black and white tiles and a wide, red carpeted stairway leading upward.
A middle-aged gentleman she assumed to be the butler looked her over and said, “Yes, may I help you?” His disapproving look wasn’t lost on her, and her tongue threatened to cleave to the roof of her mouth. But she hadn’t come all this way to be stopped by a butler.
“I’m here for the interview,” she said as forcefully as she could. “If—if you could tell your employer that I am here p-please?”
“You’re late!” said a voice from the staircase, and her eyes widened as a giant of a man descended the stairs accompanied by a matching dog. Matching, because both man and dog had bright red hair—startlingly, shockingly red.
The man approached the doorway rather than allowing her to come into the entry hall, and she stammered, “I—know, b-but the stage took longer than I thought. I left as soon as I received the letter. Please, if you would tell the lady of the house I’m here?
I’ve come a long way . . .” She trailed off, taking in the hawkish features of this giant before her.
His eyes were a stunning deep blue, and he might have been handsome if his face were carved on less harsh lines.
As it was, he was more brutish than handsome, with a square jaw and hooked nose, frowning brows and grimly compressed mouth.
His skin was covered in freckles. His frame was huge—well over six feet tall and broad through the shoulders and chest. He wore a jacket, breeches, and boots.
The dog sat obediently by his leg, with floppy red ears and tongue lolling in a happy pant.
At her request, he looked confused. “I thought you said you were here in answer to the advertisement.”
“I am,” she said, equally confused. “Is this not Cheetham Court?”
“Aye.” He frowned, his eyes roving over her. “Miss Bromwich?”
“Y-yes.” Oh, no! He is not even going to let me see my employer—potential employer.
He is going to throw me out. Who is he, her husband?
He must be. “Please, sir,” she said, reaching out a hand to touch his sleeve.
“I promise I can do the job, if you’ll only let the lady of the house know I’m here.
It truly isn’t my fault I’m late. I’m very punctual as a rule, v-very orderly and—”
“There is no lady,” he said, cutting her off.
“Oh!” She retracted her hand as if stung. “Then—then who placed the advertisement?”
“I did,” he growled, looking, if it were possible, even more ferocious.
Emily’s head swam. “I beg your pardon. I don’t understand.
” She clutched the door jamb as the world threatened to tilt on its axis.
She had managed a few meals during her journey, but she hadn’t caught up from her week of privation, and the rigors of the journey had taken their toll. “You wrote to me? You’re D.K.?”
He frowned at her. “Deodonatus Kininmounth, Earl of Pendrell,” he said.
“Oh,” said Emily again, and fainted.
*
Deo caught her as she crumpled. “Damn and blast!” He lifted her easily into his arms; there was hardly anything of her. He turned back inside and headed for the front parlor.
“Send for Mrs. Blackthorn, she’ll know what to do with a fainting female. And bring the lady’s bag inside!” he said to Chiddick, his butler, as he shouldered his way into the parlor.
The room wasn’t used much, and the furniture was swathed in Holland covers. “And remove these will you,” he bellowed. Chiddick hastened to remove the cover from the settee, and Deo lowered his burden carefully onto the chintz-covered couch.
Chiddick disappeared. Deo gazed down at Miss Bromwich.
She was as pale as a ghost and not at all what he had expected.
She was a tiny thing for one, not only slender but short.
Her hair wasn’t dark. It was a sort of mellow, golden brown, and he was damned if he could remember what color her eyes were.
He wished she’d open them so he could see.
Her skin was creamy smooth, and she had a slight bump to her nose, which was long and a little aristocratic.
Her mouth was a plump bow of curving lips.
Behind him, Mrs. Blackthorn bustled into the room.
“Fainting lady, Chiddick said. Oh my, poor lamb. She’s as white as a sheet.
I’ve brought my smelling bottle; that will bring her around.
” She moved forward, and wafted the little bottle under Miss Bromwich’s nose.
The young lady stirred with a grimace and opened her eyes.
Hazel-green, he noted with satisfaction.
His previous image of Miss Bromwich shifted into the form before him.
The dark goddess with grey eyes was forgotten.
“There, my poor love. Are you better?” crooned Mrs. Blackthorn.
Miss Bromwich blinked at her and nodded. “I think so. I—.” She looked around and found him staring at her. She struggled to sit up, “I’m so sorry. I haven’t had much to eat today.”
“Well, that shall be remedied immediately!” said Mrs. Blackthorn, bustling away.
He bent forward to prevent her sitting up. “I think you should stay horizontal for a little longer. You’re still alarmingly pale. Why the devil haven’t you eaten?”
She subsided back onto the couch and said softly, “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to be late.” She closed her eyes, but the tears seeped out from under her lids and rolled out the corners.
Alarmed at this sign of feminine weakness, he said roughly, “Don’t worry about it. It was my fault for not giving you enough time to get here.” He searched his pockets and produced a handkerchief, which he handed to her. She took it gratefully and wiped her eyes.
“Thank you. If you will just allow me enough time to take some refreshment and recover a little, I will be on my way. I—there has clearly been some kind of misunderstanding.”
“No!” He spoke rather more loudly than he should, judging from her startled expression. Moderating his tone with difficulty, he said, “There is no misunderstanding on my part.”
She stared up at him bewildered. “But you could not have possibly advertised for a female assistant.”
“I did,” he said doggedly.
“But you’re a man!”
“Well, yes.”
“But you said all proprieties would be observed!”
He flushed. “They will be. If you’ll just let me explain?”
At this moment, Mrs. Blackthorn bustled back in with a tray, which she set down on the low table by the settee. She then proceeded to pour tea and arrange a selection of cakes, biscuits, fruit, and cheeses on a plate.
Miss Bromwich sat up, and this time he let her, even propping a pillow behind her head and accepting a cup of tea from Mrs. Blackthorn.
Kester, who had been observing all these proceedings from beside the doorway, inched forward and sat hopefully.
Kes knew about tea. But he was too polite to help himself.