Page 14 of Lord Heartless

If she was going to work for a rake, Carissa decided, let her master be a master of the art, not a pretentious, pawing puppy.

Pippa would love it, moving into Lord Hartleigh's house.

And oh, how the Applegate sisters would love it, too. Even though Mrs. Kane had no reputation to speak of, there would be tongues wagging aplenty. She was young for a housekeeper, shielded from scandal, if not speculation, only by Sir Gilliam's great age and dignity. To move into Lord Hartleigh's house? She might as well paint her face and dampen her petticoats.

The gossipmongers would all be wrong, of course. Viscount Hartleigh was not interested in getting up a dalliance with Phillip Kane's relict. He wished his household run properly, was all, and his daughter's welfare seen to. Carissa would be his employee, and the viscount was too much the gentleman to importune one of his dependants. She was safer than ever, despite the loss of her good name. Lord Hartleigh had principles. Even if he did make improper advances—which he wouldn't, of course, since she was not one of his high fliers—Carissa was too much of a lady to accept, despite Phillip Kane, the Earl of Macclesfield, and Sir Gilliam's botched bequest.

No matter that the viscount had seen her with her hair down, and spoiled her daughter, and cradled Sue like a butterfly in his hands, Carissa had principles, too. Didn't she?

She was all packed by dawn, staying up the rest of the night to wrestle with her belongings and her emotions. Her trunks could be fetched later; her wits, she needed with her. At quarter past eight, Pippa in hand, the cat in a basket, Carissa knocked on the door of opportunity. No one answered.

The back door was unlocked, so she went in. The stove was unlighted, the sink was full of dishes, the pantry shelves were empty. He needed her. Carissa looked around for the useless dog that hadn't barked, but Gladiator was most likely out marauding in the neighborhood, so she let Cleopatra out of the basket. While Pippa skipped up the back stairs to see if Maisie and the baby were up, Carissa hung up her cloak and took a deep breath. Then she got to work.

When Byrd stumbled into the kitchen an hour later, scratching his armpit, his jaw dropped open. Coffee was on the stove, muffins were in the oven, hot water was raising steam, and a bouquet of flowers sat in the middle of a tray on the scarred kitchen table. The flowers were in a pitcher with a chipped lip and glued-on handle, and the tray was dented and scratched, but Carissa was determined that the viscount would see she could make him comfortable, by George.

Byrd was jolted back to his senses when he saw Carissa adding wood to the stove. “Here now, missus, let me do that. And you hadn't ought to be lifting that heavy kettle, no, nor pumping the water. Why, the Cap'n will be so tickled to see you here, he's like to burst his britches."

Just what she feared. But what she told Byrd was: “Such enthusiasm is unwarranted but appreciated, I am sure. Would you be so kind, when you take his lordship his breakfast tray and hot water, to inform him that I would like a few moments of his time?"

Byrd scratched some more. “I don't know how soon that'll be, Mrs. Kane. He were up late and—"

He wasn't up as late as Carissa was, she'd warrant, and she wanted everything settled before she lost her nerve. Carissa slapped a cup and saucer down on the tray, the only matching pair she'd found. “Now, Mr. Byrd."

"Aye, I mean right away, Mrs. Kane. I'll just be fetching the Cap'n then. He can have his coffee later.” For a big man, Byrd flew.

Not too many minutes later, although every agonizing one of them seemed like ten to Carissa, Viscount Hartleigh stumbled into the kitchen. His flowing white shirt was open, with no cravat and no coat, only chest. At least his trousers were buttoned, thank goodness. Carissa hurriedly raised her eyes. He needed a shave, and his blond hair was mussed. He looked like a Greek god waking on Mount Olympus. After an orgy.

Carissa tried to recall her prepared speech. Heavens, she'd be lucky if she recalled her own, no, ah, name. “If I come, the dog goes,” she finally blurted out.

Lesley combed his fingers through his hair, not affecting his tousled appearance one whit. “I take it you are applying for the post of housekeeper?"

She nodded. “If you still need one."

Lesley waved his hands around the room. “More than ever. The place needs a woman's touch.” He bent his head to sniff at the flowers, smiling. “Maisie is too young and inexperienced. Besides, I don't wish her taking time from Sue to look after the linens and things. Do you know, the last housekeeper—"

Carissa did not want to know, else she might turn craven altogether. Rudely interrupting the viscount, she said, “I have three conditions. One, the dog goes."

He looked around. “He's gone. What are the other two?"

Carissa realized he hadn't agreed to anything at all. She also realized that she was staring at his golden-haired chest. She licked her dry lips. “Number two, you help me break into a solicitor's office."

Lesley choked.

"I went with you to Hammond House,” she reminded him.

"Of all the featherheaded notions...” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the table. “Strolling into my own home cannot be compared to breaking into a man's locked office, Mrs. Kane. That is a criminal offense. You—and I—could go to jail."

"Very well then, I shall have to go myself. I am sorry I took you away from your rest so early, my lord.” If he was not going to help her, then she was wasting her time, and her reputation. Her hopes thoroughly dashed, Carissa vowed not to show the viscount her distress. She took her apron off and started to look under the table for Cleo.

"Hold, Mrs. Kane. Don't go yet. I take it this has something to do with Sir Gilliam's will?"

"A missing will, not the one Nigel Gordon read. The one Mr. Gordon had was dated five years ago, and I was not mentioned, naturally, as I was not even in London yet. But I just know there is another, later one. Sir Gilliam practically told me he'd changed it in my favor."

"But you have no proof?"

"Without the will? Of course not. But I have thought about it all night, and I do not believe that Sir Gilliam waited until his deathbed to dictate the new terms. He was so sure he'd done the right thing for me, and so pleased with his actions. Besides, he was too downy a businessman not to know whether he'd signed something or not. No matter what they said, he was not in his dotage; his mind was as clear as when he handled all the details of the bank. The will must be at the new solicitor's. Perhaps it got mislaid when old Mr. Gordon passed on and his son took over. That's why I have to go look."

"Are you certain that Sir Gilliam did not mislead you? I know you thought highly of the gentleman, but is it possible he was telling you what you wished to hear, for his own satisfaction? Such things happen, you know."

"Not Sir Gilliam. The man would have married me anytime these past three years. Why should he lie about his bequests?"

"And you turned him down?” Lesley couldn't help the note of disbelief that entered his voice.

"Of course I did,” she bristled. “I would not take advantage of a lonely old man, merely to feather my own nest.” Regrettably, she might have reconsidered it, if it were possible.

Lesley didn't know that, of course, and his estimation of her character was rising. Not many other females of his acquaintance would have turned down a respectable offer, especially when it came with a handsome fortune. “Let me think about this,” he told her, starting to pace. “You say Mason seems to be involved too?"

"They have all been quite chummy: Mason, Broderick, and the solicitor. I cannot imagine what else they might have in common, other than Sir Gilliam's will."

"Well, I am not surprised that mawworm Mason is up to no good, but as for the solicitor, I am not sure. Besides, the fellow would have destroyed any evidence. Wouldn't you if you'd cheated your client and broken the law a hundred different ways? He'd be unfrocked or whatever they do to crooked solicitors, if he were caught with the evidence in his possession. And wills do not simply get lost at legal offices, so it's not a matter of searching through old folders and such. If there had been another document, it was removed, I make no doubt."

Carissa was disappointed that he made so much sense. She checked on the muffins so he could not see her distress.

The viscount was still thinking. “On the other hand, no one makes a will without getting a copy to keep. Your man Mason would have known where it was kept."

"Of course. We both had the combination to Sir Gilliam's safe. Oh, how I wish I had thought to look there before I left."

He kept pacing, thinking aloud. “Don't blame yourself. Mason would have removed it long ago. But he, as opposed to the lawyer, has no reason to destroy the new will, and every reason to keep it hidden away somewhere safe."

"He does? I am sure Sir Gilliam provided generously for him in both versions."

"Ah, but what about young Broderick? He was cut out in the second, I'd wager, or the nearest thing to it, and Mason knew it. That's his hold on the heir. And Mason wouldn't destroy the new will, because it's his meal ticket. He'll bleed the cawker dry."

"Cook thought he was acting like the cat in the cream after the reading. It's possible. Then Nigel Gordon is innocent?"

"Not by half. The scoundrel was likely paid to lose his copy."

Carissa had to agree. “Very well, then all I have to do is find the duplicate that Mason kept. I ought to be able to find some excuse to return to Sir Gilliam's when he is out, to search."

"No! That is, it's too dangerous, and besides, he'd be a fool to leave the thing lying around. Broderick is not so stupid that he wouldn't think to look. No, we'll have to consider this further, watch where Mason goes. I could set Byrd to watching his movements."

Carissa listened to the big man hauling more coals from the bin belowstairs. “Mr. Byrd is not exactly unobtrusive, you know."

Lesley stopped pacing and smiled. “You're right. A Bow Street Runner is what we need."

"I cannot afford such an expense.” She'd looked into the cost of such an investigation once already.

The viscount was not deterred. “If you are in my employ, your expenses are mine. Agreed?"

She was more relieved than convinced. “Very well, but you will please keep track of such expenditures, for Sir Gilliam was a wealthy man. As soon as the will is found, I shall insist on repaying you."

"Naturally. You'll be tending the household books here anyway, so you can keep the tally. And do not worry, I can stand the cost. Of course, I might tell the Runner not to rush about finding the evidence, though, until you get my house in order and properly staffed."

She ignored his attempt at humor. “There is one other thing."

"Ah yes, the third condition. More pay? You've got it, double, triple what you've been earning. Sole authority over all the servants? I'll pull Byrd's tongue out myself if he interferes with how you run the house."

He was smiling, and Carissa had to smile back, but she also had to make one thing perfectly clear. She swallowed, audibly, she was sure, and said, “I am your housekeeper. Nothing but."

"I know, no cooking."

"Cook might be willing to come, since she hates her brother-in-law, but that is not what I meant.” Dash it, she was blushing like a schoolgirl.

Her blushes must have led him to the right conclusion, for Lord Hartleigh drawled, “I do not recall making you any other offers, Mrs. Kane."

She could breathe again. “Fine."

And “Fine,” he said, holding out his hand to seal their agreement. “Now, about the dog..."

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