her mind, but a noise in the street distracted her. A shiny barouche with a splendid pair of matched bays pulled up in front of the house. The horses were as fine as any she had ever seen. What stable had bred them? she wondered. They were identical in size, their markings so similar one would suppose they had been twins. She wished she had seen them in motion.
The knocker of the door sounded, and she jumped. She peeked out the glass to see who knocked. An unknown man stood there. The driver of the elegant equipage?
She opened the door.
The man who stood before her was more refined than any she had ever seen. His buckskins and driving coat were so finely tailored they looked moulded to his well-formed frame. His eyes, regarding her with a startled expression, seemed familiar, as did the set of his chin.
‘I was given this as Lord Devlin Steele’s direction.’ He eyed her as men usually did, but without the typical prurient gleam.
‘Lord Devlin is not presently at home,’ she said.
He stepped past her, across the threshold, though she had not given him leave to do so. Her heart beat in alarm and she was acutely aware of being alone in the house.
She straightened her posture. ‘Perhaps you would wish to leave your card.’
He removed his hat. ‘I wish to wait.’
She bit her lip. She dare not betray being alone. His eyes still carefully assessed her.
‘Who are you?’ His question was more like a command.
She bristled. Smiling with bravado through her nervousness, she said, ‘Forgive me for not introducing myself. I had thought it proper for visitors to announce themselves first.’
His eyes flashed at her insolence. She supposed he was not one accustomed to having his behaviour questioned. She smiled again and cocked her head as if waiting.
‘The Marquess of Heronvale,’ he said impatiently.
Her smile vanished. Devlin’s brother.
‘You are?’ he commanded again.
She waved her hand as if his question was foolish, but curtsied politely. ‘Miss England at your service, my lord. I am the…the housekeeper.’
‘Indeed?’ His eyebrows lifted in a top-lofty expression and his eyes flicked up and down her person once more.
She took a breath. ‘Lord Devlin intended to visit you this afternoon, my lord. Perhaps you might find him at your residence.’
He made no move to leave. ‘I will wait for him.’
She took his hat and showed him into the parlour, where he stood continuing to watch her. She scooped up her sewing from the window seat and twisted the material in her hand, wishing she had finished the garment so it could cover her pale yellow muslin dress.
‘I shall bring tea.’ It sounded like what a housekeeper might do. He still stood, watching her.
As she moved to leave, his voice stopped her, sounding less imperious. ‘Tell me, Miss England. My brother…is he well?’
An odd question. ‘Yes, he is. Very well, my lord.’ She curtsied again and hurried out the door.
The Marquess watched the retreating figure, wondering what to make of this surprise in his brother’s household. Housekeeper, indeed. The young woman—lord, she looked more like a girl—was a breathtaking beauty with startlingly blue eyes and dark unruly hair. Where had Devlin found her? He had heard no rumours of his brother forming a liaison.
He strolled around the room, intrigued, as well, with the genteel furnishings. The place must have commanded a respectable rent. With this ‘housekeeper’, it was easy to see why Devlin wished to move. And he could see why his little brother had overspent his due. A woman of Miss England’s face and figure would not come cheap, as her tasteful new attire could attest.
He’d not reckoned on his brother living with a mistress, had not conceived the notion even when Serena reported seeing Devlin with a woman. Devlin had introduced Serena to her as if she were respectable. Devlin should have told him about her.
He should not be surprised Devlin had not. Ned wandered over to the window. He would have disapproved. He would have given Devlin a list of cogent reasons why keeping a mistress was irresponsible and he would have reminded Devlin of his duty.
Ned had often thought about keeping a mistress himself. There were times when his masculine urges raged in a manner he could not inflict upon his delicate wife, and a willing woman would have easily slaked his desires.
But he had not.
In any event, Devlin had no business keeping a woman. He had no fortune of his own to command. Ned stood again and peered out the window. He had planned merely to assure himself Devlin was not ill and be on his way. He pulled on the bell cord.
Miss England appeared at the door. ‘Yes, my lord?’
At least she played her role of housekeeper well. Puzzling, she spoke like an educated miss. Still, her youth did not make sense. She could be no more than nineteen.
‘Please have someone instruct my tiger to walk the horses.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ she replied.
He watched from the window to see it done and was surprised when Miss England went from the house to speak to his tiger.
A few minutes later, she entered with a tea tray. She poured the tea prettily and offered some lemon cakes, as well. He noticed tea leaves swimming in his cup.
He could not resist baiting her. ‘Tell me, Miss England, how long have you been in my brother’s…employ?’
‘Not long, sir,’ she replied, an edge to her voice.
‘He had not spoken to me of having a housekeeper.’
She did not lower her gaze at this question. She smiled instead. ‘Indeed? Do gentlemen discuss such matters?’
He narrowed his eyes, ‘Was it you whom my wife met with Devlin—Lord Devlin?’
Her cheeks flushed. ‘Yes, my lord. She kindly spoke to me.’
He ought to wring Devlin’s bloody neck. How dare he put Serena in such a position, to speak to one such as this Miss England? He glared at her.
But at the moment she looked more like a timid young girl, nervous and uncertain. It was difficult to maintain his anger.
‘May I be excused, my lord?’ Her cheekiness had fled, at least. He wished to ask more questions, but could think of none.
‘Deddy?’ A small voice sounded from the doorway, and Miss England turned pale.
Ned turned to come face to face with a tiny child, no more than a baby, rubbing her eyes and yawning.
The very image of his brother.
