Tabby there?”
“Yeah. Hang on, she wants a word too.”
“Tabby! He’s expecting me to bring him breakfast in bed.”
“So?”
How to explain without revealing the faux pas she’d already committed? “So, judging from—er—the sweatpants he was wearing last night I would say he’s probably—er—rather virile.”
“And?”
“What if I fumble when I put the tray down or something?”
“Just keep it professional and you’ll do fine.”
“Yeah, but I wish—”
On the other side of the drywall partition, Jack pricked up his ears. Nice to know she thought him virile…but he never discovered what she wished. Instead, her next question puzzled him.
“Any sign of that snake?”
A pause.
“Good. Remember, you promised not to tell him where I am. He’s not getting it through his head that we’re over. I don’t need him bothering me here, too.” Another pause. Freddi was relieved to hear Tabitha say, “No problem, Freddi.”
“Give me a call in a week if you need me to put in a progress report. Now, I’d better be getting up and dressed if I’m going to provide His Studliness with breakfast at seven.” After she put the phone down, she realized Tabitha never did say why she had called in the first place.
Jack leaned back against the mahogany headboard, folded his arms over his chest and gave a satisfied smirk. He wouldn’t allow his suspicions to spoil his anticipation. If Freddi was here to spy on him that would be short-lived. It had been a while since he’d looked forward to breakfast with such relish. Usually he didn’t bother with more than a cup of coffee. But today…today all he could think was, Roll on seven o’clock.
WIDE AWAKE, FREDDI sat on the edge of the bed. Five-forty. Time to start getting organized. First, she’d retrieve her luggage. Providing, of course, it wasn’t still circling around Toronto, sight-seeing from the back of the taxi.
Clad in her overcoat, she found the light switch at the top of the stairwell. Slowly she made her way down the spiraling steps to the ground floor, wondering what lay in store for her and where her bags were. In the gloom, her toe made sudden unexpected contact with her suitcase. She almost took a tumble, but saved herself by flopping over at the waist like a puppet. How very thoughtful of Jack to leave the three packages just past the foot of the stairs. Had he intended them to act as a booby trap?
She noticed her hat, picked it up and looked for a place to put it. Ah, the marble blind-eyed bust in the entrance hall would do. In fact, she rather liked the whimsical look she’d produced.
Grabbing the handle of her suitcase, she lifted it an inch off the floor. No way could she get this up to the room. She’d only managed with it this far thanks to all the kind taxi drivers. She’d really packed too much! Thinking creatively, she decided to unpack downstairs and carry her things up to her room.
Stealthily, she made several ascents and descents. At last she carried up a final armful and set about preparing her uniform. A crumpled effect would not do. With the help of the small traveling steamer she’d bought, she got rid of the creases.
Freshly showered and dressed, Freddi checked her appearance in front of the mirrored closet. If she was going to be a butler she might as well look right. And if this job could help her rebuild her life, it would make the hassle worthwhile. It was bad enough that Simon had totaled her car and been unfaithful to her. But the fact that he’d run up a debt on her Visa was the big problem. She needed to earn well to wipe the slate clean and start over.
Her black tie was not quite properly aligned with the collar of her white shirt, so she leaned in close to adjust it. She tugged the points of her gray weskit over the calf-length, pin-striped skirt, then did up the buttons of the black dinner jacket, making sure the stiff cuffs showed just the right amount of white below the sleeves. Black tights were pulled up well enough so that they didn’t wrinkle, and sensible, flat-heeled lace-up shoes shone with polish. Her hair was slicked down, close to her skull. She then confronted her image full on. She would do. It was a pity that she had no white rose to place in her buttonhole, but she would soon remedy that lack.
Downstairs, she explored the living spaces. The morning was still early, but light reflected off the snow, which meant that the house was not at all dark. In the fireplace, the ashes lay cold and gray. She looked in the direction of the black leather couch. If she ignored a certain late-night excursion, the last coherent memory she had from yesterday was of sitting there and falling asleep. On the coffee table, between the empty pizza box, a glass and a coffee mug, was a man’s wallet, presumably Mr. Carlisle’s. Hardly making a sound, she straightened the place up.
Into the not-too-small galley kitchen she stepped. Everything was state-of-the-art, sleek and modern. Freddi’s gaze swept appreciatively over smart wooden cupboards and shiny granite tops. Underneath was the antidrudgery angel’s gift to humankind, the dishwasher, and she put the soiled crockery and glassware inside. Against one wall stood the largest fridge she’d ever seen. Opposite waited an equally impressive stove that could have coped with the catering demands of a small restaurant. Mr. Carlisle must be totally into his cooking, probably a real foodie.
What a contrast this was from the hodgepodge of cupboards and appliances and single overhead light she’d left behind in Hampstead. She sighed.
The moment she’d discovered Simon shagging Polly’s friend she’d taken off, gone to Paris for the weekend. He’d acted incredulous and hurt when she told him this was the end. He’d sworn he wouldn’t stray again. Before making her final escape she’d retrieved nearly all her belongings, and then given her last few pounds to the airways to cover the overweight charge. That had surely been worth it. As long as Jack never found out she’d been associated with his cousin she’d be fine. She couldn’t bear the thought of him knowing how she’d allowed herself to be taken in by Simon.
All things considered, this wasn’t such a bad exchange. Jack’s taste in clothing could do with some refining, but she couldn’t fault his living style. Tabby had told her he had a trust fund from his father. Pity there was no such fortune in the impoverished Elliott family. Every penny earned went to hang on to the manor house and home farm—all that was left of a once sizable estate. Although their parents had scrimped to send both Freddi and Matthew to exclusive boarding schools, they just had to manage on their own now.
She sighed and got busy with the task at hand—preparing a good hearty breakfast.
From the stack of crockery in a glass-fronted cabinet she chose a suitable plate. Thinking to warm it, she pulled open the oven door and paused, considering the pristine interior. The shelves were still encased in plastic. Corrugated cardboard covered the elements. Revise the first conclusion. So far in its existence, Jack Carlisle’s oven was all flashy surface. That could possibly apply to the man as well. Time would tell soon enough.
She turned toward the fridge and opened it to take out the necessary ingredients. The interior of the appliance gleamed empty and was almost as unused as the oven. Freddi bit her lip. Slowly she shut the door again. One after the other, she began opening cupboards. Maybe she’d find a tin of fruit and a box of cereal in the pantry. No such luck. Even the bread bin contained only a sprinkling of bread crumbs and a plastic packet. How could she produce breakfast when there
