And finally, his expression broke. Finally, the man who had looked nearly ox-like in his calm, suddenly threw out a snort of frustration before running a hand through his badly shorn brown curls. “Damn it, Wendy, when will you trust me? Haven’t I earned that these last months?”
The duchess reared back, her eyes wide with shock. “Of course I trust you. I’ve always—”
“Then these two stay here. They’re honest workers, and they are best as a team.”
Tabitha drew breath to argue, but at a glare from the duchess, she wisely shut her lips. Meanwhile, Bernard wasn’t done. He turned to Melinda, who had thought she was no more important than the nearest chair, but suddenly, he was touching her hand as he tugged the foolscap from her.
“There are others though, Miss Smithson. Others who would be happy for the work.”
She nodded slowly, wondering at just what kind of protection the duchess needed. And what this unlikely pair could do should the worst happen. But it wasn’t her business except to offer good work to another pair, perhaps.
“It’s hard work, and as I said—”
“I’ll see that you get two good souls, Miss Smithson. They won’t turn on you, I swear.”
Tabitha still couldn’t keep silent. “And how would you know that, Mr. Drew? How can you be so sure—”
“Because they know better than to turn on me.” The words were spoken simply enough. There wasn’t even an underlying ugliness to the tone. A straightforward sentence, but it nonetheless sent chills through Mellie’s body. Despite his placid appearance, there was cold steel beneath Bernard’s words, and everyone heard it, including Tabitha.
Then suddenly, he was all smiles as he bowed to Mellie. “I grateful for the directions, Miss Smithson. Now if you’ll excuse me ladies, I haven’t yet slept this night, and I’d like to seek my bed.”
“Haven’t slept?” said his sister. “But it’s nearly noon.”
“Even so.” With another bow to the room in general, Bernard disappeared into the alley. For such a large man, he moved quickly. And quietly too. There hadn’t even been a sound to his footfalls as the workroom door clicked shut behind him.
And all was silent.
Except for Lady Eleanor. “If I may make a suggestion?” she said to the room at large.
Melinda all but groaned. Eleanor’s opinion wasn’t needed in this taut situation, but no one had the wherewithal to silence her.
“If you must employ these two, then I suggest you give them simple names and call them…well, call them Miss Smithson’s friends from the country. At least that way, you have a hope of keeping their, um, previous occupations secret.”
To which the man replied, “There’s nothing complicated about our names. I’m Charles, and that’s Mary.” Everyone waited a moment, and eventually, he gave a charming smile. “Jones. Charles and Mary Jones.”
False names, perhaps, but it hardly mattered.
“Excellent,” Eleanor said, as if she were in charade. “Mr. and Mrs. Jones.”
“No, no,” the man corrected. “Brother and sister.”
The two couldn’t look less alike. Whereas she had dark hair and an olive cast to her skin, he was sandy-haired, somewhat tall, and sported freckles. They were definitely not brother and sister.
“Very well,” the duchess said slowly. “Brother and sister from the country. Friends of Miss Smithson.”
Eleanor nodded briskly. “Melinda, pray acquaint them with some details of your home life in case someone asks. Lady Redhill, I believe you mentioned some green silk that needs to be discussed? Duchess, if you wouldn’t mind speaking with your head seamstress, I’d appreciate it. Though I agree with her sentiment, it appears we have been overruled. In which case, the only alternative is to press on without a frown. Can’t have the wrinkles, you know.” Then she took a deep breath as she looked about the room. “Really,” she drawled, “it’s a good thing I’m of a flexible mind-set. Otherwise, I believe I should have gone mad when Radley first ascended to the title.”
And the startling thing was that absolutely everyone agreed with everything she said. Well, everything until she began pointing at some decidedlynotgreen fabrics.
“Are you sure we can’t add just a touch of Russian ornamentation?”
Thirteen
Ruin him in small ways with a nickname, a token, or an intimate promise.
Trevor was not a man who wrote well. He had friends who were great orators, others who could craft a sentence like a sculptor shapes marble. When he had promised to write Mellie daily, he had imagined himself sending missives filled with reassurances and clever anecdotes. Simple stories to buoy her spirit and make her smile.
He envisioned her smiling a lot when she read his letters. It was one of his favorite fantasies. Well, one of his non-salacious fantasies.