The Emerald Duchess Page 3

  Before Emily could answer, a knock came at the door, and it was opened immediately by a large, handsome gentleman dressed in full regimentals. “There you are, sleepyhead, awake at last,” he said, striding quickly to the bed and sitting down to plant a careless kiss on Lady Quentin’s cheek. She smiled up at him, her eyes glowing, and Emily realized that she was much more attractive than she had at first appeared.

  As for her husband, Emily saw with a sense of foreboding that he was one of the handsomest men she had ever seen. She prayed he was very much in love with his wife. In the delicate, feminine room, he appeared very tall and masculine. He was powerfully built from his broad shoulders to his long, muscular legs, and he sported a head of jet-black hair, a mustache to match, and the fresh complexion of the confirmed outdoorsman that complimented his soldierly bearing.

  As he turned away from his wife, he caught sight of Emily, who rose and curtsied. “And who have we here, Alicia?” he asked.

  “This is Miss Nelson. She has applied for the position as my maid to replace Daffy,” Lady Quentin said in her girlish voice, clasping his arm tightly and cuddling closer.

  “Indeed? She is much better-looking than Daffy, pet. Have you engaged her?” the captain asked idly, little knowing he was striking fear into Emily’s heart.

  “Not yet—I do not know—well, what do you think? I mean, she is so young, and even though her references are excellent—well, what does that prove? Besides, Daffy was a dear. I was so sorry she had to leave me because of her sister’s illness, for you know she has been with me ever since Mama decided it was time for me to have a maid.”

  The captain put a large hand over his wife’s mouth. “Enough! I shall be late to headquarters if I stay to disentangle and answer all of that statement.” He unclasped her clinging hands and added as he rose, “I must be off, my love. Do what you think best, but you know the Racklin ball is only a week away, and you will certainly need a smart dresser for that. It is most important for me to stand well with Sir Reginald, especially now.”

  “But, Tony,” Lady Quentin interrupted, “you have not told me why he is of such importance, and I do not understand—”

  “It is nothing for you to worry your pretty head about, my dear. If you would please me, just be sure you look your most entrancing. Perhaps you should ask Bella to help you engage a maid; yes, that’s the ticket,” he added as Emily’s heart sank. “Bella will be glad to tell you what you should do.” With a wave and a blown kiss he was gone, even as the lady frowned at his last words and called after him, “But, Tony, when will you be home?”

  But the captain did not reply, for both of them could hear him running downstairs and the sound of the front door slamming behind him.

  All the light went out of Lady Quentin’s face as she sank back on her pillows with a little sigh. Catching sight of the letters of reference again, she returned her gaze to Emily’s face. “Bella, indeed! I suppose Tony is right, but somehow...” She frowned a little and added, “I cannot call you Nelson or Margaret, what shall I call you?”

  Emily said nothing as the lady threw back her bedclothes. “Very well, never mind that now. Bring me my peignoir and we shall see how you dress me for luncheon with Lady Wilcox. She sets fashion: let us see if you can make me her equal. Not that I care especially what she thinks, but Tony insists I cultivate her.”

  Emily quickly removed her pelisse and bonnet, wishing she had thought to bring her apron and cap with her as she helped Lady Quentin into the soft pink robe that lay across the foot of the bed. She followed the lady to her dressing room, noticing how very short she was. Emily herself was only of medium height, but Lady Quentin lacked several of her inches. She could not repress a gasp when she saw the dressing room, and the lady turned around, her eyes twinkling.

  “Yes, it is unusual, is it not? Tony had his sister Bella design it for me as a wedding present. We have only been married six months, and I myself am not quite accustomed to it as yet.” She paused as if she were going to say more, and then she shrugged.

  Emily gazed at the gilded tub, shaped like a shell and set on delicate clawed feet, the mirrored walls, and the velvet chaise and matching chairs. Even the ceiling was painted with a soft mural depicting the sky and some rosy clouds.

  Lady Quentin threw open the doors of the wardrobe and selected an afternoon dress of dusty rose. “I shall wear this, I think, for it is new.”

  Emily restrained another gasp, for she had never seen so many clothes. Row after row of morning dresses, afternoon ensembles, ball gowns, riding habits, and beautiful furs. Although every color of the rainbow was represented, pink and rose predominated.

  “Tony likes me to wear pink, Nelly,” Lady Quentin explained, and Emily, her heart sinking at the thought of being addressed as Nelly, nodded her head. It appeared the lady called everyone by a diminutive, from her husband, Tony, right down to her lady’s maid. As she helped her to dress, Lady Quentin continued to chat. In spite of having to decipher some of her more tangled statements, Emily found herself warming to the young lady. She was just like a kitten, so open and playful, and when she squeezed Emily’s hand and declared she was more than pleased with her turnout, Emily was bold enough to ask the salary.

  “I paid Daffy twenty-five guineas, and you shall have the same,” Lady Quentin said in a businesslike way. “And any time off whenever I do not need you, as well as every other Sunday afternoon, and a full day once a month.”

  “That will be satisfactory, m’lady,” Emily agreed in relief, and as Lady Quentin was pulling on her gloves, she asked what other activities she was engaged in for today. At her look of surprise, Emily explained. “If I know what gowns you will require, I can be sure to have them ready for you. Then, too, I should like to fetch my baggage from my hotel in Davies Street and unpack at such a time as you do not need me.”

  Lady Quentin nodded. “Come with me now, Nelly. The hotel is on my way, and you shall ride in my carriage so I can tell you my plans for the day. What a good idea! I am sure we will deal extremely together, and to think I imagined—well, I am just the silly goose that Tony calls me—and Bella,” she added, somewhat more tartly as she led the way downstairs.

  Instructing the butler to have a room prepared for her new maid, she took the time to introduce them. “Nelly, this is Goody. He is a pet, and he has been with me since I was a child,” she said, smiling at the old man. As she swept by him to the front door, the butler looked at Emily and raised his eyes heavenward. Emily smiled in return.

  The carriage was modern, and although the seats were cushioned in rose velvet, Emily was glad to see the exterior was painted buff and the two footmen were dressed in somber livery. All the way to Davies Street, Lady Quentin chattered without stopping. By the time Emily was set down at the hotel, her head was ringing. As near as she could make out, her new mistress would be home to change her clothes for a drive in the park with some friends of Captain Quentin, and then there was an evening reception at the Lovelaces’.

  “Oh, and Tony promised to be home for dinner before that—the deep-rose satin, Nelly, and my diamonds, I think, and I do hope you have some cheerful gowns, I hate depressing colors. I absolutely forbid black, such a horrible color, don’t you think? It quite gives me the megrims to have anyone dressed in black near me.”

  And then tomorrow she would require Nelly to attend her while she shopped. She had a fitting at Mme. Pauline’s, some perfume to be chosen at Croxton’s, a pair of sandals to be purchased at the Pantheon Bazaar, and a special gift for her husband that she wished to select at Dudley’s. He had mentioned how much he admired Lord Grant’s dress sword; she had determined that he should have one just as magnificent. Interspersed in this conversation were questions about Nelly’s former mistresses, where she had lived, and how she had learned her trade.

  “Whew,” Emily said to herself as she reached her hotel room. This was going to be quite a change from her last job in Yorkshire, that was clear. In an hour she had packed, settled her bill, a
nd hiring a hackney, was once again on her way to Charles Street.

  The butler, who was quick to tell her his name was Mr. Goodwell, “not Mr. Goody, miss,” had a footman bring in her portmanteaus. Her trunk would come by carter later. He himself took her to the fourth floor, where the servants had their rooms. Emily was glad to see that her room already had a warming fire burning in the fireplace and the bed was covered with a cheerful quilt. The room was small, but there was a rug and, luxury of luxuries, a mirror over her dresser. Her spirits brightened considerably as she thanked him, and he offered to introduce her to his wife when she had unpacked.

  “Mrs. Good well is the housekeeper. Of course, we keep a French chef.” Here Mr. Goodwell sniffed, letting Emily know he did not approve of employing foreigners, not when England had been at war with France for so long. “There’s the bell to call Nancy, the upstairs maid; she will fetch your water and tend the fire, miss.”

  He bowed, with a dignity belying his nickname, and departed, leaving Emily to unpack and think how lucky she had been to get a position in this household. She had not finished when the bell rang to summon her, and stopping only to tie on her apron and cap, she went to attend her new mistress.

  When Lady Quentin was safely bestowed on her gentlemen escorts and had left the house with one last lilting laugh, Emily went to seek out Mrs. Goodwell in hopes of a cup of tea. That lady was much more unbending than her husband, even introducing herself as Mrs. Goody, and over a good tea, she lost no time in telling Emily all about the household.

  “Lady Quentin, now, she’s a new bride, and it’s a good thing she has me, I can tell you, Miss Nelson,” Mrs. Goodwell said, rocking comfortably. “No more sense than a baby, she has, although a sweeter young lady I never hope to see. The captain now, he knows what’s what, but he’s not home often.”

  “Is he on duty a great deal?” Emily asked.

  Mrs. Goodwell nodded. “You’d think, now that that nasty Napoleon has been exiled to that island—whatever is the name of it, I can’t recollect—the captain would have more time to spend with his wife, but Lady Quentin goes about without him. Of course, his sister, Miss Arabella, is here more often than not, but that’s not my idea of how to treat a bride. But there, I do hope she’ll be happy.”

  Just then Mr. Goodwell came in, and his wife abruptly stopped gossiping. Emily thanked her for the tea and went back upstairs to lay out the deep-rose satin gown Lady Quentin planned to wear to dinner. Emily was busy in the dressing room when the bedroom door was thrown open and an authoritative voice cried out, “Don’t fuss, Goodwell! I shall just leave a note for Lady Quentin before I go, there is no need for you to escort me. Heaven knows I have been up here often enough.”

  Emily came around the corner to see a dark-haired lady firmly shutting the door in the butler’s face.

  “Old fussbudget,” she muttered, and then, catching sight of Emily, she said, “ ’Pon my soul, who are you?”

  “I am Margaret Nelson, Lady Quentin’s new dresser, ma’am,” Emily replied with a curtsy.

  “Indeed?” the lady asked as she removed her gloves, looking her up and down intently. “Now, why didn’t Alicia consult me before she took such a step? You are much too young—and much too pretty! But there, Alicia is such an unworldly baby, she probably never even considered that. By the way, I am Arabella Quentin, her sister-in-law.”

  Emily curtsied again as the lady continued, “I suppose you had good references? I must assume you have all the necessary skills: hairdressing, sewing, cleaning clothes of stains and candle wax, and painting the face. However, to be sure, I give you a small test. What is virgin’s milk made from?”

  Emily was indignant to be quizzed by an outsider, but since she was not sure of Miss Quentin’s role in the household, she thought it best to answer her as humbly as she could. “Tincture of benzoin mixed with water, miss,” she said. Emily had often prepared this mixture for her mother, for it gave a lovely rosy coloring to the complexion. “But if I may say so”—she waited until Miss Quentin inclined her head an inch—“I do not hold with the use of such cosmetics for a young lady. At Lady Quentin’s age such preparations are unnecessary, and to begin their use too early is to risk the most dangerous consequences: loose teeth, swollen eyes, and coarsened skin texture, to name but a few. I would never employ them on any one but an older lady well past her prime. The young need very little in the way of artifice to show them at their best.”

  She stopped, for Miss Quentin was sputtering, and two bright-red spots burned high on her cheekbones under what Emily now saw was a heavy maquillage.

  “That will be quite enough! I am not interested in your insolent opinions,” the lady managed to get out as she went to sit down at a small writing table set against the wall. She then proceeded to ask several more questions about Emily’s past—where she was from and for whom she had worked—and Emily made herself answer in an even voice.

  “Very well,” Miss Quentin said at last. “If you are not satisfactory, we can always discharge you. By the way, stay well away from my brother or you will be back in the street before you know it.”

  Emily’s eyes flashed her indignation before she lowered them. Miss Quentin sneered, “Hoity-toity, girl! I am well aware of the morals of the lower classes. No better than animals, the lot of you.” She turned to the desk and then asked suddenly. “What salary is Alicia paying you?”

  “Twenty-five guineas, miss.”

  Miss Quentin snorted. “Just as I thought. I could have found her someone much more suitable, and with a more civil tongue in her head, for only fifteen.” She shook her head and drew a sheet of paper from the desk. “I shall write Lady Quentin a note. She has forgotten that we had an engagement to walk this afternoon. I take it she has gone to drive?”

  “Yes, miss,” Emily said, setting her lips firmly.

  “Well, speak up, girl. Was it with Lord Andrews?”

  “And Mr. Ashe,” Emily admitted.

  “I shall roast her for that,” the lady said, her grim tones at odds with the light statement as she began to pen a few lines.

  Emily studied her carefully. She was above medium height and had her brother’s dark hair, high complexion, and aquiline features, but whereas these attributes made him such a handsome man, they did not become her as well. Indeed, besides being so determined and self-satisfied, she had a rigid cast to her features that was most unpleasant. She was older than her brother and seemed to have set her girlhood firmly behind her, along with any thought of matrimony.

  “See that she gets this the minute she returns, girl,” the lady commanded, walking briskly to the door. “Does Lady Quentin still plan to attend the Lovelace reception tonight?”

  “I believe so, miss,” Emily replied, curtsying as she accepted the note, and although she could have added that the captain planned to dine with his wife, she refused to volunteer any information to this unpleasant woman.

  After Miss Quentin left, Emily went back to her work, thinking about her. Besides being rude and abrupt and prying into Emily’s past, there had been a forcefulness about her, an air of always knowing what was best, that put up Emily’s back. She was glad Miss Quentin was not an inmate of the house.

  As soon as she heard Lady Quentin in the hall below, she rang for Nancy to bring some hot water and went out to greet her mistress, who was standing on the bottom step questioning Mr. Goodwell.

  “You say the captain has not returned home, Goody? Well, no matter, I guess. I really did not expect...” She laughed a little and came lightly up the stairs to her room. As she undressed, she chatted gaily to her maid about her drive: whom she had seen, what her escorts had had to say, and whom she might expect to see at the evening’s reception. It was some time later, just as she was lying down and Emily was closing the drapes so she might rest before dressing for dinner, that she remembered the note from Miss Quentin.

  “Oh, dear! How angry Bella must be with me,” Lady Quentin said in a failing voice. “I promised faithfully tha
t this time I would not fail.”

  Emily left her, wondering if such fluff-headed behavior was common to the lady. She began to think it would drive any husband mad to have to deal with it, to say nothing of her long-suffering friends ... and servants.

  It was very late before Lady Quentin returned from the Lovelace reception and called Emily to undress her. Promising to wake her mistress at eleven the following morning, Emily softly let herself out. Of the captain there was no sign, but she did not know if this was normal or not. It is none of my business, she told herself as she climbed the stairs to her room wearily. At least he had been present at dinner, along with two of his fellow officers, and Emily had heard from Mrs. Goody that Lady Quentin had been delighted with her husband and her guests. But when Emily brought down the lady’s sarcenet stole, Lady Quentin was just discovering that the captain was not going to accompany her to the reception. Emily thought her face shaded a little at this news, but she laughed gaily as the others thanked her for the delicious meal before they all went off to Brooks. Lady Quentin was left to ride in solitary state to her evening’s entertainment.

  Emily herself had had a pleasant evening, meeting the rest of the servants at dinner. The food was excellent, thanks to the despised French chef. She noticed that Mr. Goodwell’s scruples did not extend to refusing a second helping of everything. Everyone chatted happily during their meal, from Nancy, the upstairs maid, to Perry, the youngest footman. Even the chef tried a few words in English as he pressed Emily to try the turbot in wine sauce. She answered him in his own tongue, and his face lit up, loosening a torrent of French. As Emily looked around the table, she saw she had made a mistake, for the others were all staring at her. She hurried to tell them she had only a few words she had learned from a French émigrée who was the dressmaker at her last employment, and promised herself to be more careful in the future. A lady’s maid had little education and certainly did not speak a foreign language, and Mrs. Goody had already remarked on her refined accent.