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Paris’s attention was drawn from the letters by Jupiter, who lumbered to his feet just as the study door opened to reveal the presence of the butler, Witherspoon. At present, the white-haired Witherspoon looked decidedly icy.
“Yes?” Paris asked.
“My lord, the Wells have arrived.” By a process that Paris had yet to figure out, even though Witherspoon had been butler at Mulholland House for twenty years, Witherspoon managed to convey the impression that it would have been better if the Wells had never been born.
“Oh, come now, Witherspoon!” Paris chided. “They’re not as bad as all that! Granted, the niece is rather severe, but the aunt is delightful and her husband most amusing.” Grinning, Paris rose and tugged down his waistcoat. “I thought we needed some livening up around here, Witherspoon. I shall die of ennui otherwise.”
“Indeed, my lord.” The butler’s eyebrow rose a fraction and Paris saw a telltale twinkle of amusement in the man’s dark eyes. “That cause of death would at least be tasteful, my lord, unlike your guest’s bonnet.”
Paris chuckled amicably as he clapped a familiar hand on the retainer’s narrow shoulder. “Mrs. Wells is an artist,” he explained patiently. “She’s going to paint my portrait.”
“If you say so, my lord.”
Paris drew back and examined Witherspoon suspiciously. “You look as if I were up to no good, Witherspoon!” he exclaimed.
Witherspoon thawed a little, as he always did.
“I assure you, I will treat them royally,” Paris continued. “Speaking of which, where have you put them?”
“Since the hour is so close to tea,” Witherspoon said, miraculously conveying the impression that the late arrival of the Wells was somehow their fault, “I told Mrs. Dibble to escort them to their rooms.” He nearly smiled. “I must say the older lady was most fulsome in her praise of Mulholland House.”
Paris grinned. “I daresay she was. I believe Mrs. Dibble, our jewel among housekeepers, may finally —”
He was going to say that Mrs. Dibble may finally have encountered someone even more vivacious than herself, when there was a loud crash from the vicinity of the kitchen, followed by the sight of a black shape streaking past the study door as a lamenting female voice wailed, “Zeus, come back!”
With a bark and a bound, Jupiter shoved his way past the butler and his master and was out the door, his progress impeded by the freshly waxed floor. His huge paws slipped on the polished surface as he tried to give chase toward the foyer. After a moment of desperate scrambling, he found his footing and bounded away.
“Call off your dog!” Miss Wells cried, appearing in the corridor with a very flushed face and attired in the most ugly brown traveling dress Paris had ever seen. “Call him off!”
“Zounds and gadzooks,” Byron Wells cried from somewhere nearby, “what’s afoot? Tallyho!”
Mr. and Mrs. Wells appeared at the top of the staircase, by their appearance having interrupted their toilette. Byron Wells wore a finely tailored tweed suit that owed more to town than country, and Mrs. Wells’ dressing gown simply defied description.
Before Paris could answer, Clara Wells darted past him at the same time the black cat reappeared, this time returning toward its mistress and the kitchen wing. Before Paris could step back inside the sanctuary of his study, Jupiter tore down the corridor and crashed into his master, sending him reeling. Paris slipped on the polished floor and collided with Miss Wells. Stumbling over her skirts, he managed to right himself, then lost his footing again and finally fell to the ground, one foot shooting out and inadvertently kicking Miss Wells.
She lost her balance and landed on top of him in a pile of skirts and righteous indignation. “Get up!” she cried, putting her slender hands on Paris’s chest and pushing. “Get up!”
Paris could easily imagine how ridiculous they looked, him flat on his back in the middle of the hall with a young lady, red of face and glaring of eye, sprawled on top of him and telling him to get up. However, he wasn’t so startled that he didn’t notice that although her eyes blazed with indignation and despite her ugly brown dress, Clara Wells was really very pretty.
“I should point out that task would be much simpler if you were to rise first,” he said, hard-pressed not to laugh out loud as he put his hands about her slim waist to lift her up.
She wore no corset, for he felt only soft flesh beneath her gown, not whalebone. She was breathing hard. A few wisps of hair had escaped her tight bun and her mouth was partly opened. He had but to raise himself a few inches and he could capture those lips with his own....
Miss Wells’ face turned even redder as she realized her position. “Take your hands off me, sir!”
“May I be of assistance, miss?” Witherspoon intoned.
“Yes, please,” Miss Wells said, scuttling backward in a crablike manner that imparted to Paris new and fascinating sensations.
With great dignity, Witherspoon inclined and took Clara Wells’ hand in his to help her stand.
“Lord Mulholland, are you hurt?” Aurora Wells asked, bustling toward him solicitously, her ringlets quivering with concern.
“Only my pride,” he replied, standing and bestowing a gracious smile on his guests, especially the youngest of them.
Then Jupiter started to bay.
“He’s trapped Zeus!” Clara Wells cried anxiously as she turned once more toward the corridor leading to the kitchen. “Poor thing!”
“Jupiter won’t hurt your cat,” Paris said, hurrying after her. “He’s very gentle.”
Miss Wells shot him a withering glance. “I was thinking of your foolish dog,” she said. “Zeus can take care of himself.”
Before Paris could formulate an answer, Jupiter gave a great long howl, and in the next instant, came careening around the corner, Zeus clinging to his back and yowling. Jupiter looked as if he had Satan himself for a rider, and this cat could have been a familiar, for it held on with demonic determination as they rushed past the startled onlookers who pressed themselves back against the wall. Jupiter, with another wild yelp, spun around in the foyer and dashed back past them.
“I believe they are returning to the kitchen, my lord,” Witherspoon remarked unnecessarily.
A shocked screech—Mrs. Macurdy, the cook’s, no doubt—and a clash of pots confirmed Witherspoon’s assumption.
Paris ran to the kitchen followed by the Wells and halted abruptly on the threshold. Mrs. Macurdy, surrounded by fragments of pastry and pieces of tea sandwiches, was leaning against the table in the middle of the large room as if she had had the fright of her life. A kitchen maid stood in the corner with a ladle clutched in her hand, Jupiter was in the corner by the coal box whimpering and a black cat not nearly as huge as it had looked on Jupiter’s back sat on the windowsill calmly licking its paw.
Mrs. Macurdy turned her shocked visage toward him. “What in the name of heaven happened, my lord?” she asked in a stunned whisper. “Is that cat possessed?”
“No, he isn’t,” Miss Wells said as she pushed her way past him. “Your maid dropped a pan.” The scullery maid flushed guiltily and slowly lowered her ladle. “That scared poor Zeus, so he ran.” She glanced over her shoulder with a scathing look. “And then your brute of a dog chased him.”
She went to the windowsill and picked up the cat, nestling it to her chest and crooning, “Did he try to hurt you, Zeus, that nasty, stupid dog?”
Paris felt contrite until he saw the bloody scratches on Jupiter’s back. “That cat is a menace!” he said through clenched teeth as he went toward his wounded pet. “Poor Jupe,” he murmured. He crouched down and stroked the dog’s head. “Did that nasty, stupid cat attack you?”
Jupiter looked at him as if to ask what he had ever done to deserve such a punishment, and Paris had to agree.
“Since there is nothing for me to do here, I believe I shall decamp,” Aurora Wells announced grandly. She gathered her brightly colored wrapper around her ample frame. “Come, Byron!”
Byron was in the process of sampling one of the remaining intact pastries when his wife’s command interrupted. While continuing to unashamedly hold on to the cream puff, he bid everyone an airy adieu and ambled after her retreating figure, taking great care not to step on any fragments of food.
“I assume, my lord, that tea will be indefinitely postponed?” the ever-unflappable Witherspoon remarked.
Miss Wells paused in her crooning and, for the first time since this whole episode began, looked contrite. “Oh, dear me,” she said, and Paris noticed she spoke more to Mrs. Macurdy than to him. “Please, don’t make any more on our account. We can wait for dinner.”
“Good,” Paris said rather ungraciously. He was discovering that he detested being ignored, especially in his own home. “Mrs. Macurdy, don’t bother with tea.”
The cook nodded, turning a murderous eye onto Miss Wells and her cat triumphant. Witherspoon nodded his understanding and drifted out of the room.
“He’s usually no trouble at all,” Miss Wells said defensively. She brushed back one of the stray wisps of hair from her flushed face with the back of her hand. “I don’t think he’ll bother Jupiter again.”
“I should hope not.”
She frowned, making a furrow of worry appear between her shapely brows. So, she was not completely immune to his opinion.
Suddenly all was forgiven. Until she spoke again. “Such a large dog should be kept outside, shouldn’t it?”
“I like having him in the house,” Paris replied. “I didn’t realize you were bringing a cat.”
“You did say to bring all the household.”
“And is this all, or have you a mynah bird, a bear or an elephant somewhere hereabouts?”
“No, my lord. Only Zeus.” Clara Wells’ lips twitched as if she were trying to suppress a smile.
Paris did not remark that “only Zeus” had reduced his kitchen to a shambles and possibly upset Mrs. Macurdy’s delicate nervous system. He didn’t speak because the knowledge that she found his sarcastic comment amusing affected him strangely. On the one hand, he was pleased to think he could make her smile. On the other, he had never before wanted a young woman to take him seriously, as he did Clara Wells.
She glanced at the door leading to the kitchen garden and buttery and went toward it, opening it and setting her cat down. The beast walked majestically away, as one would expect any pet of the senior Wells to do.
“Sending your familiar to fend for himself?” Paris inquired.
Clara Wells rose and turned to face him. Rather unexpectedly, she did not meet his gaze. “I will see that he stays outside, my lord.”
Paris was suddenly aware that Mrs. Macurdy and the scullery maid were listening attentively as they made desultory motions of cleaning up.
He moved into the corridor. Miss Wells followed him, albeit a few paces behind. Once they were out of earshot of the kitchen, he looked at her and smiled. “If you keep your cat outside, who will guard your potions and spells?” he asked softly.
Chapter Six
Clara was now convinced by Lord Mulholland’s mischievous eyes and friendly smile that he wasn’t angry, which pleased her. It would not do to upset their host. Unfortunately, she suspected that other emotions were now coming into play, at least on her part. In self-defense, she forced herself to meet shallow levity with a similar nonchalance. “I left all my brews behind in London,” she answered.
“There is no need to banish the cat.”
“You won’t mind him in the house? What about your dog?”
“Jupe will recover, I’m sure,” he said, “although his primary caretaker is an irresponsible lout.” He frowned with what looked like genuine dismay.
“If he is, surely you have several people who could care for the dog.”
“I was referring, my dear Miss Wells, to myself.”
“Oh.” Clara fell silent. She was no longer in any humor to play games, nor did she wish to remember that he had called her “my dear” in that sinfully wicked voice of his.
“I daresay he’ll avoid your pet the next time,” Lord Mulholland said, “so all should be well.”
“I’m sorry. But you did say the household,” she repeated, trying to avoid looking at his face, which she felt was far too close to her own.
“I meant your servants.”
Clara bit her lip and blushed. “We don’t have any servants.”
“Who keeps your household organized?” he asked. “Your aunt, worthy woman though she may be, hardly seems the type. And your uncle—I cannot see him shopping in a market.”
“We are not of your class, my lord,” Clara pointedly observed.
“I daresay there are plenty of people who would say I’m not worthy to belong to any class,” he replied flippantly. “I suspect, Miss Wells, that it is you who sees to the orderly running of your household, the cat included.”
“Someone has to, and since I am not a gifted painter, nor can I write, much to my uncle’s chagrin, those tasks fall to me,” she admitted.
His expression softened and his blue eyes were full of sympathy. “That must be very difficult.”
“No more than trying to keep a large dog under control,” she replied, attempting to sound matter-of-fact. She was determined not to let herself get weak and silly in his presence. “I must say, my lord, I would have expected you to have a purebred hunting dog. I would not have thought a mongrel elegant enough for a man of your distinction.”
Then something happened that Clara would not have expected in a hundred years. Lord Paris Mulholland blushed. “I caught a fellow trying to drown a bag of puppies. Jupe was one of them,” he explained.
Clara took a step back. She should get away from this man at once. She was proof against his foolish-wastrel persona; against this sincere and handsome man who had saved drowning puppies, she had fewer defenses.
His gaze met hers and he paused, then straightened his shoulders as if attempting to resume his usual languid attitude—with some success, Clara noted regretfully. “I tried to give him away once he was recovered, but the poor chap looks upon me as his savior apparently. If I give him away, he keeps coming back. Foolish, isn’t it, but there it is.”
“I don’t consider loyalty a foolish characteristic, my lord,” she replied. “I hope you will forgive Zeus. And me.”
“Since the destruction of the kitchen was also the fault of my dog, I could hardly hold you responsible, could I?” He stepped in front of her, so that she had to look at his face. “Quite frankly, I’m relieved to be spared the social necessity of teatime. Besides, I detest the beverage, and Mrs. Macurdy, while a dear old soul and the maker of the finest pies in Christendom, is utterly defeated when it comes to sandwiches.”
There was something so winning in the way he said this that Clara had to smile.
“I’m delighted to know I can make the iron maiden laugh,” he remarked, with a truly warm smile that, had Clara known him better, she would have realized was very rare indeed.
Unfortunately, she did not know him better, and it did not please her to be called “the iron maiden” by anyone.
“Clara, my dear!” Aunt Aurora called out from upstairs, just as if they were at home. This time, her aunt’s lack of social polish didn’t trouble Clara. She was far too glad of an excuse to get away.
“If you will excuse me, my lord,” she said coldly. “I must see if my aunt requires assistance.”
This time, his smile was charming and completely devoid of meaning. “Of course, Miss Wells.”
With her slim back as straight as Witherspoon’s, and her chin high, she walked past him and up the stairs.
She marched along the upper corridor. She could tell from her aunt’s rather loud tones which room had been given to her, and headed toward it.
Iron maiden, indeed! Was she supposed to be flattered by his attention? Did Lord Paris Mulholland think, in his smug, bold way, that he could make her laugh?
If she seemed hard or cold, it was because somebody in her family had to be, or her poor aunt and uncle would be at the mercy of every tradesman, merchant, landlord and swindler in London.
What would this lazy, selfish man know of her troubles? What gave him the right to call her names?
She suddenly realized a short, thin man stood at the other end of the corridor staring at her. He had thick, dark, wavy hair brushed back and oiled, a thin mustache, well-tailored clothes in the latest fashion and a very shrewd expression in his beady black eyes. “Greetings, mademoiselle, ” he said in a French accent as he came toward her. He stopped and made a gentlemanly bow. “Permit me to introduce myself. Jean Claude Beaumaris, valet de chambre to Lord Mulholland.”
“Enchanté de faire votre connaissance, Monsieur Beaumaris, ” Clara replied in French.
“Ah, mademoiselle!” he cried with pleasure. “Votre accent est excellent.”
“Merci, monsieur. Excusez-moi, s’il vous plaît. Ma tante a besoin de ma présence.”
“Certainement, ” he replied with another bow as he backed away, a wide grin on his face that made him resemble the mask of comedy.
She rapped once on Aunt Aurora’s door. What a strange fellow, she thought as she heard Aunt Aurora respond. Almost as strange, she supposed, as one would consider her guardians.
She entered the bedroom. Aunt Aurora was sitting in front of a large gilt mirror wearing her brightly patterned dressing gown and attempting to arrange her heavy, hennaed hair. The furniture was Oriental in design, with beautiful gold inlays in the dark lacquer. The bed had an ornately scrolled, gilded partial canopy. The bed curtains, of a light chintz pattern, matched the embroidered satin coverlet and the Oriental wallpaper.
Clara could think of no room in the world that would appeal to Aunt Aurora more, because of her love of all things exotic, except perhaps one in a sultan’s palace.
The moment she saw Clara, Aunt Aurora swiveled on the chair and looked at her niece worriedly. “What on earth happened below?” she asked. “I hope his lordship isn’t too upset!”
“No, he didn’t seem to be,” Clara replied. “I was letting Zeus out of his basket when the kitchen maid dropped a pot. Zeus was frightened, so he ran. Then Lord Mulholland’s dog gave chase.”
“Oh, dear, I knew bringing Zeus was not a wise idea.”
“It was the dog’s fault, too.”
Aunt Aurora continued to look concerned. “I don’t want to anger Lord Mulholland and have to leave,” she said. “I didn’t want to alarm you before, Clara, but we have not the funds we should and this commission is rather important.”
Clara was surprised that Aunt Aurora suspected the perilous nature of their financial situation; nevertheless, she hastened to reassure her. “He wasn’t so very angry,” she said placatingly. “More annoyed, I believe, and he was soon over that.”
“I should have known you would make things right,” Aunt Aurora said with satisfaction as she turned back to regard her reflection. “He is a most delightful young man. Just think, my dear, if your foolish grandfather was not so stubborn, you would be enjoying such society as a matter of course.”
Clara said nothing as she began to unpack her aunt’s gowns. What was there to say?
“Lord Mulholland is perfectly charming,” Aunt Aurora went on enthusiastically. “And so handsome! Paris, indeed!” She glanced at Clara. “He looks so much better in these bucolic surroundings, don’t you think?”
“He is handsome,” Clara agreed.
Who could disagree, she thought, recalling his casual attire of an open-necked white shirt, his surprisingly broad shoulders that were certainly not the result of the tailor’s art and his fawn-colored riding breeches that emphasized the muscularity of his thighs.
Aunt Aurora tried another arrangement of her front hair. “He’s a perfect gentleman, too, I’m certain.”
“I hope so,” Clara replied absently, staring at the brilliant colors of her aunt’s wardrobe and mentally contrasting them with the muted tones of the wallpaper.
“Not like some of those other young men who’ve come to my studio.”
Clara slowly turned to look at her aunt. Until this moment, she had assumed Aunt Aurora had no inkling of the antics of some of her male customers and models.
“Why, you needn’t stare so, Clara, although I’m sure a girl of your moral fiber didn’t even notice their cruder behavior.”
Clara certainly had; the wonder of it was that Aunt Aurora had not been oblivious. “You...you never sent anyone away,” she said slowly.
“Why should I? They were harmless enough, and I certainly had no fear that you would not see them for the vain puppies they were!”
Clara didn’t know whether she should frown or smile. It was good to think her aunt had faith in her perception, but was it not her guardian’s place to guard Clara from her customers’ attentions?
There was a soft knock on the door, and Clara opened it to find a pretty, smiling young woman in a maid’s uniform who dipped a curtsy. “Good day, miss,” she said nervously. “I’m to be your maid while you’re here.”
Clara was about to protest that they didn’t need a maid when Aunt Aurora rose as majestically as any queen and gave Clara a most triumphant look. “How thoughtful of Lord Mulholland! I am Aurora Wells, and this is my niece, Clara.”
The maid dipped another curtsy. The young woman looked so keen and anxious, Clara didn’t have the heart to send her away, and on second thought, it occurred to her that it might be a pleasant break not to have to help Aunt Aurora for a little while.
Nor should she make too much out of Lord Mulholland’s generosity. Providing a maid for their assistance was surely to be expected of any gentleman.
Of course, it still remained to be seen if Lord Mulholland was worthy of such an appellation.
Paris opened the door of his bedchamber at the far end of the corridor to discover that his valet was in a state of such excitement, the fellow could barely stand still. He looked not unlike one of the drunken revelers depicted in the medieval harvest tapestry hanging in the small drawing room.
“My lord!” Jean Claude exclaimed with true Gallic enthusiasm. “At last you bring home a young woman worthy of your attention!”
“What are you talking about?” Paris demanded as he closed the door, although he thought he could guess what Jean Claude was talking about. “The only young woman new in the house is Miss Wells,” he said coolly, shooting the bolt home when he recalled Hester’s tale about another young lady spying on him. “And she’s no beauty. Pretty, perhaps, but surely not worth your fulsome praise. Now where’s my dress shirt?”
He went over toward the large canopied mahogany bed and began to undress, still wondering why the laughter in Clara Wells’ beautiful hazel eyes had died and her mouth had become a hard, grim line.
Because he had teased her a little?
Then, when her aunt had shouted for her, she had started and looked around as if she expected to see a bevy of Robert Peel’s bobbies waiting to arrest her. Because her aunt was a little boisterous?
Perhaps he would regret his hasty decision to have Aurora Wells paint his portrait, he thought grimly as he unbuttoned his shirt. It was not going to be a blissful experience, having such a stern, censorious miss in his household.
He could send them away, he supposed, and he had to admit that the thought was tempting. However, he couldn’t deny that Clara Wells was rather tempting, too, in a challenging sort of way. Besides, the family could use the money this commission would provide.
Jean Claude frowned darkly as he brought forth a fresh white shirt while Paris divested himself of the one he had been wearing. “Ce n’est pas possible! Am I in the presence of a dolt? A fool? A simpleton? Have I not taught you better than that, you...you Englishman! Anyone of any breeding and discernment would see that she is une jeune fille très magnifique!” He handed the shirt to a half-naked Paris and crossed his arms, daring his employer to disagree.
Which naturally Paris did, for it appeared that Jean Claude was going to outdo himself in defending Miss Wells—and his own judgment, of course. “I think she’s a prim-and-proper bourgeois prude,” he said.