The Bride's Necklace. Kat Martin
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below-stairs room just off the middle hallway was large and surprisingly pleasant, with a well-furnished sitting room and a bed with a comfortable mattress and pillow. A porcelain basin and pitcher painted with lavender flowers sat on the bureau against the wall, and pretty white muslin curtains hung at the half windows.
Tory poured water into the basin, completed her morning ablutions, then walked over to the black skirt and white blouse that were the uniform she wore each day. She frowned as she picked up the clothes, realizing these weren’t the ones she had hung beside the door last night.
Instead, these were freshly laundered, smelling strongly of starch and soap. They crackled as she took them off the hook, so stiff they looked as if they were fashioned of pieces of wood instead of the soft cotton fabric they had been sewn from.
Sweet Mother Mary! Of all the childish…Tory cut herself off, ending her silent tirade before it had actually begun. She didn’t know which of the staff had done this, though Mrs. Rathbone, the most senior of the staff, seemed the most likely. Her dislike of Tory was a clear case of jealousy, but it didn’t really matter. All of them resented her. They probably spent half the morning devising ways to make her quit. They didn’t know how badly she needed this job, how desperate she and Claire were for money.
They didn’t understand it was possible they might even be fugitives from the law.
At least they seemed to have accepted Claire. But then, Claire was so sweet and generous nearly everyone did. It was Tory they considered the problem, the one they needed to get rid of. Still, no matter what the others believed, no matter what they did to her, she wasn’t going to quit.
Gritting her teeth, Tory pulled the blouse on over her shift and shoved her arms into the sleeves, stepped into the skirt and fastened the tabs, the garments crackling with every move. The blouse scratched under her arms and the collar chafed the back of her neck.
She knew how she sounded, snapping and popping with every step. As she passed a gilded mirror in the hallway, she discovered how awful she looked. The sleeves of the blouse stuck out like wings and the skirt poked out front and back like a stiff black sail.
“What in God’s name…?”
Tory froze at the sound of the earl’s deep voice, turned to see him striding toward her, dark eyebrows raised in disbelief. Dear sweet God—of all the rotten luck! Didn’t the man have anything better to do than lurk around the hallways?
Cord stopped in front of her, leaned back and crossed his arms over the very impressive width of his chest.
“Perhaps, Mrs. Temple, when you were asking me all those housekeeping questions the other day, you should have asked my advice on how to manage the laundry. I might have suggested you consider using a bit less starch.”
Tory felt the color rushing into her cheeks. She looked like a complete fool in the ridiculous garb, which was perhaps the reason the earl looked even more handsome that he had the day before.
“I am not in charge of the laundry, my lord. However, I assure you that in future, I shall see that more care is taken in the training of your staff in that regard.”
A corner of his mouth curved up. “I would think that a very wise course.”
He made no move to leave, just stood there grinning, so she simply stared back at him and lifted her chin. “If you will excuse me, my lord.”
“Of course. I imagine you have airing and polishing to do—and laundry instruction of course.”
Her face colored again. Turning, she left him, trying to ignore his soft chuckling laughter and the crackle and popping of her skirts.
Still smiling, thinking again of Victoria Temple in her god-awful, overstarched clothes, Cord continued down the hall to his study. He had a meeting this morning with Colonel Howard Pendleton of the British War Office. The colonel had been a good friend of his father’s. He had also worked closely with Cord’s cousin, Ethan.
Aside from the hours spent rebuilding his family fortune, the balance of Cord’s time was spent trying to locate his cousin and best friend, Ethan Sharpe. Ethan was the second son of Malcolm Sharpe, marquess of Belford, his mother being Cord’s aunt. When Priscilla and Malcolm Sharpe were killed in a carriage accident on their way in from the country, Lord and Lady Brant had taken in the marquess’s children, Charles, Ethan and Sarah, to raise as their own.
Since Cord had no siblings, he and the children had become extremely close. There had been the occasional bloody nose, and once Cord had accidentally broken Ethan’s arm in a wrestling match that ended up with the two of them landing in the creek. Cord would have suffered a well-deserved birching had Ethan not sworn he had fallen in accidentally and that Cord had been trying to save him from drowning.
The incident had cemented Cord and Ethan’s friendship, though Ethan was two years younger. Perhaps it was partly to prove himself that he had joined the navy as soon as he graduated Oxford. That had been nine years ago. Since then, he had left the navy but not His Majesty’s Service. Ethan Sharpe captained the schooner Sea Witch, serving Britain now as a privateer.
Or at least he had been until he and his ship disappeared.
A soft knock sounded on the study door. His short, stout butler, Timmons, stuck his head through the opening. “Colonel Pendleton is here, my lord.”
“Show him in.”
A few moments later a silver-haired man in the scarlet tunic of a military officer walked into the study, gold buttons glittering on the front of his coat. Cord rounded his desk and walked over to greet him.
“It’s good to see you, Colonel.”
“You as well, my lord.”
“Would you care for some refreshment? A glass of brandy or a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you. I’m afraid I haven’t much time.”
Cord passed as well, his mind on Ethan, his worry building each day. For nearly a year, he had been searching, refusing to consider the possibility that the missing ship and its crew might simply have perished in a storm. Ethan was too good a captain, Cord believed. Something else had to have happened.
Both men seated themselves in comfortable leather chairs in front of the hearth and Cord got directly to the business at hand.
“What news, Howard?”
The colonel actually smiled. “A bit of good news, my lord. Three days ago, one of our warships, the Victor, arrived in Portsmouth. She was carrying a civilian passenger named Edward Legg. Legg claims to be a member of Captain Sharpe’s crew.”
Cord’s chest tightened. He leaned forward in his chair. “What did he say about Ethan and his ship?”
“That is the good news. Mr. Legg claims that on their last mission, two French warships were lying in wait off the Le Havre coast. Someone had informed them as to Captain Sharpe’s arrival—or at least that is what Legg believes. A battle ensued and the Sea Witch was damaged beyond repair, but most of the crew was captured, not killed, including Captain Sharpe.”
“How did Legg wind up on the Victor?”
“Apparently, once they reached the mainland, Legg and another sailor managed to escape. The other man died of injuries he received during the fighting, but Legg made it to Spain, where he came upon the Victor returning to England.”
“Did he say where Ethan was taken?”
“I’m afraid he didn’t know.”
“Was Ethan injured in the fighting?”
“Legg said the captain suffered a saber wound and other miscellaneous injuries in the battle, but he didn’t believe they were serious enough to kill a man like Captain Sharpe.”
Cord prayed Legg was right. “I’ll need to speak to him. The sooner, the better.”
“I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”