The Housemaid’s Scandalous Secret. Helen Dickson
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when she should remind him of their previous encounter, and with a multitude of ways of doing so on the tip of her tongue, thought better of it and bit back the words. Explaining her reasons for travelling to Bombay dressed as an Indian girl might prove difficult and tedious, and since they were unlikely to meet again there was nothing to be gained by doing so.
‘He deserves to be made a fuss of after enduring such a long journey. I knew someone who had a similar horse once. She …’
Her voice trailed away. Ross waited for her to speak, to tell him more, but she didn’t. She merely stared into the distance as though she were alone, or he were no more important than his horse. Less so, for she evidently loved horses. He felt a strange sensation come over him and he could hardly believe it himself when he realised he was affronted because she was unconcerned whether he moved on or stayed.
He tried again. ‘How long have you been a lady’s maid?’ he asked, doing his best to be patient, though it was not really in his nature. He had her attention again and she smiled.
‘Oh—long enough,’ she replied, studying him covertly, her gaze sliding over him.
Ross felt the touch of her gaze, felt the hunter within him rise in response to that artless glance. He almost groaned. ‘And is it your intention to always be a lady’s maid? Would you not like to return to India?’
A glow appeared in her eyes. ‘Oh, yes—and perhaps I will, one day, but I have to make my own way in the world, sir …’
‘Colonel. Colonel Ross Montague.’
Ross studied her for a moment, frowning. She was looking at him, silent and unblinking, in the same way the dark-eyed Indian women stared in that unfathomable way. Having lived there for some considerable time, he suspected it was something she had developed almost unconsciously over the years, through her association with some of those doe-eyed women.
Spending many years in India had shaped Ross’s ideal of feminine beauty. He was no great admirer of European standards—the pink and white belles who had begun to invade India, accompanying parents attached in some form to the East India Company. With their insipid colouring, their simpering ways and carefully arranged ringlets, they set their caps at him, attracting him not one whit.
Ross sought his pleasures with the dusky, dark-eyed maidens, who offered a chance of escape from the stifling rounds of British social life, although there had been singularly few of late. This, it may be added, was not from lack of opportunity. Ross Montague was no celibate, but two things obsessed him—India, with its beauty and glamour and its cruel mystery, and the East India Company, with its precious collection of merchant traders from London who were conquering a subcontinent and maintained their own army administering justice and laws to the Indians.
In India fortune had done nothing but smile on Ross. Young men with ambition and ability could go far. He had served with distinction; working his way up through the ranks he had now been rewarded with a promotion to colonel. But on receiving a letter from home, he had felt the sands of his good fortune were running out.
One of his cousins had been killed in the bloody shambles of the battle at Waterloo and another of his cousins, the heir to the Montague dukedom, had been listed as missing somewhere in Spain. Bound by the ties of present and future relationships to the house of Montague, Ross had returned to England at a time when his presence was likely to be of great comfort to his relatives there.
But India held his heart and imagination and he had little time for anything else—and certainly not marriage. He hadn’t wanted a wife before he’d joined the army. Nothing had changed.
‘How old are you?’ he inquired abruptly.
The unexpectedness of the question appeared to take Lisette by surprise, and she answered in unconscious obedience to the authority in his voice. ‘Twenty,’ she replied, having reached that age as the ship sailed round the Cape of Africa.
He raised an intrigued eyebrow, choosing to ignore her awkward response. ‘And you have a place.’
Her mouth quivered, but then she looked away, rather awkwardly. She felt her heart tighten. ‘Not beyond three weeks. Now my employer’s husband has retired from the Company he is to move his family to Brighton where they have a full complement of staff already. I have been told I must seek another situation.’
As she stood there she looked vulnerable for the first time. Her air of impregnable self-sufficiency vanished and Ross saw her troubled and rather desperate. ‘You have references?’
‘Oh, yes—well, just the one. I can only hope it will secure me another position—even that of a scullery maid would be better than nothing at all.’
‘Even though it would be a blow to your pride?’
‘I’m truly not proud,’ she said with a bewitching smile. ‘I’m wilful, I suppose. Stubborn too. And headstrong. But not, I think, proud.’
At that moment appeared Lottie Arbuthnot, her employer’s daughter, treading with care over obstacles and holding her skirts to her sides so as not to mark them on the many barrels and casks piled up on the dock. On reaching Lisette she pricked her with her needle-like eyes.
‘Lisette! Here you are. Mama is becoming quite vexed. How long you have been in securing a carriage.’
Ross turned and looked at her with an apologetic gesture. ‘The fault is all mine—or perhaps I should say it was my horse who waylaid her. Having been released from the confines of his quarters on board, he ran amok when he reached the dock. Had Miss Napier not been so adept at handling horses there is no telling what damage he might have done.’
Staring up at the handsome colonel, Lottie disregarded his comment about Lisette and with a simpering smile fluttered her eyelashes in what Lisette consider to be an appallingly fast manner. ‘Then you are forgiven, sir. I am Miss Lottie Arbuthnot. Miss Napier is servant to my ma and me.’
‘So I understand,’ Ross replied with a wry smile, beginning to feel pity for Miss Napier.
Lottie’s arrival rudely shook Lisette out of the trance that seemed to have taken over her. It wasn’t until that moment that she realised she had lost all sense of propriety. Colonel Montague must think her forward and impertinent. Embarrassment swept over her, washing her face in colour. Lottie was a moody, spiteful girl who had made her life extremely difficult on board ship as she had tried to do her best for both her and Mrs Arbuthnot, to whom she owed much gratitude.
Mrs Arbuthnot had taught her the refinements of being a lady’s maid. She wore a smart black or dark grey dress and starched muslin apron and cap and could dip a curtsey as gracefully as a debutante. But all through the voyage she had been at the mercy of Lottie’s every whim. It must be Lisette who helped her dress, Lisette who brought her tea. Oh, that she would never have to see the girl again!
‘Lisette.’ Lottie spoke peevishly. ‘See, your face is quite red. Are you unwell?’
‘No, I—I think it must be the heat,’ she stammered. ‘Excuse me. I’ll go in search of a conveyance.’
‘Allow me,’ Ross said, handing the horse to Blackstock, who appeared at that moment. In no time at all he had secured a conveyance to take Miss Napier and the Arbuthnot family to Chelsea.
As Lottie continued to prattle on, Lisette saw Colonel Montague was watching her steadily, and she sensed the unbidden, unspoken communication between them. He knows what I’m thinking, she thought. It may be all imagination but she knew he was as bored and irritated by Lottie as she was. She felt instantly ashamed, knowing that Lottie could not help being the person she was.
Feeling in her pocket for some sweets, she handed them to him.
He smiled at her. ‘Are these for me or the horse?’
A gentle flush mantled her cheeks. ‘For Bengal, of course. If he should prove difficult you might be glad of them.’
Lowering her head she bade Colonel Montague a polite goodbye and walked back to the ship, a step behind