Lady of Fortune Read online

  The high point of the journey was Miranda’s round-eyed fascination with a good-natured performing bear so plump it could hardly stand on its hind feet to dance. After the dance, its master said, “Now, go into the crowd, Caesar, and find the prettiest lady.”

  The bear obediently waddled into the crowd, straight to Christa. Alex was impressed that she stood her ground as the huge animal bore down on her, though she moved protectively in front of the child. Caesar was as friendly as the average spaniel, and soon both of the females were petting him and scratching his ears.

  Alex suspected that the beast was trained to go to the woman who had the most affluent escort, but he still tossed a coin to the bear leader. “Your bear has good judgment,” he said with a laugh.

  “The best, my lord, the best,” the man said complacently as he pocketed the crown.

  Miranda had to be persuaded that Kingsley House had no place for a bear before the journey continued. Stopping at a cook shop, Alex bought all three of them hot meat pies that they could munch while moving, followed by fresh hot gingerbread in alphabet letters. Miranda solemnly picked out an M, a C, and a K from the vendor’s tray, then handed the sweet cakes to the appropriate adults.

  They were almost back to Kingsley House when they passed a flower seller, and Alex impulsively bought two bunches of violets, presenting them with a flourish to each of the ladies. With that gesture he won Miranda’s allegiance for life. Christa’s silver-gray eyes flew up to meet his in momentary alarm, but what she saw in his face must have reassured her. With a delicious gamin smile she said, “Merci,” and tucked the nosegay into her bodice.

  Alex was sorry when they finally reached St. James’s Square; Christa was exactly the sort of girl a sailor hopes to meet in a strange port: pretty, friendly, and uninhibited. But since she might become an employee, he curbed his improper thoughts. He hoped Annabelle liked her—the girl would be a pleasant addition to the household. Unfortunately, that would also place her completely off limits to him, more’s the pity.

  Kingsley House was smaller than magnificent Norfolk House on the other side of the square, but it was still splendid by any reasonable standard. Both Miranda and Christa faltered a bit as they gazed up at the building, their handclasp tightening. The brief enchanted hour of freedom was gone; what kind of life waited inside?

  The older man who opened the door appeared far more aristocratic than his easygoing employer. Alex handed over his hat and said, “I have found some people for the staff. May I present Miss Miranda … I’m sorry, I don’t know your last name.”

  The child blushed, struck once more with shyness in the high-ceilinged entry hall.

  Christa intervened. “Her name is Miranda Hampstead, named for the village where she was found. She once told me she aspired to become a kitchen maid, so she might eventually learn to cook. Is that not so, Miranda?” The girl nodded vigorously.

  “You heard the young lady, Morrison. Have we a situation for a kitchen maid?”

  The bemused butler replied cautiously, “Well, I believe that a vegetable maid will be needed, but she must be approved by Monsieur Sabine, the new French chef.” There was a charged silence; cooks were notoriously temperamental even when they weren’t French.

  Alex said, “Give Monsieur my compliments on his superb dinner of last night, and tell him Miss Hampstead is commended to him by one of his countrywomen, Mademoiselle Christine Bohnet.”

  Morrison looked unconvinced, but murmured that they could certainly use more housemaids should Miranda prove unacceptable in the kitchen. The butler was becoming used to his new master’s odd starts; if he had decided to pick up new servants in the streets, what was a poor butler to do? He knew the boy was sound, in spite of his parents. Though lions couldn’t have drawn the admission from him, Morrison felt thirty years younger since Lord Kingsley had returned and opened the house.

  As Miranda trailed trustingly off behind the butler, Alex turned to Christa and said, “Shall we find my sister Annabelle?” Without waiting for a reply, he started up the sweeping Y-shaped staircase. At this hour of the day Annabelle was almost certainly in her sitting room sketching or writing letters. Sure enough, when he knocked at her door a soft voice said, “Please come in.”

  Alex was beginning to question the wisdom of bringing his sister an abigail that he had picked up like a stray kitten, so his voice was particularly breezy when he said, “Good afternoon, Belle. I have found an abigail for your consideration. This is Mademoiselle Christine Bohnet. She is French and comes very highly recommended.” He mentally qualified the statement: if nothing else, the girl was skilled at defending her virtue.

  As Christa made a respectful curtsy, the two young women examined each other with curiosity and some misgivings. Miss Kingsley wore an unflattering black dress, but the slim figure, lovely face, and wonderful golden blond hair showed that she would be a mistress worthy of an abigail’s best efforts. However, it was the younger girl’s apologetic expression that made Christa instinctively wish to help her. Her rescuer’s sister looked as if she needed a friend and ally as well as a skilled abigail, and Christa would be happy to fill those needs. Tentatively she said, “It would be a pleasure to work for someone as lovely as Miss Kingsley.”

  Annabelle was a bit disconcerted by the bright-eyed creature her brother had brought home. The French girl had a contagious, elfin charm unlike any abigail Annabelle had ever seen, and she seemed very young. Her curly black hair was cut short in a style that might be au courant in Paris but which was unusual in London. Still, the girl’s artless admiration was disarming, and she had none of the haughtiness common among the better lady’s maids. Smiling shyly, Annabelle said, “Do you really think you could give me some town bronze? I fear I am sadly lacking.”

  Christa stepped forward and said earnestly, “Miss Kingsley, you could not fail to make a maid’s efforts look good. My former employer …” She stopped and gave a delicate shudder, then began to circle Annabelle with a measuring eye.

  “The new styles will suit you to perfection. And when you emerge from mourning … you will carry all before you.” Casting her eyes heavenward, she clasped her heart dramatically. “Men will perish for love of you, and day and night they will beseech your brother for your hand. It will be a tour de force!”

  Both Kingsleys burst into laughter at the picture. Annabelle felt the first stirrings of excitement. She knew that she was too tall, too thin, too pale, for beauty; had her mother not told her so? Nor had she taken Alex’s compliments seriously—after all, he was her brother and doubtless wanted her off his hands. But this energetic young Frenchwoman seemed sincere in her compliments; perhaps she could really make Annabelle presentable, and such warmth and good nature would be delightful to have around.

  “I should be very happy to engage you, if you would truly like the position,” Annabelle said. “Let me show you your room.” She stood and crossed to a door in the back of the room.

  Relieved that the two young women seemed to have taken to one another, Alex said heartily, “I’ll just put Christa’s bag there and be on my way.”

  They hardly noticed when he left.

  “Christa?” Annabelle said musingly.

  Though it was usual to call a lady’s maid by her last name, she found herself asking, “That is very pretty. May I call you that instead of Bohnet? Somehow that seems … too formal for you.”

  “I would like it very much,” Christa said. She halted on the threshold of the small maid’s room and said, “Oh, how lovely!”

  It was a very attractive chamber. The furnishings were not new but were well-made and looked mellow rather than obviously worn. Not only was there a pretty blue-patterned carpet on the floor, but the pitcher and basin on the washstand matched each other, and a striking watercolor of a ship at sea hung on the wall. A door in the back of the room led to the servants’ passages. It was not uncommon for a lady’s maid to have a room in her mistress’s suite, and it meant that Christa could doze in comfort when Ann
abelle was out late, yet still be available to undress her mistress when she returned.

  She gave Annabelle a shining look. “It makes me very happy to be here. I hope you will be happy too.”

  Annabelle smiled. It was an incongruous thought for an aristocrat hiring a maid, but she had the sudden feeling that they might become friends.

  The servants’ hall at Kingsley House was vastly different from the Pomfrets’. The house was still understaffed, so everyone ate gathered around one large table, with Mr. Morrison, the butler, presiding at one end and his wife at the other. Mary Morrison had been the head housemaid when she married her husband, but had to give up her job because the late Lady Serena did not approve of having couples in her employ. When the butler suggested his wife as the new housekeeper, the new Lord Kingsley had been happy to give his permission.

  Together the Morrisons ruled over their domain like firm but affectionate grandparents. While chairs were assigned by rank and the seniors led the conversation, all of the servants were entitled to speak. To her delight, Miranda was no longer the least important person in the household; as the vegetable maid she ranked above the scullery maid, another foundling like herself, named Daisy. Each of the two girls was pleased to find someone her own size, and a fast friendship was in the making.

  After a comfortable evening meal, Miranda described her interview to Christa. The rotund Monsieur Sabine had inspected her with scowling intensity, muttering deeply in French and periodically clapping a red hand to his brow in despair. After some minutes of such carryings-on, he had barked, “Zee green beans—wash them!” before stalking off. Miranda had hopped to the task willingly; oddly, she found the Monsieur endearing rather than frightening, and seemed to understand him even when he was raving in French. She had never been happier in her life.

  Christa did not meet the Monsieur (as he preferred to be called) until later in the evening. Though a chair was kept for him at the communal table, he chose to eat alone after the upstairs meal was done. Miranda served him a cold collation in his private basement sitting room while he relaxed and helped himself to a few glasses of the household’s best wine. The Monsieur had been with the Kingsleys less than a week, but he believed that it was important to train employers quickly and firmly. Since his sauces were superb, his pastry nearly weightless, and his touch with a joint unexcelled, awed employers had always been desperate to grant him whatever he desired. As Master Jonathan had said in astonishment the night before, even his vegetables were good.

  On this night, the Monsieur wished to speak with his countrywoman. Morrison himself gravely informed Christa of the audience, though it was possible that a twinkle lurked in his old eyes. As she entered the cook’s sitting room, Christa thought irrepressibly that there had been less sense of ceremony in meeting poor Louis XVI in the days before the revolution. Admittedly, the king had had more courtiers, but the Monsieur had much more presence!

  The servants sitting around the hearth listened with unabashed interest. Regrettably, the conversation was entirely in French, but the flavor was unmistakable. It began with the Monsieur gracious but haughty, progressed through a lively dialogue of apparent equals, and ended when he escorted Christa to the servants’ sitting room, reverently kissing her hand before closing the door behind her.

  Christa choked back a giggle at the sight of all the curious eyes regarding her. “Is there any more of the coffee, Mrs. Morrison? Oh, no, Miranda, I shall get it myself.”

  As she sat in the circle before the hearth, Mrs. Morrison finally asked, “What on earth did you say to him, Christa?” Even downstairs, where protocol was more rigid than among the Quality, “Christa” she was and would remain.

  Christa sipped her coffee and gave a sigh of pleasure; French standards had prevailed in the brew. “Why, we just talked. The Monsieur told me of some of the houses he has cooked in. Really, a most impressive list. How did you manage to persuade him to come here?”

  Mr. Morrison’s eye definitely twinkled. “He informed us that the Prince of Wales wanted him, but that the House of Hanover is too new for his taste.”

  Christa choked on her coffee while the chief footman, Albert, helpfully patted her on the back.

  “He’s a rare Bedlamite, the Monsieur,” Morrison said as she succumbed to a fit of giggles. “But so long as he cooks like an angel and doesn’t put one of those great knives of his through anyone, we’re happy to have him.”

  Still chuckling, Christa looked around the ring of faces. Not one of them watched her with jealousy, anger, or resentment. She had come a long, long way today. Finishing her coffee, she gave them all a goodnight smile and bid them sleep well.

  The footman Albert might not have been as tall as some of his more expensive Mayfair colleagues, but he was not lacking in temerity. The next morning he asked the Monsieur about mademoiselle’s background and almost lost an ear to one of the chef’s dramatic gestures.

  “It is a privilege to have that one in this house!” the Monsieur intoned, with a flourish of his onion chopper.

  “Yes, it is,” Albert agreed. “But where did she come from?”

  Another sweep of the knife, this time cutting loose two bulbs of a garlic rope that hung from the ceiling. “I know what I know,” the Monsieur said mysteriously. “But my lips, they are sealed. Begone!”

  Being no fool, Albert went.

  Chapter Seven

  The Honorable Jonathan Kingsley felt a slight unease as he presented himself in Lord Kingsley’s study. In his experience, a chat with the authorities was apt to prove uncomfortable. Alex seemed like a great gun and his young brother had hero-worshipped him all his life—nonetheless, Alex’s casual invitation to stop by after breakfast was still a summons.

  Alex looked up, with an expression of relief, from an account book he was studying. “Good timing, Jon. The family lawyers are generating documents for my inspection faster than I can read them. Much more of this and I’ll feel that I’m still on shipboard.”

  Jonathan blinked in surprise. “You mean, a captain does accounts?”

  His brother laughed. “It’s not all standing on the quarterdeck and waving a cutlass, if that is what you mean. An officer has to do navigational mathematics, write reports, maintain the log, keep accounts of supplies and pay, and half a hundred other things. For every half-hour of action, there are months of routine work.”

  Jonathan’s face reflected his surprise at this novel thought as he sat down opposite his brother. Alex leaned back in his chair, the quill pen bridged between his fingers. Now that the first flush of enthusiastic reunion was behind them, it was time to start building a real relationship with his brother. It was odd to see someone who looked so much like himself at the same age, but who had a stranger’s mind behind the familiar face. Still, while Alex’s experience with brothers was limited, he had commanded a good few midshipmen in the same age group.

  His brother flushed slightly under the considering gaze. “Have … have I done something wrong?” he said uneasily.

  Alex raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Not that I know of. Unless you have some interesting confessions to make?”

  Jonathan started to relax. “Nothing lately,” he said cautiously.

  Alex tossed the quill onto the desk. “As long as you restrict your transgressions to the kinds of youthful folly I committed, it is going to undercut my ability to give pious lectures. By the way, I wrote to the headmaster at Eton to tell him how to get the cow down, in case they haven’t already puzzled it out.”

  “That’s good.” Jonathan chuckled. “I had been rather worried on the cow’s behalf.”

  “Actually,” Alex said after a brief silence, “I wanted to talk to you about your future.” Jon’s face promptly shuttered up; Alex noted the fact before continuing, “Do you have any idea what you might like to prepare for?”

  “You mean, you’re asking me? What I want to do?” Jonathan was so surprised that his voice squeaked. It was one of the unfortunate side effects of being fifteen. />
  “Well, whom else would I ask?” Alex asked reasonably.

  “No one ever consulted me before. Father wanted me trained for the Church.”

  “The Church?” Alex asked disbelievingly. He barely knew his brother, but even so, the vicarage seemed a wildly unsuitable choice. He thought for a moment, then asked, “Is that why you’ve done so badly in school? So you would be thought unworthy for the contemplative life?”

  Jonathan had the look of a fox caught in the hen coop. “You figured that out quickly,” he muttered with a mixture of respect and sulkiness.

  “Probably because I would have done the same if some chaw-bacon had thought to make a priest of me,” Alex admitted. “What would you like to do?” he asked again.

  A look of hope dawned on the boy’s face. “I want to go into the Army,” Jonathan blurted. “It’s not just a passing fancy, I’ve always wanted that. It is all I have ever wanted!”

  “It seems a reasonable ambition, but I’d like to see you finish school first.”

  “You mean, you really would buy me a commission?” Jonathan seemed to have trouble absorbing the news.

  “I’ll buy you a commission in any regiment you like, and as many promotions after that as you deserve. Is the idea so surprising? After all, it is my responsibility to see you established.”

  Jonathan’s face twisted as he desperately tried to keep control. Finally he said unsteadily, “I’ve never once had what I asked for. I …” He stopped, unable to continue.

  Alex regarded him narrowly. Jonathan’s confidence was apparently as nonexistent as Annabelle’s, and Alex felt his own guilt twisting inside. When he was fifteen, he had been a year at sea and was already his own man. He thought it was not too late for his brother, and could only hope that the same was true for his sister.

  “As I said, I want you to finish at Eton. The Army has at least as much paperwork as the Navy, and you’ll be a better officer for knowing how to write and figure and think. I wouldn’t dream of asking you to refrain from pranks, but I expect you to avoid those that will get you expelled. Is that understood?”