Page 6 of The Butler and the Bluestocking
Chapter Four
Now that he had a momentto study his assailant, Mal could not believe his eyes. Her tilted green eyes, ruby lips, and dark auburn tresses held a luster he’d always associated with the ancient Egyptian queens—known as pharaohs in the native literature of the period. Shakespeare had made Cleopatra famous. However, Mal had always preferred the less well known but more successful Nefertiti. His dazzling assailant put him forcibly in mind of the few drawings he’d seen of that powerful Egyptian Queen. He could well imagine the statuesque woman of the pistol leading armies and conquering nations in the name of Egypt. Yes, she was a living exemplar of Egypt’s ancient female rulers, or perhaps even the most royal of Egyptian goddesses, Hathor who reigned over sky, sun, sexuality, motherhood, music, dance, foreign lands and goods in addition to the afterlife and was herself one of the many forms of the Eye of Ra.
“Please, sir, I’ve not got all day. Who are you and why are you in this house?” Nefertiti had commanded and so it would be.
“Kentigern. Mr. Malcom Kentigern, my lady.” He followed the housekeeper’s lead in addressing his goddess, but wondered precisely what type of lady was this woman?
“I was about to say that I, uh I am the butler.” Mal kept his gaze locked with that of his Nefertiti. He had no idea if he could imitate a butler or not. He knew only one thing. He had to remain close to the auburn-haired goddess who had woken him at pistol point.
The goddess snorted. “Preposterous. What sort of butler drinks himself into a stupor with his employer’s whisky, in that employer’s study, and permits himself to stink like onions, and wear ink-stained cuffs? Besides, the owner of this house specifically informed us that all the servants had been let go.
His neck heated. “Yes, ah, uhm, ah-er, I’m—ah—not a very experienced butler and could not find another position. Rose, Mrs. St. Aubyn, is such a kind employer, I knew she would not mind if I sheltered here until I could find work, even as an under-butler or valet. I’m not a proud man.” Involuntarily his smile broadened as he uttered that bouncer.
Clan Marr had a reputation as one of the most stiff-rumped, pride-bound families in all of Britain and probably a good part of the rest of the world thanks to his brother—the current Earl of Strathnaver—and their father and grandfather. Whether Mal liked it or not, some of that pride rubbed off on him. Besides he was an expert in his own field of study and knew his pride in that to be justified.
“I doubt my cousin is kind enough to permit a servant—and one several years her junior—to call her by her first name,” stated his Nefertiti.
“Nor would she tolerate having anyone, servant or not, break into her house,” announced the poker-wielding housekeeper. Her task with the watchmen completed, she took a stance beside his goddess’s chair, poker still in hand. Could Nefertiti have had a fiercer body guard? “I came into the house from the back where the glass of the door into the garden has been shattered. There was blood on one of the shards. You’d best check his arms for injuries, my lady.”
His bellicose goddess leaned forward. “Roll up the sleeve on your left arm, Mr. Kentigern and hold that arm out where I can see it.
Since the bloodstain on his sleeve made it obvious, he did not bother to resist. Dark red crusted the ragged gash just below his inner elbow making the injury look much worse than it truly was.
“Oh dear,” murmured Nefertiti, “Mrs. Crewe, get clean water and the unguents Josefina gave you to bring with us. Then find material and make bandages.”
The servant left. The lady rushed forward and practically shoved him into a chair as she issued orders and knelt at his side. Her hand went to his brow. “Thank the good Lord you’ve no fever. Here, drink this. ‘It will dull the pain.”
His half full glass of whisky appeared before his face held in an elegant hand, long fingers, short nails and dark stains at the wrist—just where cuffs would normally be attached. Fascinating. Did she have scholarly pretentions or was she a follower of that Wollstonecraft woman and in her spare time penned treatises on the horrors of marriage? He longed to know more about her. She busied herself making a pad of his waistcoat and placing it under his wounded forearm.
He took the glass and sipped. “I’m not in any pain.”
She snatched the glass back. “You will be,” she said as she poured whisky over the wound.
He howled, more outraged at the lack of warning than the fierce stinging of the alcohol on his open flesh. “You’ve ruined a perfectly good waistcoat and wasted some of Strathnaver’s finest whisky. It’s well over one hundred years old.”
“I sacrificed your waistcoat to preserve Cousin Rose’s chair. As for the whisky, Josefina swears by its efficacy in preventing infection. I’ve personally witnessed the effects and concur unequivocally.”
“Who the devil is Josefina, and why would anyone consider her medical opinion worthy of note?”
All the while she’d been speaking, she’d cleaned his wound.
“Here Lady Bess,” said Mrs. Crewe, who had returned with arms full. “Use this salve.”
So, Bess was his goddess’s name. Was it short for Elizabeth perhaps, or some other more exotic name? He hoped not. Practical and no-nonsense, Bess suited her.
She slathered the unguent over and around his wound, bound the arm with bandages and tied off the cloth then stood. “There, you must present yourself to me tomorrow morning so that I might check the wound and change the dressing.”
“That really isn’t necessary.” He stared up into those deep green eyes. Had she believed his claim to be a butler? Would he be here tomorrow morning to so present himself? He devoutly hoped so. But would staying be wise?
