Page 24 of Some Like It Wild
But her mother was gone, Pamela reminded herself grimly, the curtain brought down on her life by an unseen hand before the final act was done. She lifted her chin, giving one of the footmen a regal look before handing him her parasol and gloves.
The footman from the drive nervously eyed the woolen folds of the plaid draped over Connor’s shoulder. “May I take your…um…blanket, sir?”
“I believe I’ll keep it,” Connor replied. “If the house is as chilly as your master’s hospitality, I might have need of it.”
Both Sophie and Brodie were gaping at the entrance hall in openmouthed astonishment. Pamela could almost see Brodie tallying up the value of the brass sconces and silver candlesticks in his head.
“Your manservant and maid are welcome to wait in the servants’ hall,” the other footman offered with a derisive sniff. “I doubt you’ll be very long.”
Sophie shot her a sulky glance, looking less than subservient. It had been Pamela’s idea to hide her sister’s curves beneath a plain white apron and tuck her glossy curls under a lace-trimmed mobcap. Being a bad actress was synonymous with being a wretched liar, and masquerading as a servant gave Sophie an excuse not to open her pretty little mouth and give them all away. Pamela had never been so grateful that they looked nothing like sisters.
“I’d prefer to keep my maid with me,” Pamela informed the footman.
“And my man with me,” Connor said in a tone that brooked no argument.
Brodie bared his gold tooth in a ferocious grin. Both footmen shuddered.
They followed the servants down a long corridor paneled in rich cherry wainscoting. Pamela was keenly aware of Connor’s presence at her back. She’d always felt as sturdy as a moor pony next to the sylph-like Sophie, but Connor had a way of making her feel as delicate as a dove.
She had hoped they’d be received in some gloomy drawing room where the low light might work to their advantage. But the footmen escorted them to a sunny solarium with tall French windows lining two walls and a flourishing jungle of plants clustered in the corners. The wainscoting on the remaining two walls had been trimmed in gold leaf and painted a cheery cream.
“Miss Pamela Darby and…party,” one of the footman announced, his contemptuous tone making his feelings about their motley little crew abundantly clear.
Before Pamela’s eyes could fully readjust to the bright light, both he and his companion went scurrying off, plainly relieved to make their escape.
“Darby, eh? A rather common name for such a bold and reckless girl, is it not?”
Those acid tones ate right through Pamela’s confidence, making her feel as if they’d already been found out. As if a battalion of constables was waiting to spring out at them from behind the jungle of plants and whisk them all off to Newgate in a barred wagon.
“Do come in, Miss Darby. Since I have no intention of allowing you to ruin my afternoon tea, you and yourpartymight as well join me.”
Blinking against the glare, Pamela moved toward the sound of that raspy voice, drawn like a fly into the glistening strands of a spider’s web.
Their host sat against the far wall in a pool of sunshine. At first she thought he might actually be perched on a throne, but another blink revealed it to be some sort of wheeled chair fashioned of wood and iron. Despite the cozy warmth of the room, he wore a shawl draped over his shoulders and a burgundy lap rug tucked around his legs. His hair was long and lank—pale brown with a startling shock of silver at each temple. His hollow eyes and gaunt cheeks betrayed the ravages of both illness and time, but his appearance might not have been so shocking were it not for the portrait hanging just behind his head.
A portrait of a young man in the very prime of life. Dressed in riding clothes, he stood beneath the leafy canopy of an elm tree with one foot on a rock and a rifle cradled in the crook of his arm. An adoring pack of hunting spaniels danced around his legs. He was gazing at the artist with a regal arrogance that might have been intolerable had it not been tempered by the teasing quirk of his lips and the devilish sparkle in his hazel eyes.
Their host glanced over his shoulder, following the direction of Pamela’s gaze. “Handsome devil, wasn’t I? And don’t think I didn’t know it, either. Very few women could resist my charms.”
Pamela would have loved to oppose his point, but when gazing at the man in that portrait it was easy to see how a woman could have fallen madly in love with him…and despised him with equal fervor for breaking her heart. Even though Connor wasn’t truly his son, she feared it was a quality they had in common.
She dragged her gaze away from the portrait to find its subject surveying her from beneath the mocking wing of one silvery eyebrow as he lifted a delicate china cup to his lips. There was something about his bright-eyed candor that invited her own.
Taking a deep breath and a dangerous chance, she said, “It’s an impressive piece but rather forlorn, don’t you think? It would be far more striking if paired with a similar portrait of your duchess.”
The duke choked on his tea.
Even in his diminished state, the duke’s presence was so commanding Pamela didn’t notice the woman seated in the brocade wing chair to his right until she leaped up and began to pound on his bony back. Hers was the sort of beauty that had bloomed early and faded too fast, leaving the bright gold of her upswept hair tarnished and the skin of her throat as fragile as crepe.
She glared at Pamela, her dark blue eyes snapping with indignation. “I realize my brother’s manners may have grown a bit rusty since his confinement, but that doesn’t give you the right to come in here and upset him with such nonsense. We do not speak ofthatwoman inthishouse.”
The duke waved his sister away with an irritable flick of his hand, his eyes still watering as he coughed violently into a linen serviette. Pamela felt a pang of conscience when she saw the bright flecks of blood staining the pristine linen.
“Don’t mind Astrid,” he rasped out, dabbing at his bottom lip with the cloth. “My sister is just biding her time, waiting for me to die so she can claim my inheritance for that worthless whelp of hers.”
As the duke’s sister retreated to her chair, still eyeing Pamela with open enmity, Pamela felt her heart flutter with a dangerous excitement. It was all she could do not to shoot Connor a triumphant glance.
The duke glowered at her from beneath his silver brows. “If you must know, you cheeky chit, there are no portraits of my duchess. I had them all removed years ago. Now sit…sit!” He waved a hand at the settee and chairs grouped in front of his makeshift throne, dismissing her companions with a contemptuous look. “No point in wasting your breath on introductions. I find them tiresome and unnecessary since I already know everyone I care to know and many I wish I’d never met.”
