Page 69 of Doxy for the Ton
“Perhaps, Wheeler, you’d better bring the entire bottle for my guest, rather than just one glass,” Mimi said.
The butler’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Very good, ma’am—as you wish.” He gestured toward a door at the rear of the hallway. “This way, if you please, Your Grace.”
Bloody hell—why did the man act toward Alexander as ifhe’dcommitted the transgression rather than her? And why must he be treated as a guest to be tolerated—in the house that he paid for?
But rather than voice his disgust, Alexander followed the man toward the rear of the house and into a room furnished in warm autumnal colors, rich reds and browns. Wheeler pulled a cord beside the fireplace, and shortly after the young footman appeared.
“Charles, the mistress has a guest. Be so good as to light the fire.”
The young man glanced at Alexander. “Wh-while he’s in the room, Mr. Wheeler?”
“That can’t be helped,” the butler replied. “Get on with it.”
The footman approached the fireplace, where he plucked a box from the mantelshelf and struck it to release a spark. A small flame burst into life, and he held the box at the base of the fire. Shortly after, flickers of orange glowed in the fireplace, picking out the shapes of the logs.
Like witchcraft.
Alexander hadn’t seen anyone light a fire before. Most servants did their best to avoid being seen by their masters, understanding that it was offensive to the eyes of those above stairs to be compelled to look upon those who resided below.
But one disadvantage of such a custom was that Alexander knew little about how to survive. His cook prepared his meals—served by footmen, lest he be offended by the sight of the kitchen staff. His valet dressed and undressed him, and the invisible housemaids and lower servants ensured that his home was kept free of dust and the fires were always crackling brightly in any room he stepped into.
As the footman replaced the box on the mantelshelf, Mimi entered the room. Gone was the shabby cloak and the plain garb of a servant. She had changed into one of her day gowns—a light-blue muslin trimmed with lace.
Did she perhaps intend to tempt him?
The footman glanced from her, to Alexander, then he retreated.
“Forgive me ma’am, for lighting the fire in front of your guest…”
“Thank you, Charles,” she said. “That was most kind of you after all the effort you’d gone to lay the fire this morning.” She glanced at the clock over the mantelshelf. “It’s getting late. You can retire if Mr. Wheeler has nothing else for you to do.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” The boy bowed and retreated, almost colliding with the butler, who brandished a tray with a decanter and a single glass.
“Ah, Wheeler, thank you,” she said, gesturing toward a table. “Please set it there.”
“Charles will be back with your tea, ma’am,” the butler said, then he poured a measure of brandy into the glass and handed it to Alexander before exiting the room, ushering the footman in front of him.
Mimi approached the fireplace, plucked a poker from a rack beside the grate, and thrust it into the fire. Then she crouched beside it and blew across the logs. The orange glow pulsed with each breath, and flames crackled over the logs. Then she set the poker aside and took a seat.
Clutching his glass, Alexander sat. Then he took a mouthful of brandy.
“You’ll not join me in a brandy?” he asked.
“I prefer a clear head.”
“Yes,” he said, bitterly. “I suspect that’s for the best, given your profession.”
If he’d upset her, she gave no sign. Instead, she gave a slight smile. After Charles returned with a tray of tea things, she poured a cup and resumed her seat, stirring her tea, the rhythmic clink of the spoon against the cup in unison with the ticking of the clock.
Alexander gestured toward the fireplace. “I hadn’t realized it was so easy to light a fire.”
She rolled her eyes. “Lighting the fire may be straightforward. The skill is in laying it—in setting out the coal and logs such that the flame has every chance of life, without being smothered. I take it you’ve neither laid, nor lit, a fire, Your Grace?”
“Of course not.”
“Yes,of course not, Your Grace.”
She continued to stir her tea, the chink of metal against porcelain beginning to needle him.
