Page 6 of The Counterfeit Scoundrel
Ah, he was worried about the young woman’s reputation in light of his employer’s. There were times when his willingness to help a woman escape her tyrannical husband’s clutches did place him in a bad light. As his servants were sometimes called upon to serve as witnesses, he let them believe the worst of him so they could tell the truth as they saw it, rather than have them risk perjury. “Have you ever known me to take advantage of a female staff member?”
“No, sir, but neither have I ever heard you call for one by name.”
Bishop released a long, drawn-out sigh. He paid this man good wages, more than some earned working for the nobility, and he shouldn’t have to put up with his actions being questioned. Nevertheless, he had to admire Perkins for his protectiveness toward the staff. “The door shall remain open, and you can stand guard at the threshold to ensure I’m on my bestbehavior, if you like. My head is aching, and I thought perhaps some tea might help.”
He gave a short bow. “Very good, sir. I’ll include a dash of cook’s powder that is known to relieve one’s head pains.”
Then he was gone, and Bishop refrained from getting up and pouring himself a scotch. He didn’t know why he wanted to see the chit again. For some ungodly reason, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. It wasn’t her pretty features that occupied his thoughts, but her mannerisms. She had seemed to be taking in the tableaux of the room, to have been studying him and his guest. Every servant he’d ever known, including the few in his father’s residence, had gone about their business without appearing to care about anyone else’s. She cared. He’d been able to detect the questions fairly running through her mind.Who is the woman? Why is she here? What’s she to you?He wondered if he should advise her to never play a game at a card table.
In the distance, he heard the soft tinkling of porcelain dishes. Even as his heart gave a hard thud against his ribs, he opened his ledger, dipped his pen in the inkwell, and hoped to give the impression that he hadn’t been anxiously awaiting her arrival. To ensure she understood he recognized her as a servant and not someone to be wooed, he would not stand.
Then she was walking into the library, no Perkins in her wake, thank goodness. He didn’t need his butler to serve as his guard or her chaperone. He was fully capable of controlling his desires. It wasn’t as though he yearned for her. She’d merely aroused his curiosity. Although knowing what curiosity did to the cat, calling for her could prove to be a regrettable mistake.
“Where would you like the tea, sir?”
“On the same table you used last night, but I’ll have a cup at my desk here.”
“Very good, sir.”
She set down the tray and looked over at him. He wished he’d pulled back the draperies so the sunlight filtered over her, and he could see her more clearly, but he concentrated better when no distractions hovered at the edge of his vision. He worked diligently to avoid anything that interfered with his focus. She was a distraction he didn’t seem to mind.
“How do you take your tea, sir?”
“Prepare it however you enjoy it.”
Her eyes widened slightly, not in alarm, but in surprise before she went about doing as he’d asked. He watched as milk and sugar—dear Lord, was that five lumps?—were added to the brew in the cup. She stirred gently, and he had the impression she was humming a little ditty in her head. She seemed at peace, content, and yet an alertness about her remained as though she was constantly gauging her surroundings, was aware of everything around her, and could probably even tell him how many ledgers were spread before him, as well as their contents.
After lifting the saucer upon which balanced the teacup, she glided over and set both on the corner of his desk. “Anything else, sir?”
“Yes. Is it Margaret, Marguerite, or Margarette?” She went still, so visibly still, that he wasn’t certain she even breathed.
“I beg your pardon?”
Interesting. The words came out crisp and demanding. The courteous, obliging servant had disappeared and before him now stood a woman who didn’t like to be questioned. No, it was more than that. Wouldn’t tolerate being questioned. “I doubt very much that your mother named you Daisy. Marguerite is French for daisy, and so I’m curious as to which version of the name she gave you.”
Pressing her lips together, she studied him through narrowed eyes before giving a little nod. “Marguerite. She was French. My mother. She was the only one to call me Daisy, although recently I’ve begun using the moniker as a way to remember her.”
“Was?”
A couple of quick, jerky nods. “She died when I was younger. As did my father. I was an orphan, raised by my father’s spinster sister.”
“My condolences on your loss.”
She lifted a slender shoulder as though to shrug off his words. “It’s been twenty years now. I’ve grown accustomed to their absence.”
“We may adapt to their absence but that doesn’t mean we don’t still miss them.”
“Your tone implies you speak from experience. Are you an orphan?”
“Not completely. But I did lose my mother when I was at a tender age.” Still too young to have prevented the tragedy that befell her.
“I’m sorry.”
He didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t usually tell people about his mother because he always felt a modicum of guilt that he’d not been able to save her. In spite of his youth, he should have been able to dosomething. Before he fell down that dark hole of regret, he reached for the cup, took a sip of the concoction, and returned the china to the saucer. “Oh, God, that’s dreadful.”
Her delicate brow furrowed. “Too much sugar or milk?”
“It’s the tea. I’ve never fancied the bloody stuff.”
