Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,74
couldn’t spoil this rare opportunity to learn more about her husband. “Please tell me about Drake’s mother. And his father.”
Halting on the next landing, the servant shot her a one-eyed scowl. The kindness fled from his grizzled face so that he looked dour and dismal. “’Tisn’t fer me to say. Ye should ask yer questions of yer husband.”
MacAllister opened the door and stalked out. Her lips pursed, Alicia followed him into a broad passageway decorated in muted greens with a tasteful touch of gilding on the arched ceiling. What had she said to make him turn uncommunicative? Was it the mention of Drake’s father?
Perhaps she should not have been so bold. Drake had, after all, been born out of wedlock. He might not even know who had sired him.
Sympathy stirred in her, but she pushed away the sentiment. A lack of paternal guidance did not excuse his faults. He was a conscienceless exploiter. And she would not allow him to get past her guard ever again.
Yet those words sounded hollow to her. She knew he had only to touch her, and all of her good sense vanished.…
At the end of the corridor, the butler held open a door, and she stepped into a vast kitchen filled with delicious smells. Great pillars stretched to the high ceiling, and huge, hanging oil lamps illuminated the cooking areas. The room was a beehive of orderly activity, with a white-coated chef directing an army of helpers who sliced and chopped and kneaded. A stoop-shouldered man drew trays of fragrant loaves out of a tall bake oven. In the center of the kitchen, a table held many silver platters with gleaming domed lids.
Alicia turned to MacAllister. “Is my brother here?”
“Nay, but there’s time aplenty to see the earl. Right now, ye need a wee cuppy.”
A cuppy?
Mystified, she followed him through another doorway and into a chamber dominated by a long table. At the far end, a small group of servants sat laughing and talking, eating their supper. One fell silent, then another and another, as all eyes turned to Alicia.
“Here be Mrs. Wilder, sister to Lord Brockway,” Fergus MacAllister said ominously. “Come make yer bows to the lady.”
The servants quickly gathered their plates. Cutlery clattered. Chair legs scraped the flagstone floor. As a mobcapped maid stood up, Alicia stared at an unmistakable mound beneath the girl’s white apron. Drake employed a pregnant servant?
“Please stay,” Alicia said quickly. “I don’t mean to interrupt your meal.”
Silence reigned for a moment. Five pairs of eyes looked from her to MacAllister and back again.
“We are finished, my lady,” intoned a man at the head of the table. “So it is no imposition.”
Stout and balding, he alone remained seated. With an abrupt push against the table, he moved backward—or rather, rolled backward. His chair had wheels.
Wide-eyed, she watched him advance the chair, capably turning the large wheels with his hands. He stopped in front of her, pressed his hand to his plain coat, and inclined his head in a bow. “The name’s Lazarus Cheever,” he said, enunciating each word. “’Tis a pleasure to meet the lady who tamed our Wilder.”
“Oh … thank you. Though I fear he is hardly tamed yet.”
A nervous giggle escaped the two maidservants standing behind him. Alicia hid her chagrin. It wasn’t like her to speak so familiarly to strangers. The encounter with Drake must have addled her senses.
MacAllister cleared his throat. “Cheever tallies the accounts here,” he grunted. “Oftimes he still fancies himself a thespian.”
“You were once an actor?” Alicia asked Cheever.
“As true and dedicated a performer as ever trod the boards. Until one fateful night when a vigorous sword fight sent me tumbling off the stage.” He jabbed an imaginary blade into the air, then dropped his hand to his lap. “Alas, I lost not only the use of my legs, but my livelihood as well. No one would hire a cripple. That is, no one but the esteemed Drake Wilder.”
“God bless Mr. Wilder,” the pregnant maidservant whispered fervently.
“Go on,” MacAllister prompted her, “tell m’lady yer tale.”
She bobbed an awkward curtsy to Alicia. “Wot ’appened is, Mr. Wilder were the only bloke who’d gi’ me a place after me master used me ill, then tossed me out on the street.”
A freckle-faced footman took her hand. “Y-y-you’re safe now,” he stammered. “W-w-with us.” When she smiled shyly at him, he ducked his head, his cheeks beet-red.
The two giggling maids were orphans, Alicia learned, sisters who had been rescued from a hard life in the workhouse.