Read Online Rules for Being a Mistress by Tamara Lejeune - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tamara Lejeune
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her eye. “Sizeable reward,” she read aloud. “For the return of a gentleman’s property. No questions asked.” A watch and a ring were described in detail. The ring she was certain of instantly, but she had to go down to the kitchen and take the watch out of the man’s valise to be sure. Opening it, she saw the inscription: “To my son, B. R. W. Tempus Fugit.”
She had no idea what “Tempus Fugit” meant, if anything, but that would not prevent her from claiming the sizeable reward. How sizeable? she wondered greedily. Twenty pounds would be enough to buy a Bath-chair secondhand. A hundred pounds, and she could put her sister back in that snooty English school. A hundred pounds was a sum that took her breath away.
Ajax Jackson walked in just as she was pocketing the watch and the ring.
“There’s a reward offered!” She showed him the newspaper, forgetting in her excitement that he could not read. “Sizeable, it says. I think I’ll go over and collect it. There’s his direction. Number Six, Camden Place. Right across the street. I’ll be back in a flash with the cash.”
Giddy with excitement, she put on her bonnet and ran out of the house. Pausing in the park between Upper and Lower Camden, she pulled the layers of her veil over her face. She would have to disguise her voice, too, she decided. Her Irish accent might give her away to the servants. Fortunately, her mother was English; she could do a fair imitation of a hoity-toity English lady. She went confidently up the steps, and rang the bell.
The door opened, and a portly man of middle years stood before her. He was elegantly dressed in knee breeches and buckled shoes. His head looked like an egg with a face drawn on it. She guessed he was the butler. Pickering would have been insulted. He was not a butler. He was a gentleman’s gentleman.
“Mrs. Price?” he whispered, looking both ways down the street. Distracted by his furtive manner, Cosy looked up and down the street, too, but saw no one. Apparently satisfied, the servant pulled her inside and closed the door. “In here, Mrs. Price, if you please.”
Of course, she ought to have corrected the man’s mistake at once, but his manner was so strange that curiosity got the better of her. Who was Mrs. Price? And why would a married lady be visiting Sir Benedict’s butler in the middle of the day? Or maybe she was visiting Sir Benedict himself. A married woman!
That man is a menace, she thought.
Pickering put her in the study.
A generous fire crackled in the handsome fireplace of carved marble, drawing her to it. She warmed her hands and looked around. The beveled glass doors of the bookshelves gleamed as if teams of slaves had been polishing them all night. The walls were paneled in green damask. A huge desk of carved walnut, for heavy thinkers only, dominated one end of the room. Grouped at the fireside were a sofa, two chairs, and an ottoman, all upholstered in a green and gold striped brocade. The closed curtains on the two tall windows matched the upholstery. It was a man’s room, and she felt like an interloper.
Then again, interloping was a good way to get to know someone.
She strolled to the desk, but there were no incriminating letters to Mrs. Price left out on the blotter, just a bill from the wine merchant. The man had paid sixty pounds for his port, and a hundred pounds for a case of brandy! The rest of the desk was taken up by a display of classical marbles and bronzes, a veritable Pantheon of gods and goddesses. And a big box of chased silver. Sea nymphs writhed on the lid, and the key was in the lock, just tempting her to open it.
Twenty pounds, she realized, would be nothing to the man who lived here. Not if he was in the habit of paying out a thousand pounds to this girl and that. A thousand pounds! Now, that would be sizeable. With a thousand pounds, she wouldn’t have to worry about money for years.
“Don’t touch that!” Pickering cried angrily.
Bustling over to
She had no idea what “Tempus Fugit” meant, if anything, but that would not prevent her from claiming the sizeable reward. How sizeable? she wondered greedily. Twenty pounds would be enough to buy a Bath-chair secondhand. A hundred pounds, and she could put her sister back in that snooty English school. A hundred pounds was a sum that took her breath away.
Ajax Jackson walked in just as she was pocketing the watch and the ring.
“There’s a reward offered!” She showed him the newspaper, forgetting in her excitement that he could not read. “Sizeable, it says. I think I’ll go over and collect it. There’s his direction. Number Six, Camden Place. Right across the street. I’ll be back in a flash with the cash.”
Giddy with excitement, she put on her bonnet and ran out of the house. Pausing in the park between Upper and Lower Camden, she pulled the layers of her veil over her face. She would have to disguise her voice, too, she decided. Her Irish accent might give her away to the servants. Fortunately, her mother was English; she could do a fair imitation of a hoity-toity English lady. She went confidently up the steps, and rang the bell.
The door opened, and a portly man of middle years stood before her. He was elegantly dressed in knee breeches and buckled shoes. His head looked like an egg with a face drawn on it. She guessed he was the butler. Pickering would have been insulted. He was not a butler. He was a gentleman’s gentleman.
“Mrs. Price?” he whispered, looking both ways down the street. Distracted by his furtive manner, Cosy looked up and down the street, too, but saw no one. Apparently satisfied, the servant pulled her inside and closed the door. “In here, Mrs. Price, if you please.”
Of course, she ought to have corrected the man’s mistake at once, but his manner was so strange that curiosity got the better of her. Who was Mrs. Price? And why would a married lady be visiting Sir Benedict’s butler in the middle of the day? Or maybe she was visiting Sir Benedict himself. A married woman!
That man is a menace, she thought.
Pickering put her in the study.
A generous fire crackled in the handsome fireplace of carved marble, drawing her to it. She warmed her hands and looked around. The beveled glass doors of the bookshelves gleamed as if teams of slaves had been polishing them all night. The walls were paneled in green damask. A huge desk of carved walnut, for heavy thinkers only, dominated one end of the room. Grouped at the fireside were a sofa, two chairs, and an ottoman, all upholstered in a green and gold striped brocade. The closed curtains on the two tall windows matched the upholstery. It was a man’s room, and she felt like an interloper.
Then again, interloping was a good way to get to know someone.
She strolled to the desk, but there were no incriminating letters to Mrs. Price left out on the blotter, just a bill from the wine merchant. The man had paid sixty pounds for his port, and a hundred pounds for a case of brandy! The rest of the desk was taken up by a display of classical marbles and bronzes, a veritable Pantheon of gods and goddesses. And a big box of chased silver. Sea nymphs writhed on the lid, and the key was in the lock, just tempting her to open it.
Twenty pounds, she realized, would be nothing to the man who lived here. Not if he was in the habit of paying out a thousand pounds to this girl and that. A thousand pounds! Now, that would be sizeable. With a thousand pounds, she wouldn’t have to worry about money for years.
“Don’t touch that!” Pickering cried angrily.
Bustling over to
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