The Fox: in his Henhouse (The Dubious Mates #1)

Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

H is lordship had left Charles in the kitchen with orders to bake him and his men several more loaves—along with the promise he’d be back for his other pleasure too. She simply sat and sipped the exquisite, aromatic coffee, suddenly less afraid of Lord Wellesley and more content to savor the cup. It had been years since she’d tasted coffee. A veritable lifetime.

Charles looked about the kitchen once more, noting its wear but also its ample hearth. The room was well stocked with stoneware, cutlery, and pots, and her eyes briefly landed on a bread knife, fast dismissing the thought.

Escape felt futile—and a bread knife paltry defense.

Besides, if Lord Wellesley truly meant to restore Almsdale Abbey, wages for Cumberland would follow with well-paying, lasting positions in service. She continued to linger over her brew while mulling over options she knew she didn’t have, for if she fled his lordship he’d fine her family the thirty pounds, and when they couldn’t pay, Father would be sent to debtor’s prison in London. Which would leave her sister, Eleanor, destitute or—God forbid—leave Ellie to become Wellesley’s mistress instead.

Charles shuddered at the thought. No, she’d gotten herself into this mess and would somehow have to get herself out. She stared again at the kitchen cupboards, the giant slop sink, the worn stone floor and narrow, slatted windows. She was as good as ruined already, but so long as no one found out, so long as she appeared honorably employed here at Almsdale, perhaps Eleanor might even benefit. Perhaps she could eventually earn enough to put aside a small dowry for her sister, anything to spare Ellie the humiliation she herself must now endure, already had endured. Perhaps, if she were clever enough, she might use Lord Wellesley much as he planned to use her. She briefly felt more hopeful.

Until his band of men descended.

“She still ’ere?” shouted one, grabbing a biscuit.

“Stayin’ on, looks like.” Another elbowed his way in, more biscuits gone.

“He’s an eye for ’em, he does,” laughed a different, burly fellow, pinching Charles’s thigh.

“Leave be,” she snarled, scooting back in her chair and snatching up the last biscuit.

“Oi, that were mine!” cried another.

She stuck her tongue at him and popped the biscuit into her mouth, only to have her arms grabbed from behind, a familiar voice grating, “What’re you doin’ here?”

The steward .

“Foraging for food, you brute.” Charles spoke around the biscuit in her mouth, trying to shake Cuthbert off as she finished chewing, but he only tightened his grip.

“Wells said t’ keep you in his bedroom.” His words elicited hoots and whistles from the men.

“Lord Wells gave instruction I was to bake bread for him,” she harrumphed, having finally swallowed the last bite. She decided she’d take orders from but one man in this house, and it would not be that man’s lackey.

“Did he now?” Cuthbert breathed down her neck, keeping her arms pinned behind her. “Then why don’t I see no loaf, but biscuit crumbs instead?

“Because I haven’t started in yet! Now let go, oaf!”

He did, roughly pushing her from him as she barely caught herself at the table’s edge. Suddenly a sea of men’s faces all leered at Charles, eyeing her state of dress, or lack thereof, and she blushed, furious at being subjected to their scrutiny.

“And why in God’s name did you burn my clothes?” she threw in Cuthbert’s face. “As if I had a wardrobe waiting for me.” She scowled at him, trying her best to look fierce, but his eyes merely crinkled with mirth.

“Because y’ reeked, gel.” His eyes continued to laugh at her. “Goddamn chicken thief.”

They all erupted in loud guffaws, making her blush only more. She wished she could crawl into a hole and die right then and there, the way these awful, blasted Londoners made her feel small and dirty and . . .

“There, there.” Cuthbert patted her shoulder. “We’re only havin’ a bit o’ fun, miss. Ain’t much o’ that in this bloody old Abbey.”

The men muttered agreement amongst themselves.

“’Sides, I spared yer corset, only piece not covered in shite.” He eyed her shape beneath the cover of her clenched shawl. “And good thing I did, as it looks like y’ need it.”

The horde howled and jeered again until she yelled, “Out, get out! The lot of you! Let me bake in peace!”

And to Charles’s great relief, they eventually did leave, but not before Cuthbert had returned with her stays, tossing them over a chair and eliciting only more lewd laughter.

Wells set aside his mother’s letter in disgust, deciding he would not give her the satisfaction of a response. He’d done as she’d asked this season, yet here she was again, needling him. He’d found a perfectly appropriate bride; it was hardly his fault the lady had run off with a better man.

He poured himself another drink from the parlor’s sideboard, further contemplating his mother’s words and his own fate, for he only ever drank at such an early hour when confronted by the Duchess. At least today’s encounter had been by post rather than in person, though he knew she’d visit sooner or later. His mother was never dissuaded, the sort of woman who showed up on one’s doorstep at the most inopportune of moments. The mere fact that she was hounding him again to marry after the humiliation he’d just endured in London spoke volumes. She was a force of nature, Maman , and he hated crossing her path.

Which reminded him of another force of nature currently in his kitchen who should by now be done baking him those loaves. He ought to make sure his new mistress had not run off, though without clothes there was slim chance of that. He imagined Cuthbert burning them for that very reason, good man that he was, and determined right then he’d take his time procuring her the sewing supplies she’d requested. Keeping her un dressed was, after all, his goal.

Wells smiled to himself, picturing the girl naked in his bed. A mistress was ever so much better than a wife.

What was more, as a Cumberland native, she knew the townsfolk. He might use her to his advantage, for she’d already told him the stonemason needed work. If he asked the man again, albeit more politely, he might yet get him to agree, at perhaps even more reasonable a price. God knew things had to cost less out here. And if she knew the mason she likely knew a carpenter as well. And hadn’t she mentioned a cook? He was tired of Tom’s dull repertoire of daily rabbit or venison stew.

Perhaps Charles would prove as useful as she’d prove pleasurable, for she was a quick one, he could tell. Though a woman could be too clever sometimes; he’d have to watch her. She might steal from him again, items more valuable than chickens next. Not that there was much of value currently at Almsdale.

He stole a glance about the parlor as his finger disturbed a layer of dust so thick it coated his skin like custard. And this was the best room here . . . Still, he’d vowed to restore the Abbey to its former glory and so keep it his escape for the day he’d be forced to become the next Duke. A day not far off, else his mother would not be hounding him to marry as his father lay ailing.

Wells quickly buried the thought. He did not wish to dwell upon his fate. He wished only to hide here in Cumberland, enjoying its rough terrain, rough inhabitants, and even rougher winters. That and its strangely named women, for why the devil anyone would give such gorgeous girl as Charles a boy’s name he could not fathom, especially a chit as lusty as she. He’d been pleasantly surprised at how readily she’d responded to him, given her fierce protestations otherwise. But perhaps fierce here meant fierce in other ways. Perhaps she’d even come to enjoy him.

He grinned to himself, imagining his Cumberland mistress rivaling the fairest of London’s courtesans. And she would, he thought, because he’d damn well train her himself.

Charles pulled out the loaf and went in search of butter and jam. It was a decidedly sparse kitchen, devoid of finer dishware and hardly any herbs or spice, yet the stew last night had filled her belly nicely; she’d long lost all culinary refinement. The days of living like a lady had regrettably vanished upon her mother’s death.

As for behaving like a lady . . . She cringed at the thought of her dear Mama gazing down at her firstborn daughter’s deplorable state: indecently dressed in some depraved lord’s castle, awaking naked this morning in said lord’s bed. Charles flushed to think she’d cravenly kissed the very man hell bent on debauching her. How could she have been so brazen? More importantly, why had she done it?

It had surely been a mere physical response to a virile male body, akin to an animal’s urge to mate. And she’d make damn sure it did not happen again.

She was still rummaging about as she pondered her own carnal urges, opening one empty cupboard after another, when she froze, sensing a presence in the room.

“Hello, Charles,” his lordship greeted, making her quickly spin about. “I’ve arrived for a taste, timed it perfectly I see.”

“My lord.” She curtsied, aware of the effect this had on his lordship, for she was now cinched into shape below the loose fabric of his shirt, her stays pushing her breasts up and out. “I cannot find butter, sir.” She returned to her rummaging, bending to search lower. “Nor do I spy any jam. May I ask what you and your men have been living on?”

“Stew,” he spat the word with distaste. “Meat stew, night after night. But if it’s the price to pay to escape London’s Ton by God I’ll pay it.”

“And what, pray, is so terrible about London that has you fleeing to Cumberland, my lord?” She glanced up at him.

“None of your blasted business, woman.”

Charles was reminded to watch her tongue. “Forgive me, my lord, I shan’t mention London again.”

“Don’t,” he said forcefully, then took up a knife to begin slicing into her loaf. “The butter’s up high, by the way, far left cupboard. Have to hide it from Cuthbert, who eats it by the block, the brute. You are not to tell him or any man here where it’s kept, else I won’t share with you, either.”

She was surprised by his shift in tone and even more surprised when he winked, making her smile shyly in response before she climbed atop a chair, found the hidden stash, and brought it to him.

Lord Wells buttered them each a slice before he took his first bite, his handsome face at once suffused with pleasure. A sigh escaped Charles’s lips as butter hit her tongue too. She closed her eyes in deep satisfaction while she chewed, and when she opened them, she caught him watching her, their eyes connecting for a second before she wrenched her gaze away.

“Heaven, is it not, Charles?” he told her softly. “After weeks of stew, to indulge in a loaf of bread is nothing short of bliss, I admit.” He stared at her again. “I may not miss London, but I do miss her food.”

“Cumberland is a far cry from London I’m sure, my lord, but nothing beats fresh bread and butter. To taste butter again is divine.”

“Have you gone long without?” He frowned. “I shall send some to your family.”

“Thank you, my lord. My father and sister would be grateful for any provisions you can spare.”

“Have you other family nearby they may depend on?”

“None, sir. But a neighbor, Mrs. Saunders, lives not far. My sister will manage if there is food this winter. She might trade for peat then; the Saunders’ son will deliver it, ensuring she and our father don’t freeze.”

His brow furrowed deeper. “Should we not simply move them to the Abbey instead?”

“What?” Charles was horrified. “No. No, of course not!”

He remained puzzled. “But you say they will freeze, and as I told you I’d ensure your family is cared for, it seems easier to keep them here than to?—”

“They must never know why I am here, my lord,” Charles implored. “I don’t know what your man told them this morning when he . . .” She took a breath to slow her racing heart. “It would kill them to discover how low I have fallen.”

***

“You have not fallen low,” Wells snapped, irritated by this recurring theme of hers and its annoying ability to engender guilt. “There is no shame in being a man’s mistress. If anything it is a coveted position for a woman who?—”

“Of course, Your Grace .” She insulted him again. “For a woman who works for a living it is no doubt a coveted position. But not for a lady of class.” Her nostrils flared. “I know what you think of me, Lord Wellesley, but my father and sister do not share your estimation; I’d prefer they continue to esteem my virtue.”

He peered more closely at her, realizing he’d need to rein in his new mistress’s continued abuse of title, lest she follow his own men’s conduct and become equally insufferable. Only how to convince Cuthbert and crew to give up the joke? He would work that out later. Not now.

“You’re not like the other villagers, are you?” he asked instead, his words more statement than question.

She remained silent.

“Yet you consider yourself a native.”

“I am, sir. Cumberland born and raised.”

“But you were educated.”

“My father was the village headmaster, my lord.”

“Hmm,” he pondered, then took another bite of bread, deciding to change the conversation entirely. “I’ve a mind to eat this whole delicious loaf, what say you?”

She timidly smiled back. “First coffee and now butter, my lord . . . It is I who am in heaven, sir.”

“Good,” he stated. “Then I am content, despite this morning’s upsets.” He peered at her more closely before he reached his hand to trace the bridge of her nose, landing at its tip. “You are very pretty, Charles, and will be prettier still, once we fatten you up.”

Yet she did not warm to his praise, saying only, “I am neither fair nor foul, my lord. But if it pleases you to think me pretty, so be it. Looks matter little here in Cumberland, Lord Wellesley. The land treats all the same.”

After devouring the better half of a loaf, his lordship left Charles in the kitchen with orders to bake him three more. To which she’d replied she would see that tally towards her fine started and wished to write a letter to her sister, to assure her she was well.

Lord Wellesley had simply looked at her a little strangely and nodded yes before he’d left her blessedly alone to contemplate both bread and recent events—in other words, to contemplate her sentence. But first Charles needed to take stock of kitchen staples: oats and flour aplenty yet only plain leavening in sight. She’d have to beg starter off a villager if his lordship wanted sourdough. She imagined the look of pleasure on his face once he’d tasted that .

As she mixed and kneaded more dough her thoughts turned to the future, a future now inextricably linked to Lord Wellesley, or Wells, as his men called him. She’d met his father, the Duke of Allendale, once long ago when she was quite small, for she remembered the day he’d paid her father a visit, taking tea even with Mama. He’d been a large, grand man, she recalled, but not unkind, letting her sit upon his knee to play with his gold cufflinks. She remembered how pleased he’d been when she’d told him her name.

Wellesley was not so large as his father, or perhaps only seemed less large now that she was grown herself. He had his father’s aristocratic carriage— no, his arrogance, she amended in her head—yet his appearance lacked style. The fact he’d served her coffee and was holed up in the Abbey with but a rowdy band of Londoners to wait on him hinted at how removed he was from polite society, from acting like the Duke’s son. Not to mention those same Londoners also inexplicably insulted the Dukedom by addressing Wellesley as ‘His Grace.’

Wells did not dress in terribly fine clothing either. He struck her as unkempt for a lord, having not even shaved this morning. Had he no valet? She was not sure what to make of him, nor why he’d disparaged London with such vehemence. She was not so foolish as to press him more, but she suspected Lord Wellesley was fleeing something, and she could only wonder what.

Charles wondered a great many things while her hands rolled and punched dough, wishing most of all that her new master were less handsome. She blushed to picture him naked as the dawn this morning: mischievous slate eyes above square, carved cheekbones. Proud patrician nose below curls too unruly for a man. Broad shoulders over corded torso with legs sculpted like the Greek statues she’d seen in museums Father had taken her to in London. Those images reminded her how unlike the limpid gentry Lord Wells truly looked. He was coarse by comparison, and she was shocked to discover her body tingling with renewed arousal, despite the threat of imminent ruin.

Oh God, had she just imagined her ruination?

Charles upbraided herself. It would do no good, she thought, for Lord Wells to know she found him attractive; the man was full of himself enough. Besides, she was wicked for even thinking such thoughts.

She mentally shook herself, focusing on shaping the loaves. She must think strategically now and not fall for his lordship’s physical charms. Rather, she must fall into his favor and use him to improve Eleanor’s chances at a proper match. She held no hope of marriage for herself, nor did she wish to be forever under some man’s thumb. Bad enough she was now under this man’s thumb. The day Eleanor was securely settled and Papa at rest beside Mama was the day she would begin to see about pleasing herself.

Until that day Charles would concentrate on the here and now. As she turned the loaves out into the hot brick oven she let her thoughts wander more. Perhaps someday she’d own a little cottage all her own. Or dress as a man and travel the world. Perhaps she’d even teach in a village school somewhere as Papa had. Whatever she did it would be hers to decide and hers to own, and if she had to give her body to Lord Wellesley to achieve her freedom so be it. She’d be neither the first, nor last, woman on earth forced to resort to such means.

She only wished she’d been given a choice in the matter, rather than fall into this lord’s all-too-handsome lap.

Wellesley did indeed pay a call to stonemason Adams, surprising the man with his visit. The outcome had been favorable this time, for the mason had agreed to the work after Wells had let slip both Miss Merrinan’s name and estimation of the tradesman’s skill. His mistress was going to prove more useful than he’d hoped.

“She did, did she?”

Wells replayed the mason’s words once more in his mind. “Yes,” he’d answered the fellow. “Told me I’d be a fool to hire anyone else.”

The Cumberland native had laughed outright. “Aye, she’s a spitfire, milord, tells it like it is, always has. I’ll have to thank her next I’m by.”

Wells had had to remedy that thought fast “You’ll find her at the Abbey now, Adams, as I’ve employed her in my house.”

“You lookin’ for servants then, sir?” He’d eyed Wells closely. “You’ll not do better than t’ hire Charles—a wise choice as she knows who to trust and who t’ steer clear of.”

He’d told the man he might hire more staff in future, but not at present, as there was enough to deal with structurally at the Abbey. Which had set both men to talking masonry again.

Wells rode his mount back slowly, rehashing his conversation with the mason even as he took in the rocky landscape around him. Cumberland was as rugged as he remembered, the views of mountains breathtaking in their expanse. His horse ambled along, in no rush it seemed, and Wells let his thoughts amble in similar fashion. He’d acquired needle and thread in town, but he hadn’t known where to start when it came to purchasing bolts of cloth for his mistress, nor was he eager to have her clothed. He would send Cuthbert on that errand in a day or two, for the looks he’d received both in the small shop and on the main street . . . No wonder the girl had blenched at him hauling her into town for a fitting. Cumberland was decidedly not London. He’d need to learn local ways if he were to make the Abbey his home.

He’d also need to give Miss Merrinan a title of sorts in his household now that word would get out he’d employed her. Housemaid? Scullery? Could she cook as well as she baked? He didn’t want her sweating in a hot kitchen burning tender flesh and smelling like onions in his bed. Chambermaid was better suited to her duties as she’d be spending plenty of time in his chamber.

Yes, he smiled to himself. Chambermaid would do.