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

Chapter 21

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

L ater that afternoon, Wells caught a glimpse of Charles in what appeared to be a borrowed print dress; he’d not seen Miss Merrinan wear anything quite so feminine before. It was a little short, showing her ankles rather nicely, and it was a little tight, showing her figure better still, but the fact it was a patterned dress of blue gingham made the biggest impression of all. She looked like a young woman at a country dance. She looked nothing like a housekeeper, chicken thief, or London mistress. She looked like her sister almost: a respectable young lady. His breath caught, to see her thus, for she was stunning. He knew her person—her body—well, but he didn’t know her like this.

Wells suddenly felt even lower for not having bought her a true gift, rather than the flimsy undergarments he’d ordered from LeBrecht’s . He’d showered past mistresses with far more lavish purchases for far less in return than what Charles had already given him, in bed and out. Miss Merrinan deserved better.

And he realized with some shock it was not the first time he’d rethought a decision or reconsidered his behavior since her arrival at the Abbey. Her very presence here seemed forever to insist that he improve himself—which was an utterly absurd notion.

He did not need improving. She did.

“Miss Merrinan, I’m that pleased t’ see you up and about, dearie. You had us full flaiten last night, baggin’ ourselves when Cuthbert reported your fall.”

Jenkins had cornered Charles, her stout frame literally blocking the closet office door as she stared the housekeeper down.

“Yes, it was quite the storm, wasn’t it?” Charles smiled back, nervous. “But then, we’ve seen worse here in Cumberland, haven’t we, Mrs. Jenkins?”

“Aye,” she said, “and you’d think a Cumberland lass like yourself’d know better than t’ get caught in sech storm, miss.”

And here it comes , Charles thought to herself. “I do, ma’am, and I’m ashamed to admit I paid it little heed yesterday as I was visiting my family with Cuthbert. Hadn’t seen them in weeks and couldn’t bear to drag myself away.” Her eyes met the cook’s in what she hoped would be a convincing face. “I’ll not be so foolish again.”

Jenkins nodded. “You look right bonny in Ruby’s frock, miss. Ginny should have t’ mud out of your uniform by t’morrow, I’d hope.”

“Thank you.” Charles suspected there was more.

Jenkins did not disappoint. “You know I respect how well you’ve managed here on your own, miss, and I’m grateful for your recommendin’ me for t’ position, not t’ mention how well you handle t’ girls and his lordship’s louts.”

Charles swallowed.

“But we both know you weren’t raised t’ be no housekeeper, Charles, and you’re smart enough, and well-spoken enough, t’ more’n turn a man’s eye. To turn his thoughts t’ makin’ you his bewer.”

Charles’s heart leapt in her chest.

“Which is just t’ say I hope you know what you’re about, miss.”

Her breath caught. “Mrs. Jenkins, I can assure you I?—”

Only the older woman was having none of it. “Charles, I may be oal, lass, but I ain’t that oal. No lord offers his bed t’ no servant for nowt but one reason only.”

Charles winced.

“Have a care, marra, as these things rarely end well.” And with that, the widow turned on her heel and walked out.

Charles remained fixed to her seat, stunned. Jenkins knew, or suspected, or suspected she knew. It didn’t matter either way, what mattered was she knew . And yet the woman hadn’t condemned, threatened, exposed or done any number of things she could have.

Charles slowly inhaled a breath. Perhaps the cook would keep her secret. Perhaps Mrs. Jenkins was not as respectable as she seemed. Either that or she’d no wish to jeopardize her position here. Maybe Charles had been mistaken to think Cumberland’s rules of civility were like those of London. Perhaps folks here were more willing to turn a blind eye, to understand why a body did what it did to survive.

Either way, Jenkins knew. And if she knew, others would too.

Wells, at last, sat down to read his mother’s latest missive, which was more of the same, insisting he marry. Apparently, the Duke’s health was in even worse decline. At this rate, he’d need to visit the old man himself to gauge how poorly he truly fared. And yet if he did visit he ought to go now, before winter fell, or he’d be forced to wait till spring. Blast , he swore, thinking of the south wall and how close they were to finishing. He didn’t want to return to London so soon, and he didn’t want to see his mother so soon either. Of course he didn’t mean to avoid his father—he loved the Duke, inasmuch as a son raised by nursemaids, tutors, and servants could love a father.

He swore again, because his mother had made mention of at least four eligible young ladies in her letter, praising one in particular. He was certain that if he made the trip to see the Duke he’d be forced to pay calls on all four prospective brides. And he couldn’t stomach the thought. The Duchess was baiting him, using his father’s ill health as a ruse to lure him back. He’d not go. He’d write to the Duke instead, tell him about the work he was doing here. His father would understand the urgency. He adored Almsdale Abbey, had grown up here. He’d have stayed, too, were it not for his Duchess.

Wells decided then and there to decline his mother’s invitation. For a change, he would ask her for something instead, because there was indeed a gift he could give Charles Merrinan, an object as useful as it was beautiful. He grabbed paper and ink to scribble a quick reply, vowing to put off any London visit till spring. In the meantime, the Duchess could send him the item he requested.

Let her think what she liked.