A glimmer of amusement flickered in Mrs. Cartwright’s eyes. “I’ve worked for the master and his family in some capacity or other for near to half my life,” she said. “I’d not surrender this position to justanyone, you understand.”
“Of course,” said Claire at once.
“I am in the rare position of having been allowed to choose my replacement, given my longstanding tenure with his lordship’s family. I know his mannerisms, his likes and dislikes, the intricate workings of this household. I should like, I think, to offer you a trial period before rendering final judgment.” Mrs. Cartwright lifted the lid of the teapot at her elbow to check the steeping process, then poured two cups of tea, offering one to Claire. “Is that acceptable to you, Mrs. Hotchkiss?”
Claire sipped her tea and suppressed a sigh. “Quite honestly, it’s a relief,” she said. “I imagine a household like this one must run as a well-tuned instrument. I would hate to disrupt the flow of the household while I learn it myself.”
Mrs. Cartwright made an approving noise in her throat. “I think we shall deal well together,” she said. “And you need not worry—the Marquess of Leighton is a considerate employer.”
Claire choked, and the tea burned down her throat. “I beg your pardon,” she gasped. “Did you say—”
“Ah, Mrs. Cartwright. IthoughtI smelled gingerbread.”
The smooth, masculine voice sent a shiver of unease sliding up Claire’s spine, and she could not resist the compulsion to turn in her chair. And there he was. Gabriel—herGabriel—was standing near the counter, where two fresh loaves of gingerbread rested, covered by a linen cloth. The rugs lining the hallways had disguised his footsteps, and she hadn’t heard even a hint of his approach. She watched, arrested, as he carved himself off a slice of gingerbread and popped a bit of it into his mouth. A tiny hint of disappointment crossed his face, as if it were almost—but not quite—perfect.
Lemon juice, she realized. It was missing lemon juice. Just a light squeeze of it, just enough to offset the sweetness of the molasses.
“My lord,” Mrs. Cartwright said, rising from her chair and dipping into a smooth curtsey. “May I introduce Mrs. Hotchkiss? Beginning today, I will be training her to take over my position.”
The marquess turned, and Claire’s stomach dropped to her shoes even as her heart took up an unsteady rhythm in her chest.
He was older—of course he was older; she was older, too. Seven years had passed since last they had met, and she had been just a girl and he had been a young man. Now there was a severity in his face that he had once lacked, as if he had lost any inclination to smile. His green eyes were shadowed, a pale imitation of the vivid, dancing eyes she had remembered. They drifted over her without so much as a flicker of recognition.
“Mrs. Hotchkiss,” he said, without apparent interest.
She felt herself dipping a respectful curtsey, and with a sense of shock she heard herself murmuring, “My lord,” in the correct, diffident tone of an upper servant. And then he was gone, plate of gingerbread held in one hand, and she felt her heart settle into a normal rhythm once again.
He did not remember her, she realized.He did not remember her.
Chapter Three
Claire drifted through the rest of the afternoon in a daze. She wanted to protest the position, to say that she had reconsidered—but she hadn’t the luxury of refusal. It could take weeks to secure another position. And weeks spent searching would be weeks in which she would have to part with her meager savings, doling out each precious coin for room and board somewhere.
Mrs. Cartwright had shown her to her room and given her a silver key for the door. Privacy was one of the many benefits of her position; she could expect a room of her own, and it was a well-appointed one at that. This made it real, this position she had unwittingly accepted before she had known the truth of it what it entailed.
She had a few moments alone just now, before Mrs. Cartwright would expect her downstairs once again to begin introducing her to the staff she would one day oversee. It would be the perfect opportunity to flee. Mrs. Cartwright had nothing more than her name, after all, and it wasn’t as if the woman, whose acquaintance she had had for all of a single afternoon, would be concerned enough to attempt to track her down.
ButGabriel didn’t remember her. It was, perhaps, a mixed blessing. On the one hand she found herself furious that the man who had single-handedly upturned her entire life couldn’t be bothered to recall her face, even if ithadbeen seven years since last they had met. On the other, she could take the position, safe in her relative anonymity. And itwasa good position—she would earn more than double what she had with the Actons, and the additional wages would be welcome indeed, given her expenses. She would have a half day off each Saturday, and her hours would be her own after dinner was served each evening. It was the sort of position a woman in her situation dreamed of finding, and it had all but fallen into her lap. She would have a sort of freedom that she had never before enjoyed.
And all it would cost her was to reside in the home of the man who had broken her heart, to cater to his every whim.
∞∞∞
Gabriel sat in the library, nursing a glass of port as he considered the ruins of his life. Though he had not wished to spend any more time than necessary in his father’s company, it had been necessary to suffer the duke’s presence and lethimexplain to Lady Elaine’s father why Gabriel’s offer of marriage had to be withdrawn at present.
There had been a terrible row, accompanied by some rather unnecessary recriminations slung in his directions, but the end result had been that the duke had paid off the family, and Lady Elaine found herself once more available. She had not been distraught by this occurrence; in fact, she had spent more time examining the cut of her gown in the mirror hanging on the wall outside her father’s office than she had in investing her attention in what amounted to her future.
Still, even if the situationdidcome with a possible-wife lurking somewhere out there in the world, Gabriel found himself rather glad to be rid of Elaine. Lord Westwood had suggested that he ought to cut Elaine loose months ago. And though he had never thought to be on amiable terms with Westwood—a man whose general fecklessness he had roundly despised—he was nonetheless rather appallingly grateful for the man’s support of the decision to cast Elaine back onto the market.
Though Gabriel’s father had paid Elaine’s family well enough to keep the exact circumstances of the broken betrothal a secret, he didn’t doubt that the news of his newly-minted freedom would begin making the rounds immediately.
It would be met with no small amount of incredulity, and doubtless he would suffer some censure for it—but it mattered little.Nothinghad mattered overly much to him in years, really. In addition to his lost memories, it seemed he’d also lost whatever it was that had made him human. He had the sense that once upon a time he had been a different sort of man, a man with a zest for life, a man withpurpose. And now there was none of that. Just the vague sense that he was drifting through life, unmoored. He had lost far more than memory to the accident. He’d losthimself.
Revolted by the slip of his thoughts toward the maudlin, he cast back the rest of his port. He could feel the beginnings of a migraine tugging at his temples, and resented that the strain of his current situation had caused a resurgence of the damnable ailment. He couldn’t afford to be reduced to cowering in his bed at this juncture; he hadn’t even worked out where to begin in his search for the woman who might well be his wife.
In the doorway, a woman cleared her throat. “My lord, dinner is served.”
Gabriel’s head jerked up, and he squinted in the light. Already even the relatively low light of the fire had affected his senses, and his pulse pounded in his head. But he saw her there, in the doorway, the new woman—Mrs. Hotchkiss.
