Nicole continued, “My companion is Sir Philip Selbourne. He is not my husband, but”—she hesitated fractionally—”my cousin. We were on our way to his home, Winstead Hall.”
Mrs. Turner’s eyes brightened with interest. “So he’s the squire of Winstead. I know of the family, of course, they’re important folk hereabouts. His father died last winter, didn’t he?” She gave an appreciative smile. “I didn’t know Sir Philip was so young. He’s a handsome lad, isn’t he?”
Nicole nodded agreement. Sir Philip was indeed handsome. Not with the flamboyant, Byronic dash of Lord Masterson, but he had a pleasing aspect that was more appealing every time she looked at him. Knowing it was not her place to say any such thing, she asked, “May I let my cat out? Poor Merkle has had a difficult day.”
She lifted the lid of the basket. Pushed beyond the limits of patience, Merkle instantly scrambled out and jumped to the floor, then swung her head back and forth as she suspiciously examined her new surroundings.
Before the little calico could take a step, a menacing feline growl sounded from a shadowy corner by the wood box. The growl was followed by a large, bristling tabby who slunk into the center of the room with flattened ears and a dangerous gleam in its green eyes.
Judging discretion to be the better part of valor, Merkle raced across the flagged floor and darted under a low chest of drawers, the tabby flying in hot pursuit.
“Oh, dear!” Nicole said unhappily. She took a step toward the cats, but Mrs. Turner put her hand up.
“Don’t worry,” the older woman said. “Molly won’t hurt your puss. She just wants to make it clear whose house this is.”
Sure enough, Molly didn’t follow the smaller cat under the chest. The tabby crouched down, tail flicking, in a waiting position that effectively trapped the calico under the furniture, but she offered no real threat.
With crisis turned to stalemate, Mrs. Turner said, “I’ll make you and Sir Philip a nice cup of tea. You must be freezing.”
As the older woman hung a kettle on the hob so that the water could be brought to the boil, Nicole drew her chilled self closer to the hearth. “Forgive me, madame, for this is none of my business, but who is the Emmy you were expecting? A member of your family who has been caught away from home by the storm?”
“No, she’s a girl from Blisworth, the nearest village. She helps out sometimes,” Mrs. Turner explained. “My son is coming for Christmas tomorrow and bringing his new wife, Georgette. Robert is a solicitor in London and doing very well for himself.”
She gave a rueful smile. “Vanity doesn’t diminish with age, child. I wasn’t well enough to go to the wedding so I’ve never met my daughter-in-law, but I do know that she’s the daughter of a judge, and my cottage will appear poor to her. Still, I wanted everything to be as nice as possible. Emmy was going to help me with the baking and decorating, but she must have decided to stay home because of the weather.” Mrs. Turner sighed and spread her hands, which were twisted with arthritis. “So much for vanity. I can’t manage everything myself, so Georgette will just have to accept me the way I am.”
“It is not vanity to wish to put one’s best foot forward.” After a moment’s hesitation, Nicole offered shyly, “Will you allow me to help you? With a whole evening in front of us, together we can accomplish most of what you wish.”
Mrs. Turner gave her guest a shocked glance. “It wouldn’t be fitting for you to do such humble work. You’re gentry.”
Thank heaven her, kind hostess didn’t know what Nicole had been just the night before! “Preparing a home for Christmas is not work, but great pleasure.”
While the older woman debated, Philip returned, accompanied by a gust of damp, icy air. He was carrying the baggage. As he hastily closed the door, Nicole said gaily, “We are in luck, Philip. Mrs. Turner is planning her Christmas preparations, and if we are very, very good, perhaps she will let us help her.”
Mrs. Turner chuckled. “You’re a clever minx. Very well, I’d be delighted to have your help, but first, you both need some tea and bread and soup. Take your coat and hat off, Sir Philip, and come warm yourself by the fire.”
“You’re very kind, Mrs. Turner.” Holding his chilled hands toward the flames, he continued, “My sister and I are very grateful.”
The older woman gave him a sharp look. “I thought you and Miss Chambord are cousins.”
Without missing a beat, Philip said, “We are, but Nicole is so much a member of the family that I think of her as another sister.”
Nicole watched with admiration. If this was a sample of his skill at dissembling, he should have no trouble convincing his mother that the scandalous female he’d brought home was actually a respectable poor relation of Lord Masterson’s.
Her levity faded as she perched on the oak settle and accepted a teacup from Mrs. Turner. Even if Sir Philip could lie like Lucifer, it simply wouldn’t do. Nicole had done considerable thinking on the long drive from London and had reached the miserable conclusion that she must tell Lady Selbourne the truth, for it would be impossible to work for the woman under false pretenses.
If Lady Selbourne was as tolerant as her son, perhaps she would not mind Nicole’s appalling lapse from grace. More likely she would be outraged and refuse to have such a doxy under her roof.
Nicole knew she should tell the baronet of her determination to confess all, but he would try to change her mind and it would be difficult to resist his arguments. With a sigh, she stirred sugar and milk into her tea. At least when Lady Selbourne ordered her out of the house, Sir Philip probably wouldn’t allow Nicole to be tossed into a snowbank. Likely he would consider it his duty to buy her a coach ticket back to London. She would be no worse off than she had been yesterday.
She gave Sir Philip a surreptitious glance from the corner of her eye. He was standing, his head almost touching the smoke-darkened beams of the ceiling as he smiled and chatted with their hostess. He seemed too large and energetic for such a small cottage. And as Mrs. Turner said, he was a handsome lad.
No, not a lad, a man, one who was kind and considerate and wonderfully solid. Returning her gaze to her tea, Nicole felt a small, dangerous twist deep inside her.
As an émigré separated from her own class by poverty, she had resolved to build a life as an independent, respected merchant. There was no husband in that picture, for Nicole had never met a man for whom she could feel more than liking.
But it would be easy—so, so easy—to fall in love with Sir Philip Selbourne. He was very close to the dream husband she had imagined for herself when she was a child, before she realized that the Revolution had made it impossible for her to meet such a man as an equal.
Appalled at the thought, she swallowed a huge mouthful of tea, scorching her tongue in the process.Mon Dieu!What a fool she was! Her situation was quite difficult enough without developing a hopelesstendrefor a man she could never have.
