Harriet French was reclining on a chaise in a striped dressing gown of vibrant marigold and black, holding a cool compress made up of a folded, damp towel to her head. He watched Mr. Harcourt through one eye as he spoke. Her long mane of spiraling, brassy hair was loose down her shoulders and catching along her arms and elbows, her thin sleeping shift visible in slivers through the cracks of the robe.
Oddly, Harcourt seemed utterly unaffected by this display, more interested in the notes he was taking than the sprawl of feminine beauty slathered out in front of him.
Elias tensed, resisting the urge to snatch a coverlet from the nearest surface and drape it over her, head and all. “Good morning,” he said, far more tersely than he intended.
“Oh,” she said, wincing as though the syllable had hurt her. “Elias.”
“Harriet,” he returned, still clipped as thin as a freshly shorn sheep.
“Lord Selwyn,” the barrister said, glancing up over the top of his rarely used spectacles. “We are discussing the arrangement of a staff. Perhaps this is of interest to you?”
“It is,” he agreed, looking around and settling on a chair that would form an uneven triangle, bringing him nearer to the safestarchiness of Mr. Harcourt than Hattie’s languid flesh. “I just had to answer the front door.”
“How terrible for you,” she murmured, flopping onto her back and dropping the cool compress over both of her eyes, sadly before she could clock the way he glared at her insolence.
“‘The door’?” Mr. Harcourt repeated with a frown. “Have we visitors already? I have not prepared.”
“It was just Jasper Townsend,” said Elias with a lift of his shoulder. “Not anyone of note.”
“Townsend,” the barrister said, tapping the edge of his quill to his chin. “Shipyard boy?”
Elias nodded. “Here to see Malcolm.”
“Well, that’s fine, then,” Harcourt decided. “I would’ve come to find you, but as the house belongs to Miss French, I assumed the staff details would go through her primary decision-making for the time being, given that we are looking at several weeks before nuptials can be executed.”
“Three,” Harriet muttered from behind her mask of pain. “Chimes and candy.”
Elias glared at her again.
“One, two, three,” she continued, oblivious. “It’s green, you know.”
“Do I have to marry her?” he snapped at the barrister, who ignored him, chuckling to himself.
“Not a dark green,” Hattie continued, slurring a little. “Very soft, like mint rolled into marzipan.”
“Yes, all right,” Elias said impatiently. “Did you decide on which positions to fill?”
She nodded, making the wet towelette tumble down over her nose and onto her mouth before making a leap over her chin and onto her bosom.
Elias certainly did not watch its progress with keen, unwavering interest.
She had been in Russia this last year. He’d read about it inThe Chronicle.
“British Beauty Translates for Tsar.”
It hadn’t named her, but he’d known, anyhow. He’d known it had been her. That Russian toast last night had only cemented his suspicion.
Had she said things like this to the tsar?
“Necessary woman,” she said, holding up fingers as she spoke. “Cook. Maid-of-all-work. Three!”
“Butler?” he prompted, eyes on her other hand as she fumbled for the bottle. “Footmen? I need a valet.”
“I s’pose,” she said, immediately falling into a yawn.
Elias, hating himself, immediately yawned too.
“Oh, goodness,” said Mr. Harcourt, yawning as well. “Well, that won’t do. I’ll just go fetch us some coffee from the dining room, shall I? And then we should discuss wedding particulars.”
