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“Keep mum,” Clara advised her, and then added doubtfully, “You might get off with a dressing-down.”
Five minutes later, Nina was knocking for the second time on the drawing room door.
Chapter Two
“You.”
As the maid entered, Geoffrey straightened and balled up his handkerchief. He’d been holding it pressed to his nose. The blood had ceased to flow, but his white cravat was stippled with crimson. “I said send a competent maid.”
The maid paused on the threshold.
“You did, your grace,” she said at last. Agreement, perhaps, seemed the wisest course. Alan could have told her there was no wise course. No way forward for her, not here. She’d been picked out to pay for the intemperance of her betters.
They usually were, those who could least afford it.
She swept the room with wide, dark eyes.
Geoffrey stood in one corner, and Alan leaned against a chiffonier in another. The wreckage of their contest lay strewn between them. Broken majolica. Dented wax fruits. Toppled plant stands.
The maid started for the tea table with a resolute tread. Alan frowned, cradling his swollen hand. He didn’t relish her imminent humiliation.
Geoffrey, its all-too-willing agent, had already begun to pace toward her.
“Carelessness I can overlook.” He spoke with cold precision, the consonants brittle as glass. “To a certain extent, I must overlook it, today’s servants being what they are. However, I will not tolerate disobedience.”
This was how he salved his hurts and disappointments, his frustrated vanity. This was how he sweetened the sourness of the life he’d chosen. He vented his spleen at the weak.
“You disobeyed me,” he continued, heat building in his voice. “Or perhaps you mistook my meaning. Either you lack the proper deference, or you lack sufficient wit. Which is it?”
The maid walked more quickly, her reply breathless. “I wouldn’t know, your grace.”
Alan glanced down at the Qing dynasty vase that stood by his left elbow on the chiffonier. The sunlight pouring through the windows lit the copper-red glaze. The vase glowed. Most of the decorative objects in the drawing room were Fanny’s purchases. Not the vase. Their mother had displayed it in the breakfast room when Alan was a boy. The vase belonged to him.
Now that he’d mastered his rage, his brain worked with cool efficiency. Smash nothing. Sell everything. Force Geoffrey to capitulate to his demands.
Geoffrey intercepted the maid before she reached the table. “What’s your name?”
“Nina Finch.” The maid stopped short, shifting her grip on the freighted tray. Geoffrey didn’t care, of course, that he detained her, that her arms strained to support all that weighty silver. Or, more likely, the fact increased his satisfaction.
Frown deepening, Alan pushed off the chiffonier.
“I’ll be speaking with Mrs. Fletcher about you, Nina Finch. What do you recommend I say?” Geoffrey looked down his nose, straight as the Umfreville line of succession. Seven generations, father to eldest son. The blow he’d suffered hadn’t bent it. Self-inflicted blow. When Alan had dodged his first wild swing, Geoffrey had tried another, a close-range jab that ricocheted off Alan’s forearm, smack into his own face.
In the heat of the moment, Alan had decided to drive his fist—not into Geoffrey—into the tabletop. The crunch of knuckle on marble had disturbed him more than the pain. But at least Geoffrey had snapped his jaws reflexively and retreated, falling silent.
“Whatever pleases you, your grace,” murmured Miss Finch, her humility undercut by a hint of condescension.
Geoffrey’s face blazed and he spoke in a ringing voice. “It pleases me to dismiss you.”
“Very good, your grace.” Miss Finch lifted her downcast gaze. “But you shouldn’t trouble to tell Mrs. Fletcher. I can convey a message more competently than I can a tea tray. I’ll tell her.” Incredibly, she smiled. The smile sank dimples in her cheeks.
Such dimples. Each deep enough to enfold a fingertip.
Fascinated, Alan halted briefly on his approach. He hadn’t given nearly enough thought to dimples during his life to date. How they advantaged the dimpled party, if dauntless aplomb was at a premium. He almost applauded.
Well done, Miss Finch.
With that merry, impertinent dimpling, the girl had shown herself undefeated. Certainly, she’d robbed Geoffrey of his desired response. A torrent of tears, apologies, pleas.
