Cook might have hated her even more than Mrs. Humber, Miranda thought cheerfully, but short of outright rebellion there was nothing she could do about it. She made one attempt. “I’ll talk to his lordship about this,” she said in a sullen voice.

“I have little doubt he’ll insist you change your apron, as well. If you wish to waste his time with domestic squabbles you may certainly attempt it. In my experience the earl is easily irritated, but if you think he will find this of interest be sure to go ahead, and let me know the results.”

There was pure hatred in the woman’s beady eyes, reflected in Mrs. Humber’s eyes, as well. A good beginning, Miranda decided, unruffled.

“Come on, then,” the woman said. “I haven’t got all day.”

Miranda had been prepared for the absolute worst, but in the end she was pleasantly surprised. The house was very old, built sometime in the latter half of the sixteenth century, but it appeared basically sound, the roof intact, though there was clearly a problem of rising damp in several areas. As far as she could see the most pressing problem was neglect. No one had cleaned or dusted the majority of the rooms in what appeared to be decades, and the smell of mouse and moth was an unappetizing undernote to the wood and wool of the old house and its hangings. It appeared that Mrs. Humber saw to it that only the rooms Lucien needed were kept clean. The rest were simply closed up and forgotten about.

She counted seventeen bedrooms, a number with modern powder closets. Hers was far from the largest, and at least one was cleaner, doubtless the bedroom used by whatever doxy Lucien had brought with him in the past. She wasn’t sure whether to be offended or relieved.

Mrs. Humber stopped at Lucien’s door. “It’s not my place to show you in there,” she said.

“Why? Is it full of skeletons and murdered brides?”

Mrs. Humber was not amused. “It’s the master’s suite.”

“Is it as filthy as the rest of the house? I would think the earl would insist that at least this room be cleaned.”

“We clean it.”

“Then what are you afraid of? I gather his lordship has gone out for a ride, so we shan’t run into him.”

“If you wish to go in then I won’t stop you, my lady,” Mrs. Humber said in a low voice. “But I only enter when the master requests it.”

“I’m not so cow-hearted,” Miranda replied, and pushed open the door to Bluebeard’s chamber.

Indeed, the room was dark and dreary enough to have held the remains of a score of dead wives, if the old fairy tale were true. It only had a light layer of dust, but the walls had dark, worm-eaten paneling, the curtains the same heavy brown velvet. She looked around her, assiduously avoiding the bed for as long as she could. It was a massive thing, with dark hangings and heavy linen sheets. She could imagine him lying there. She could imagine him there, naked, with a woman, his pale eyes intent, his long, clever hands stroking, touching, arousing.

She shivered, turning away. He had a small dressing room with a cot for his valet, a powdering closet and even a small sitting room, all relatively clean, if dark and depressing. It was little wonder he had such a dark soul, living as he did in such gloomy places. The house in London wasn’t much cheerier, at least as far as she could see.

She was surprised to find Mrs. Humber still waiting for her when she emerged. “Well, my lady?” she said in a frosty tone.

“We’ll need, as a conservative guess, at least twelve women. Four to serve as chambermaids, four as parlor maids for the public rooms and the remaining four to do laundry and scullery service. Bridget says you have her doing both, which might work out very well with no one in the house, but with it being opened we’ll need a great deal more help.”

“And what about Bridget?” Mrs. Humber demanded “She’s slovenly but I have need of her …”

“I’m training Bridget to be my personal maid.”

Mrs. Humber snorted with laughter. “That girl is lazy and disrespectful. I was about to turn her off.”

“Then you won’t be missing her. Twelve maids, Mrs. Humber. Plus I think at least four footmen for the heavy work.”

“My Ferdy can handle that just fine.”

Miranda controlled her instinctive shudder at the memory of the unprepossessing Ferdy. “That was when the house was deserted.”

“I don’t think he’s planning on filling the place with anyone but you, my lady.”

“And are you privy to Lord Rochdale’s plans, Mrs. Humber?”

The woman subsided. She knew too much—she probably listened at keyholes. “What’s Cook’s name?” Miranda started back toward the kitchens, and the old woman had no choice but to follow her.

“Mrs. Carver.”

Miranda chortled. “A perfect name.”

“Why?”

Clearly Mrs. Humber was totally devoid a sense of humor, and Miranda knew better than to try to explain it to her. By the time they reached the kitchen the place was marginally cleaner. Someone had managed to wash the dishes, she suspected it was Bridget, and Mrs. Carver had indeed donned a fresh apron and even a tasteful cap for her flyaway gray hair.

“You’ll be getting two new helpers, Mrs. Carver, at the very least,” Miranda announced. “Plus two for the laundry as well, who can help out when needed. And that will be apart from the maids who actually serve the meals and tend to the needs of the owner. In the meantime, what were your plans for dinner tonight?”

Mrs. Carver had more malice but less courage than Mrs. Humber. “A consommé of veal and potato, followed by roasted pheasant stuffed with mushrooms. The fish course would be trout from his lordship’s own waters, a brisket of beef with a remove of winter squash and asparagus, with lemon pie for dessert.”

“It sounds heavenly. I hope you can manage all that without Bridget’s help. She’ll be busy with me. If you’re forced to pull back on the magnificence I’m sure we’ll survive with fewer courses.”

Mrs. Carver gave her a look of intense dislike. “I take my orders from the earl.”

“Of course.” Miranda was all affability. “Be certain to let me know his response.”

What a treacherous little darling she was, Lucien thought coolly. Prattling on about such wholly feminine matters as if she were discussing gardening, all without a blush, over the subject matter or the lie.

He was becoming quite in awe of her. When he’d first begun to lure her into his net he’d found he had a reluctant admiration for her, for her ability to turn her back on the ton as effectively as they turned their back on her. He’d enjoyed conversing with her, flirting with her so discreetly that she hadn’t even realized that was what he was doing, she’d simply responded in kind.

And there was something about her smooth, pale skin, her rich brown hair, her warm brown eyes that unexpectedly aroused him.

In fact, despite St. John’s clumsiness, he found he didn’t regret her initial ruination one bit. Granted, he’d hoped to accomplish his revenge and still keep a distance, but that was before he’d seen her.

He was quite grateful for the fact that she wasn’t a virgin, no matter how badly St. John had botched it. Deflowering was a tedious business, never worth the trouble. He liked the fact that she found sexual congress tedious, and the thought of any kind of variation quite unsupportable. He could just imagine her reaction when he used his mouth on her, which, of course, he intended to do.

And she would do the same to him. Of her own accord, eventually. He had little doubt he could arouse her to such a fever pitch that she’d do absolutely anything if he gave her a slight nudge in that direction. He was going to enjoy this immensely.

He was, admittedly, concerned about Jacob Donnelly, Jane Pagett and the Carrimore diamonds. It would be a wise idea to get that solitaire off the girl’s hand, and soon, before anyone else saw it and recognized it. Once it was removed from its setting and recut no one would ever know where it came from, but in the meantime she was wearing the equivalent of gunpowder on her hand. Jacob might find it amusing to play with fire. He himself was less entranced.

And who the hell did the man think he was, some damned romantic hero? It wasn’t like Jacob to have slipped the bloody thing on her finger. He’d always been extremely hardheaded when it came to business.

He needed to make certain that Miss Pagett had been returned to the bosom of her family. Then and only then could Jacob arrange for one of his minions to steal it. He needed to make certain the Rohans hadn’t begun a call to arms. He needed to take his time with Lady Miranda—the slower, more measured her downfall the greater pleasure it would accord him.

He would begin tonight, but by tomorrow he’d be gone, leaving her to rattle around this old place with Mrs. Humber. He had no doubt that by the time he returned she’d be at least a bit more cowed. Pawlfrey House was enough to pull the joy out of anyone.

He had his horse saddled, heading out into the misty afternoon, pleased that Miranda would once more be denied sunshine. She would learn to live like a mole. Her eyes would narrow as she peered through the gloom. Though that would be a shame, with such deliberately enchanting brown eyes.

He would come up with the coup de grace. He always did, when life was looking woefully tedious.

In the meantime, things were simple. Tonight he would begin the total ruination and subjugation of Lady Miranda Rohan. Tomorrow he would be gone.

16

Jane wasn’t quite sure why she’d ventured downstairs in the middle of the night in this deserted inn. To be sure, she’d been sleeping so much in the carriage that she was having trouble closing her eyes. But it was something more, some mystery that she wasn’t sure she wanted to consider, and it had to do with their driver, the tall groom that dear Mrs. Grudge had warned her against.

She pulled a loose dress over her nightgown and crept down the staircase, loath to wake anyone, including her temporary companion. Her room at the inn was small, the bed was lumpy and if she couldn’t sleep she’d rather be sitting in a chair. Anything to ease the ache at the small of her back.