The Peculiar Pink Toes of Lady Flora Read online

"They've gone now," she added. "They left very suddenly, before I was up. You would not know anything about that, would you?"

  "Me, mistress?" He lifted an axe and checked the blade edge with his fingers. "What would I know? Massimo is just the hired hand."

  "You did not have a confrontation of any sort? With George Tarleton?"

  "Who? I do not know the man." Nonchalance would drop from his pores if it took liquid form. "What is confrontation?"

  Flora turned away, but had only taken two steps when he called after her.

  "The dress you wore yesterday— for your guests—in it you are bellissimo. But not for Massimo's eyes, eh? I am not worthy."

  "I did not wear it for my guests. Anyway, it's an old gown to be donated to charity."

  He sighed and readied another blade to be sharpened. "'Tis pity. I like it. I like you in it, Lady Flora of the Pink Toes."

  "That is not the sort of thing one should say to one's mistress."

  "Is it not?" He looked at her over his shoulder. "I speak what is true. Should I lie?"

  She sighed. "Don't let me distract you from your work." Walking away, she felt his gaze fixed upon her, like a beam of sunlight.

  But the sky was overcast, a storm brewing.

  Flora had no doubt that he had done something to make Tarleton leave in haste. But why would he risk being recognized when he went to all this trouble to trick her? Surely he knew that if George recognized him the news would be all over the county in days and all over London within a fortnight.

  In a fit of that infamous, but seldom witnessed, Malgrave temper had he done something he would later regret?

  "Oh, Martha," she said that afternoon, when the old woman came to help her finish sorting through her garments, "I have changed my mind about the rose and gold gown. I think I'll keep it after all. It only requires a little mending."

  "Very good, madam. It is lovely, and a lady ought to have one lovely thing at least. She never knows when she might need it."

  And so it was folded by her sewing box and almost everything else from her merry widowhood was packed up for the parish charity. She did not know exactly what she was saving that dress for, but there might, as Martha said, be a suitable occasion one day and then she'd be sorry she gave it away.

  Not everything from her past was closed off. Not everything was lost.

  Chapter Sixteen

  "Why not come in and sit a while by the fire," she said to him one evening as it grew too dark to work. "You can tell me about life in Italy, Massimo."

  So he did. Good thing there was plenty he could tell her about his work there without revealing his true identity.

  It was quiet and comfortable by the fire with her, and he found it easy to tell the stories of his years abroad. For once he did not struggle with the words, because it was actually a story he wanted to tell, not one he felt obliged to relate for a group of people he knew did not really care and were merely being polite to the Duke of Malgrave. And this time, when she fell asleep as he talked, at least he knew it was caused by physical tiredness and not boredom from his droning. She even struggled a while to keep her eyelids open, but in the end she had to give in, her head dropping to the arm of her chair.

  He let her sleep, watching over her from his chair on the other side of the hearth, while he mulled over his plans. Now that he'd been there a while he knew that the first thing he must do was buy her some sturdy, warm and practical footwear. Those little feet must be protected and her riding boots were not sufficient.

  When Grey came in to put more wood on the fire, Maxim quickly shooed him out again, taking the wood in his own arms to restock the grate, not wanting her disturbed by the old man's clattering.

  Eventually, as her snoring deepened, he took matters literally into his own arms again, by taking her up to the second floor of the house. There he carried her from room to room until he found the chamber that was clearly hers and then he laid her carefully on the bed, removed her riding boots, and pulled up the patched counterpane.

  Had everything in the place worn out so badly since his grandmother lived there, or was it always this way? He remembered that she had never liked society and preferred quiet pursuits such as reading, sewing and cataloging plants; she had never been one for finery. What, he wondered, would that no-nonsense old lady think of Lady Flora's rebellious ideas? Somehow he knew she would approve.

  While his hostess snored gently, he found paper and ink in a small writing table by the window and sat down to write a quick letter to Plumm and then one to Nicholas. He would have to wait until market day, when the plow horses were harnessed to the cart, and take his letters to the nearest town then. There was nobody here waiting at his beck and call to carry his messages.

  He opened his silver watch-case to look at the time. It was midnight, the twelfth hour. He stared at the numbers on the watch face, the gentle click of tiny cogwheels now the only sound in the room apart from her soft snores. His moments were still passing at that steady, unalterable pace. He could not adjust the rhythm, could not stop the clock or make it go back. They could only go forward.

  The letter to Plumm, which was meant to be a short note, turned into a much longer one, as his ideas were suddenly abundant and detailed. He wanted to get everything right this time.

  Before he left her chamber, Maxim thought of planting a kiss on his employer's forehead, but that would probably be pushing his good fortune. Or "Massimo's", rather. Not to mention the temptation it would cause him. So, after shaking his head at a cupboard full of highly impractical shoes with tall, pink heels, velvet bows and embroidered roses, he made his way out of her room with his sealed letters and left her sleeping peacefully.

  * * * *

  "Madam;

  I do not know what you think you are about, bringing your infamous behavior and continental, gypsy lovers to Darnley Abbey, but I feel it incumbent upon me to inform you that his grace fully intends to have you removed from the premises forthwith. I would suggest, to spare your family any greater shame than inevitable, that you flee now of your own volition and take your foreigner with you, before my son sends an enforcer to have you physically and publically evicted. You have taken advantage of his grace's absence abroad no doubt, but he has been well informed of your actions and the disrepute into which your shameless, immoral behavior has brought my dearest mother-in-law's precious Darnley."

  She had woken that day feeling a little out of sorts, not sure how she ought to feel about his uninvited conveyance of her person up the stairs to bed the previous evening. He had the manners not to mention the incident, of course. But she was surprised that "Massimo" did not tease her about it, for Massimo dared where his twin, the duke, would not allow himself to venture.

  However, Massimo was subdued and said nothing of his physical strength or gallantry— both things she would have expected to hear him boast about all morning.

  "You 'ave a letter?" he muttered, pretending only to glance at it, although he must have recognized the handwriting for she saw him pale a little under the sun-browning. "Something that makes you frown, eh?"

  "The mother of my landlord assures me I am about to be evicted. One assumes she has it on good authority, but I have had no notice from the duke."

  Clearly the dowager duchess was unaware of her son's masquerade as that "continental gypsy". And if he meant to have her evicted, what was he doing living there with her, working by her side every day? Being all...helpful? Befriending her dog, entertaining her with interesting stories and putting her to bed when she fell asleep by the fire?

  He shook his head. "I would ignore it then, Flora. Burn the letter. This old lady must be," he tapped his knuckles lightly against his temple, "soft 'eaded. Why would you be evicted from this place?"

  "Because I'm here with you and indulging in all manner of wickedness under the Duke of Malgrave's roof."

  "You are?" He flashed a quick grin that looked rather guilty. "We are?"

  "So she thinks. You know how tongues gossip.
They have that in Italy too, I'm sure. And you cannot have forgotten my recent guests, one of whom knows how to be discreet and the other who cannot even spell the word, I fear. The guests of the hunting lodge to which he repaired shortly after must have been agog to hear his stories." She paused. "You were responsible for his midnight departure, were you not?"

  That hint of amusement was now gone from his expression.

  "Never mind," she added hastily. "As you say, until I hear from the duke himself, why should I concern myself with his mother's letter?"

  His eyes had gone black, two fathomless pits of cold fury— the sort of holes into which men once thrust their enemies to be starved and forgotten about. Oubliette. Yes, that was the name. Translated it meant, a little place for forgetting. "Those who spread gossip should have their tongues cut," he muttered. "As in the old days."

  "That is rather extreme, is it not?"

  "No."

  "There is not always malicious intent in the start of a rumor, Massimo. These little chirping birds tend to take on a life of their own once they are freed into the air, and they cannot be recaptured. I forgive. Everybody makes mistakes."

  Then, seeing his angry frown deepen and his jaw tense, she added cheerfully, "I am quite used to gossip. I do not require my honor defending. As long as the Duke of Malgrave does not mind that I am here, all is well. It will take more than a few unpleasant insults and suppositions to chase me off. Remember, this is the Republic of Flora. We do things differently here. I only care about the opinions of those I love, or those who have earned my respect."

  He looked at her steadily, until she began to feel as if he searched inside her for something. In effect, rummaged through her drawers, she mused. The darkness in his gaze ceased to be so cold and deep and forbidding. Instead it opened to her like a hidden closet of secret treasures and she was tempted to step inside.

  "What sort of woman are you?" he muttered. "You are not like any other."

  "I'm a pirate, sir," she replied proudly. "I always have been. I do not sail under any flag but my own, so the usual rules do not apply."

  Suddenly he reached over and placed his palm around her cheek, warming it. Her heart almost stopped and she was dizzy, the ground under her toes heaving like the deck of a ship on a stormy sea. Even the wind picked up, tugging on her hair and her skirt.

  "So they will talk about us anyway," he murmured. "Whatever we do or do not. Is that so?"

  "Except we are beehiving ourselves," she reminded him.

  "What happened to the pirate so bold and fearless?"

  "She's trying to sail this ship and keep it off the rocks. At her age, she's been through enough storms."

  The autumn breeze carried with it the scent of burning from the fields and a very light spittle of cooling rain. A few dead leaves blew around her skirt and across the yard Captain Fartleberries dug a hole to bury one of her best handkerchiefs. Somewhere in the distance Martha Grey wept as she hummed a country ballad and her husband cursed his rheumatism. Having bathed in a puddle by the water pump, a handsome crow now perched on the weathervane above the stables, lifted a wing, and used its beak to comb the gleaming black feathers. You might wonder why any of that is mentioned, but Flora would remember it always— marking every tiny detail later in her diary. For this was the moment he first kissed her.

  He did not ask permission.

  She barely had time to exhale a startled, "Oh, no!" before the deed was begun, his lips claiming hers with the same hungry intent as she had seen them devour breakfast on the day he arrived. As he drew her up against his chest she felt his heart beating just as fast as her own. He had been hard at work for hours already and perspired through his shirt, his coat and waistcoat long since discarded over a fence as he labored. He might as well have been naked.

  "Now why on earth would you do that?" she exclaimed, breathless. "I shall have to dismiss you, shan't I?"

  His eyes gleamed down at her, his arms holding her waist in a tight grip. "Try."

  She raised a hand to the back of his neck, under that long hair, where his skin was hot against her fingertips. "Just as soon as I—"

  And then the villain kissed her again.

  So much for Captain Fartleberries, her "trusted guard dog". On muddy paws he now chased a hen around the yard, with a light-hearted lolloping gambol that suggested he enjoyed the thrill of pursuit rather than any chance of capture. Not once did he look over to see the fate of his mistress at the hands of her insolent hired man.

  Well, not strictly hired, since he hadn't taken any payment yet.

  Or was this how he meant to collect his fee?

  Fortunately— or not— the interruption of wheels and hooves brought an abrupt halt to the second kiss. Stepping away from her in haste, both hands at his sides, lips pursed now in a soft, easy whistle, he went back to his work. As if his lips had only meant to make that tune in any case and her mouth had got in the way.

  Chapter Seventeen

  "Good lord!" Persey squinted at the distant figure as he pulled a cart of manure around the side of the stables. "That is the Italian? Joss did not describe him very well at all, but that's men for you. They never know which details are important. Hopeless!" She paused. "The fellow will catch his death outdoors without a coat this time of year."

  "I daresay he does not feel the cold. He must be...sweat...sweating. Look how hard he works." And they did look. Both of them. For a while. Until it began to rain and the strapping fellow disappeared into the stables.

  Flora could not help feeling rather proud of her "hired hand". He may not be as young as Josias Radcliffe, but he could certainly keep up, she thought, biting her lip to hide the hint of a smile. Her heart's beat had still not yet returned to its steadier rhythm. She wondered if her lips looked swollen. Pinker than usual. It felt as if they might be. She felt that way all over; her pulse throbbed and she struggled to catch a breath.

  Whoever would have guessed that his grace, the Duke of Malgrave, could kiss like that?

  "He is used to a warmer climate," said Persey as they went indoors. "You must take care of him, Flora. Are you sure the rooms above the stable are quite warm enough and free from drafts?"

  She released a chuckle then at her friend's motherly concern. "You make him sound like a racehorse. I'm certain he's capable of taking care of himself. When he's hungry he eats, when he's thirsty he drinks, and when he's cold he'll come in by the fire." And when he did not like her guest he sent him off without delay and by some method that she, as a lady, probably should not want to know about. "That's how it works. He's a grown man, not a baby." In fact, she would not dare try to manage him. Where would one even begin? He was a man who took charge of everything himself. She hugged her arms, suddenly feeling a shiver across her skin, but not of cold.

  Persey was looking at her oddly.

  "What now?" Flora demanded. "You know I'm not the fussing, maternal sort."

  "You are when it comes to Francis. You've always taken good care of your brother."

  "That is different. Francis needs me. Needed me. Massimo the Magnificent does not." Suddenly aware that she was pacing in a tight circle before the fire, she stopped. And then felt oddly adrift, her feet and hands having nothing to do. "He is entirely too capable. I do not believe he needs anybody. Least of all me. What could I possibly do for a man like that?"

  Her friend's eyebrows lifted in high arcs. "I have never known you lack confidence when it comes to the opposite sex."

  "That is not what I meant." But she did not know what she meant.

  "No wonder you've been too preoccupied to visit us, or write these past few weeks, Flora. I thought I had better come and see for myself that you had not worked yourself into exhaustion, or come to blows with the Italian. Now I see it is an entirely different calamity to any I had imagined."

  "Calamity? What calamity? As you see, all is well. He's most...helpful. More so than I expected. He has thrown himself into every aspect of work here, not just the vines."


  "Yes. So I see." Persey set down her muff and unpinned her bonnet. "But what of the rumors? Even at Holbrooke we have heard about your handsome new acquisition and I can promise you that the news did not come from Joss or myself. Tongues are wagging."

  "Massimo is merely my hired man! I am appalled...nay, disgusted," she thrust her pointed finger skyward, "that an elderly widow cannot pay a man to work for her without it causing a maelstrom of scandal. If I were a man— a widower— hiring maids to clean my house or milk cows, nobody would bat an eye."

  "I suppose not. But we both know how the world works. Sadly."

  "As I said to Massimo when he arrived, this is the Republic of Flora. I am in charge here."

  Persey reached over, with a gloved finger, and wiped a smudge of dirt from Flora's cheek. "That is all well and good, but do not go out of your way to make war with the neighboring countries. War is costly in more ways than one. Do not fan the flames."

  Her friend was always wise, a voice of calm reason. But today Flora could think only of the touch of his hands. Of his bold kisses. What did it mean? The Duke of Malgrave had always been so very proper and dignified. Now this. Oh, he had to go and complicate matters, didn't he?

  "But what of the Italian's fee, Flora? You can afford his services then?"

  "We are...discussing the matter," she replied primly. "It is private. Between us. And do not look at me in that manner. It's not as if there is anything going on. Of that nature. Ours is a business arrangement. I do not know why people must assume otherwise. He is pleasant enough, but there is nothing...good gracious, I am not a silly girl whose head can be turned by sight of a few well-hewn muscles."

  "You're most on edge today." Persey now removed her gloves, looking thoughtful. "You seem nervous. Guilty, one might say."

  "Really?" She laughed lightly, airily, brushing fingertips casually across her mouth. "I cannot think why."