“But I don’t have a decent frock-”
“I’ll have a dressmaker fit you for a new wardrobe by the end of the week,” Lady Powlis said, a Machiavellian gleam in her eye.
“But I-”
“Stop mumbling, dear. We shall worry about the particulars later. What do you need for the night? Whatever else can be sent for tomorrow.”
“Where are you going to put her?” Griffin asked suddenly.
“She can have the sarcophagus suite,” Lady Powlis replied.
Griffin sat forward. “The what?”
“It’s the stranger’s room, the one decorated àla Égyptienne, directly across from mine.”
The duke regarded Harriet with a smile more unsettling than anything he could have said.
She could hear Miss Peppertree calling the girls to close their books. “You mean leave this minute, ma’am?” she asked slowly. “Right in the middle of a lesson on garden parties, and-”
“You don’t have to agree,” the duke said again, his eyes narrowing.
What was she agreeing to?
The academy had become her haven. She felt safe here. How safe would she be in a sarcophagus with a young virile duke wandering about the place? She had gotten used to the lumps in her bed-she had gotten used to a bed.
The Boscastles had educated and protected her. The duke was a Boscastle, too. Still, there had been nothing protective about the dark kisses he had coaxed from her on the staircase.
She could not turn her back on the school.
On the other hand, she could not stay here forever, watching Miss Peppertree grow bonier and afraid of every duke who crossed her path.
“Are you positive you have the spine for this position, Miss Gardner?” the duke asked from his chair. “I’m putting my head on the block as I say this, but you should know that every companion my aunt has employed left her position within a month.”
“Fetch a bag, Miss Gardner,” Lady Powlis ordered her.
Harriet would never admit it, but she looked up to Charlotte as the sister she had always wished for. Why hadn’t Charlotte fought to keep her on, then? The Duchess of Scarfield ought to have a say in this, as well.
She could have cried.
She shook her head again. “I-”
“By this time next week,” Lady Powlis said with remorseless pleasure, “you will be attending a garden party. Assuming that Griffin doesn’t spoil the day by raising another of his storms.”
Harriet bolted from the room.
Charlotte was standing right outside the door. They stared at each other in wordless concern, then turned to listen to the conversation between Griffin and his aunt.
“This is the worst idea you’ve had in ages,” the duke said quietly. “Perhaps the worst one ever.”
“Do you have something against my companion, Griffin?”
“Don’t be silly. I do not even know her. Neither do you.”
“But don’t you like her?”
“What the devil difference does it make if I do? As I’m not hiring her to live with me, my feelings are not particularly relevant, are they?”
“Will she distract you?”
Charlotte put her hand over her eyes.
“Probably,” the duke replied in a clipped tone, “although not as much as you or Edlyn have.”
Charlotte groaned. Harriet patted her absent-mindedly on the arm.
Lady Powlis was quiet for a moment. “You have no particular wish to take me shopping for stockings and hats, do you?”
“Of course not,” he said annoyedly. “But there are other ladies in our family, in London, who would probably enjoy spending such moments with you.”
“Not ones who make me laugh.”
Harriet swallowed, pulling Charlotte from the door. “What should I do?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” Charlotte whispered back. “What do you want to do?”
“I want to stay with you-”
“Then fine-”
“-and I want to go.”
She stared at the door.
With him.
Charlotte drew a sigh. “You can always come back. Unless something unpredictable comes to pass.”
Harriet hugged her in gratitude. She understood the unspoken conditions of her release. She could return to her position unless she disgraced herself or so displeased Lady Powlis that no one would consider her for any decent employment again.
“Go and get your things,” Charlotte said with a resigned smile. “At least if I am to lose you, it is to another Boscastle.”
Chapter Ten
The Devil, I safely can aver, Has neither hoof, nor tail, nor sting, Nor is he, as some sages swear, A spirit, neither here nor there, In nothing-yet in everything.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
Peter Bell the Third
Griffin’s official London residence was a white-stone town house in Bedford Square that his father had visited only on the occasional summer. The Georgian front door opened onto a marble entry-way lined with twelve ceiling-high columns, which stood like sentinels of a forgotten time. The rear garden was overgrown with weeds and boasted a quaint classical temple in its midst that had been taken over by pigeons.
Griffin would not have chosen to live in this fancy, unfriendly house in a hundred years. The looped damask curtains reeked of mildew and had not been opened since his mother’s death twenty years ago. His brother had admired the Gothic design, which featured a pedimented urn or recessed caryatid every time one turned a bloody corner. The only cheerful room in this house was the library, and Griffin all but encamped there. He seemed to be unduly drawn to warmth since he had arrived in London.
It was only as Harriet tiptoed into the hall that he noticed the front door had a lacy ironwork fanlight and that her eyes glowed like a cat’s in the dark.
“I told my nephew that there is little point in wasting money on renovations yet,” Lady Powlis said, removing her pelisse. “Not when the future duchess will want to have a say in things. Her tastes will undoubtedly run counter to mine. The duke, I suspect, does not care one way or the other. He will never like this house. I am not particularly fond of it myself. Nor was my sweet sister-in-law.”
Harriet stared up the yawning black staircase. “It wouldn’t hurt to open the drapes here and there, would it?”
She turned, emitting an involuntary shriek as a stooped gray-haired butler appeared from one of the columns to take her cloak. Griffin grinned. He couldn’t think of the old fellow’s name at the moment, but he’d been sneaking up behind people, and giving them a scare ever since Griffin could remember.
He stared at Harriet. “Well, what do you think?”
“It’s lonely.” She shivered slightly. “And a bit eerie. No wonder Lady Powlis wanted company.”
He bent his head to hers. “You’re going to regret this.”
“Am I?”
He stared down at her mouth, dropping his voice. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
“Stop whispering in my companion’s ear like that,” his aunt said from the staircase. “You’re going to give her the impression that you’re as decadent as everyone says you are.”
“Do you suppose,” he asked Harriet very quietly, “that she and I may share you?”
Harriet lifted her brow, stepping carefully around his unmoving form. “It would be an honor to pick out your hankerchief in the morning and carry your reticule while we take brisk walks to build your stamina.”
“There is nothing wrong with my stamina, I assure you.”
“Well, maybe we can wear you out.” She whirled. “A little exercise never hurt anyone.”
He started to reach for her, a dangerous impulse, and then lowered his hand. What would he do if he caught her? His aunt had claimed her without a thought to the temptation she had put in his path. Not that he begrudged Primrose the right to seek such pleasant company. He had no desire to entertain the old lady every night.