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‘Certainly not.’ The agreement was unanimous.

So they would do it. The servants’ hall declared war. The result was a positive tour de force. A French banquet in exemplary fashion, served by Millington and the footmen with style and panache. The guests were impressed beyond measure. Millington, when asked, wielded French phrases as expertly as Mrs Beddows wielded her boning knife. The turbot à l’Anglaise (turbot without lobster sauce) was mouthwatering, the noix de veau à la jardinière (veal with fresh vegetables) exquisite, the côte de boeuf aux oignons glaces (roast beef garnished with glazed onions) a perfect dish, the meat cooked to a tender delight. As for the petits soufflés d’abricots—one of a handful of memorable desserts—what could one say? Olivia Wexford’s guests could not but be impressed.

The results were beyond expectation. Lord Joshua sent his compliments and words of approval to his housekeeper and cook with suave and amused appreciation. Never had he been host to so fine a banquet in his own home. Not a vestige of a grin was allowed to warm his stern features as he recognised Mrs Russell’s throwing down of a culinary gauntlet. It had certainly added an element of tension and comment to an otherwise tedious evening. A frisson of sheer pleasure.

The servants, flushed with effort and triumph, ate well from the left-overs and probably would do so for days. It was a pleasure to toast the achievements of Mrs Russell and Mrs Beddows in the half-dozen bottles of claret spirited magically from the proceedings in the dining room by a cunning and slick-handed Millington.

The Countess of Wexford was furious, her pleasure in the whole evening spoiled beyond measure, but unable to express her true sentiments in the face of such overwhelming satisfaction, particularly from Lord Joshua. She had lost this battle and had to accept it with a gracious smile and flattering words. Her fingers curled around her fruit knife like a claw.

So the evening ended with food for thought. A delicious pun, Lord Joshua thought, much entertained at having seen the light of battle in the eyes of his intriguing housekeeper. And there was an undoubted gleam in his eyes, a gleam that could be interpreted as pure mischief, as the Countess took herself off to her bed at the first opportunity without a word and a disgruntled flounce. He had not been so amused for many weeks.

There was no further discussion of a French chef.

Chapter Five

Very little communication occurred between the Faringdon households. Lady Beatrice kept silence and her distance, waiting for her son to visit her—which he deliberately chose not to do. Joshua visited his sister once at Painscastle House in Grosvenor Square on his arrival in England to exchange family news and other trivialities, but Judith had not returned the visit, partly because she had no wish to be forced into making polite and edgy conversation with the Countess of Wexford, or even to recognise that lady’s existence. More importantly because she did not wish to compromise Sarah’s situation in any way. Despite her shallow reputation and frivolous approach to life, Judith understood perfectly the reasons for Sarah’s reticence with regard to their friendship. The class division between Countess and housekeeper now yawned between them and Judith had no wish to embarrass her friend. But it concerned her that Sarah had refused all invitations to return to Painscastle House or even to accept a more casual arrangement to walk or ride in Hyde Park. Mrs Russell always had a good excuse, especially now that she had duties to Celestine as well as to the smooth running of Lord Faringdon’s establishment. Certainly, Judith might understand—but that did not necessarily mean that she would rest content with the estrangement.

In the end, when Sarah had once more cried off from a stroll in Grosvenor gardens, the Countess of Painscastle took matters into her own hands with high-handed Faringdon initiative. After discreet enquiries of Millington, she took herself to Joshua’s house at a time of day when she presumed that both her brother and his chère amie would be absent. She stood in the entrance hall to face the new and most supercilious butler, Millington.

‘Good morning, Millington. I would wish for a word with Lord Faringdon’s housekeeper—on a matter of business.’ Although why she should need to give a reason, she knew not.

‘Mrs Russell, my lady?’ Millington could hardly disguise his interest, which Judith promptly ignored.

‘Perhaps I could speak with her in the blue morning room. If you would be so good as to ask her to come?’

‘Very well, my lady. Would your ladyship require refreshment?’

‘No. All I need is a few moments of Mrs Russell’s valuable time.’

A short time later Sarah arrived with a carefully blank expression belied by a surprisingly fierce light in her blue eyes, followed by Millington, to come to a halt in the doorway of the elegant room where Judith was standing before the fireplace, removing her gloves. ‘You wished to see me, my lady.’

‘Indeed I did, Mrs Russell. There is no need for you to stay, Millington.’

He bowed and departed with ill-concealed disapproval and curiosity, in equal measure.

‘Sarah!’ Judith dropped all formality along with her gloves and parasol on the side table. Seeing the closed expression on Sarah’s face—much as she had expected, of course—she decided to approach the matter head on, immediately on the attack. She wasted no time. ‘Why have you not been to see me? And baby Giles? Should I suppose that you no longer wish to acknowledge me as a friend?’

‘Judith…’ Sarah drew in a breath against the obvious tactics. This would not be a comfortable meeting as she had known from the moment that Millington had delivered the message. If only she could have thought of some reason not to face Judith. But she could not, of course. A housekeeper could not claim the absolute necessity to clean out a fire-grate. ‘You know why I have not visited you. You should not have come to see me here. It will only give rise to unpleasant gossip.’

‘I told you it was a bad idea from the very beginning! I should never have allowed you to come here.’

Sarah could find nothing to say. Neither could she meet Judith’s gaze with its mixture of concern and hurt. But her own resentment died away. All she could do was answer the following catechism.

Are you well?’

‘Yes.’

And John?’

‘He is in good spirits—and enjoying living here, I think.’

‘How is Celestine?’

‘She seems to have settled in.’

Are you content?’

‘Yes.’ Sarah risked a glance. ‘I must thank you. I know you do not like it, but it was for the best.’

‘Sarah! Next you will be addressing me as my lady! In fact, you did just that when you came into the room!’ Judith almost hissed in annoyance. Except that sympathy for Sarah’s plight threatened to bring tears to her sharp and watchful eyes. She surveyed the folded hands, the deliberately quiet demeanour. The lack of any smile or sparkle in Sarah’s face. The plain gown and rigidly confined hair, the lace cap. All in all, the epitome of a competent housekeeper or governess! ‘You must not cut yourself off, you know. I am your friend.’

‘But it is not appropriate for me to be a close friend of the Countess of Painscastle. Indeed it is not, as you are well aware.’

And Judith was aware, but that did not make her retreat.

‘Nonsense. I shall inform Thea and insist that she come to see you and take you in hand if you continue to distance yourself in this manner!’

Which brought a smile to Sarah’s lips. Indeed, she laughed at her friend’s outrageous threat. ‘I thought you would already have done so.’ Which had the effect of spurring Judith into action. On impulse, oblivious to convention, she covered the expanse of opulent carpet between them to fold Sarah in a warm embrace and kiss her cheek.

‘Dear Sarah. You do not know your own worth—that is the problem. You must not allow the past to weigh on you so much.’ Judith kissed her again with another quick hug. ‘I have missed you.’

Only to become aware of the opening of the door into the morning room. And there, of course, stood Lord Joshua Faringdon, dark brows raised in total astonishment at seeing his sister warmly embracing his cool and icily reserved housekeeper. He looked from one to the other. They returned the look, green eyes quite defiant, blue ones with obvious discomfort, perhaps even shame. His mind worked furiously. He could think of nothing appropriate to the occasion to say.

‘Forgive me, ladies.’ He resorted to the banal. Executed a respectable bow, despite the discomfort. ‘It would appear that my presence is decidedly de trop. Judith—I shall be in the library—if you would care to see me before you leave.’ He turned his back, quietly closing the door behind him, leaving the two ladies to look at each other.

‘I shall have to tell him, Sarah.’

Sarah set her shoulders. It had to happen some time, she supposed. ‘As you will.’

And then I shall see if Lord Faringdon truly wishes to employ Sarah Baxendale under his roof!

‘Well?’

‘Well what, dear Sher?’ Judith cast herself down into a chair. Her brother remained seated behind the massive Chippendale desk, if not in comfort, at least where the sharp agony in his knee and thigh was most bearable. He folded his arms on the polished surface and regarded his sister with an accusatory stare.

‘Don’t play the innocent with me, Judith. I was aware, I believe, that you had recommended Mrs Russell for the post here. I certainly did not think to find you on such close terms—intimate even—with the lady. So tell me. Who is she?’

Could she bluff and keep Sarah’s cover? Judith had her doubts. She tried an ingenuous smile. ‘I have known Sarah Russell for some years.’

‘Come on, Ju! Perhaps you have. But you do not normally embrace your housekeeper with such obvious affection. I have wondered about her… Who is she?’

Judith sighed. But what did it matter? She would tell her brother the truth. If he did not wish to employ her—all well and good, even if Sarah would not see it in quite that light. It would rescue the lady from a situation that was, in her own eyes, unpalatable.

‘She is Sarah Russell. But her name was Baxendale. She is Thea’s sister.’ Judith awaited the explosion. She was not to be disappointed.

‘What?’

‘Theodora—who married Nicholas—when you were still in France.’

‘I know very well who Theodora is!’

‘Thea was brought up by Sir Hector and Lady Drusilla Wooton-Devereux. But she and Sarah are sisters.’

‘So with such a family behind her, what in the devil’s name is she doing as my housekeeper?’

‘She needed a position and an income—against my advice, I must tell you.’

‘I see.’ He tapped the papers in front of him into a neat pile with short, sharp gestures. ‘Why did you not tell me of this?’

‘You would not have approved. Even less than I. Sarah threatened to take a position elsewhere if not this one. She can be very determined. So I said nothing.’

He thought for a moment.

‘I thought she came from some genteel family who had perhaps born a child out of wedlock and been cast off by her family.’

‘No—nothing of that nature. She is indeed a widow. Her husband has been dead some five or six years now. A naval captain, killed in action.’

‘Wait a minute!’ Lord Faringdon fixed his sister with a fierce stare. ‘Baxendale. Baxendale, did you say? Edward Baxendale? Surely that was the name of the man who laid a claim against the Faringdon estates in the name of his sister—or his wife, as it turned out. I was in Paris so did not know the full gist of it, but I am aware that it rattled Lady Beatrice. She wrote to inform me of it, without one word of censure in the whole letter of my own errant behaviour, which was a miracle in itself. So—was that the name?’

‘Yes—yes, it was. Sarah is sister to Sir Edward Baxendale.’ Accepting the inevitability of it, she sat back in her chair and prepared to be communicative. Sarah would not approve, but her brother, as she knew, could be like a terrier with a rat. ‘It seems that I must tell you the whole story.’

‘I think you must.’ Joshua pushed to his feet, to limp across to the sideboard to pour two glasses of claret, handing one to Judith. ‘This may take some time.’

‘Yes. It is quite complicated.’ So she took a strengthening sip and told him. How Edward Baxendale had devised and executed a plot to present his own wife Octavia, masquerading as his sister, as the legitimate wife of Henry and Nicholas Faringdon’s eldest brother Thomas, who had died in a tragic accident. Thus Octavia would have a claim on the Faringdon estate and her child, Thomas’s son as she claimed, would be the Marquis of Burford. And how Sarah, under severe pressure from her brother, had allowed her son to be used in the charade as the son of Octavia and Thomas Faringdon and had herself taken on the role of nursemaid to the child. Such detail of which Joshua had been unaware.

‘And so,’ Judith concluded, ‘Sarah turned evidence, told Henry and Nick of the deceit, confessed her own part in it and broke all connection with her brother. Henry and Eleanor gave her refuge and—well, the rest you know. She was most cruelly treated by her brother, although she will never admit to it. She had no money of her own and the captain’s pension was very small. Edward threatened to turn her and her child from the door unless she agreed to his scheme. So she did—until she could stand the lies and deceit no more. The Faringdons took her to their collective heart. But Sarah has never forgiven herself for allowing her child to be used in the impersonation or for inflicting so much pain on Eleanor. So there you have it. The secrets and shadows in Sarah’s life. She believes that she has a debt to pay to our family and must make restitution.’ She fixed her brother with an unusually steady gaze, as if he might disagree. ‘She had been a good friend to Thea and Nick in their tumultuous love affair. I should tell you, Sher, I love her dearly and will not have her hurt.’

Joshua said no more throughout the unfolding of events, but his lips were pressed in a firm line when his sister rose to leave some hour later. Judith knew that he was not pleased. But of what troubled him most about the situation, she was unsure.

‘What the devil do you mean by this, Mrs Russell?’

Sarah had been summoned to the library. She knew it must be. And now she stood before her employer and, although his face was devoid of temper, he was finding it difficult to hide his true feelings. Probably, Sarah decided, outrage at having a Baxendale foisted on him without his knowledge. His grey eyes were dark and stormy now as they swept over her. Fierce, commanding. True Faringdon eyes. There was little point in pretending to misunderstand his furious—although patently unanswerable—question, but she had no intention of showing weakness or allowing herself to be bullied. Had she not promised herself that the days when she had bowed before a stronger will were all in the past?

‘Are you dissatisfied with my work, my lord?’ She folded her hands as Judith had seen them earlier, praying for composure. Her eyes, steady enough, met and held those of Lord Faringdon.

‘Of course I am not dissatisfied! How should I be?’

‘Then have I perhaps not fulfilled your wishes towards your daughter, sir?’

His lordship almost ground his teeth. He certainly dragged himself to his feet. He might have to lean heavily on his cane as he made his way across to the fireplace but he would be damned if he would conduct this interview sitting down. ‘Your work—or the quality of it, ma’am—is not the matter at issue here.’

‘Then I fail to understand your displeasure, my lord. If I have fulfilled the terms of my engagement as a member of your staff, I do not see the reason for your obvious disapproval.’ She marvelled at the steadiness of her voice, her ability to stand before him without flinching. She had often flinched when Edward had taken her to task. Had been reduced to tears on more than one explosive occasion. But that had been weakness. Now she was fighting for her independence. For the security and comfort of her son. Pride stiffened her backbone.

Lord Faringdon saw it, but was not to be deterred. ‘You are here as my housekeeper and my daughter’s governess under false pretences, madam.’

‘Hardly that, sir. My name is my own. I have made no attempt to hide my situation.’ Well, not very much. ‘I was appointed by your sister with your agreement. I have worked in your house for any number of weeks without difficulty or any cause for criticism.’

‘And Judith was in collusion with you, as you are very well aware!’

There was no possible answer to this. Sarah remained silent, waiting for the blow when he would surely dismiss her.

‘Why are you my housekeeper, Mrs Russell?’

‘I fail to see the reasoning behind that question, sir.’

‘The reasoning, as you put it, is that it is completely inappropriate.’ He would have paced the floor if he could. He was tempted to fling his cane into the fire-grate. ‘The daughter of a baronet? Your birth is as good as mine and yet you have put yourself in a position of servitude.’ He fumed. ‘Sister to my cousin’s wife. Close friend of my own sister—and, God help me!—my mother. You have actually lived with Judith and Simon… And with Hal and Eleanor in New York. And yet you say that you do not see why I should object?’

But why did he object so much? He looked her over with narrowed eyes. There was courage there, and an apparent fragility that had surprised a need in him to offer protection. He had been touched by her history as recounted by Judith. And astounded by the strength she had shown in asserting her independence. But was that all? Whatever stirred his blood to anger, it hardly mattered, did it? Quite simply, Mrs Russell should not be employed in his household.

‘I do not like it,’ he stated as if that settled everything. ‘It is not right.’

For Sarah, it settled nothing. ‘I can no longer live on the charity of those who have been kind enough to show me friendship. I need the money and the position, sir.’

‘Never!’

‘What do you know of such things? You have never been in the position of having to find the means to feed and clothe your child.’ A hint of desperation, even of futile anger, crept into her voice until she brought it under control with the faintest sigh. ‘What should you know of such needs, my lord?’

‘No, I have not been in such a position,’ he snapped, as if that too might be her fault. He frowned at her. ‘Who was your husband?’

‘A naval officer who was killed in the last year of the war. I have a small pension only.’

‘And your family?’ A slight flush brushed his cheekbones as he remembered the background of her troubled history and the antagonism of her estranged brother. He watched as the delicate colour fled from her cheeks, leaving her paper white, her eyes stark with distress.

‘I presume that Judith has informed you of my family, my lord.’ She would say no more.

‘I refuse to allow the situation to continue, madam.’

‘Then you must dismiss me, sir.’ She hesitated one moment and then asked the pertinent question. ‘Is it my birth you cavil at, Lord Faringdon—or my name?’

Ah! So there it was, he thought. Mrs Russell would have to live with her brother’s sins and her own involvement in them for the rest of her life. ‘No, it is not your name.’ He made an effort to gentle his voice. ‘That has no bearing. I find that I cannot find the words to explain to Nicholas’s wife why her sister is working below stairs in my house!’

‘I can understand if it is my name,’ she persisted. ‘Faringdons have every reason not to love those who bear the name of Baxendale.’

‘Nonsense! It is simply inappropriate, given your connection to my close family, that I should employ you.’

‘Then I hope you will give me references, my lord.’ She dropped a neat curtsy. ‘It would be difficult for me to obtain another position if I were dismissed without a recommendation, particularly after only a few weeks in your employment.’

Without waiting for permission to end the interview, before distress could overwhelm her tenuous composure, Sarah turned her back and stalked from the room, leaving Lord Faringdon with his mind in turmoil.

As Sarah swept through the doorway, Olivia was coming in, dressed as if she had just entered the house. She looked after the housekeeper, who had signally failed to acknowledge or even recognise her presence beyond the, briefest, curtest inclination of the head.

‘A most unpleasant, pert woman,’ she drawled, lips curving unpleasantly. ‘Take my advice, Joshua. You had far better dismiss her and appoint someone more suitable to a gentleman’s household.’

Which was exactly what Lord Faringdon had thought he should do—but for far different reasons.

The days passed, for Sarah, with tense anxiety in the air. She continued with her duties, efficient and outwardly calm as ever, yet waiting for her final dismissal as Lord Faringdon had threatened.

Yet it did not come.

Judith sent a letter of abject apology for being instrumental in revealing her friend’s true identity to Joshua. She never should have visited. She never should have told Joshua. But it was done and Judith hoped that her brother had the sense to leave things as they were if that is what Sarah wanted.

Sarah read the letter, silently accepting her friend’s apology. It would have happened eventually, she supposed. There was no point in dwelling on it or wishing for what could not be.

But she would continue to fulfil her duties so that Lord Faringdon should never have the excuse, whatever her family history, that she had failed to run his London home in a manner suitable to the establishment of a gentleman. If he dismissed her, it would be on his own unjustifiable whim. He must never be able to fault her application, particularly her responsibilities to the two children who were benefiting from regular lessons and regular routine. Beth continued to thrive and learn, to mother John, who regarded her with innocent worship in his blue eyes, even tolerating her sometimes sharp comments and quaintly adult remarks.

With the onset of a period of better weather, Sarah released the children after lunch to play in the railed gardens of Hanover Square. Something Beth had to learn to do, to laugh and to run as a child. Sarah doubted that the little girl had ever played in her life.

So the days were full for Sarah. She went to her bed at night in a state of utter weariness that allowed her to sleep without dreams. Which was a blessing indeed, she admitted as she rose early to secure her pale curls into a plain and serviceable knot beneath her lace cap and don her severe gown. Anything was a blessing that helped keep her mind from dwelling on the one man who caused her heart to flutter wildly and her breath to catch in her throat. Perhaps it would be better if she were dismissed, she thought in a moment of low spirit. Would it not be better if she no longer had to see him—every day unless she could deviously arrange it otherwise—and did not have to school her reactions to him to one of polite competence and self-effacement. Then there would be no possibility of his ever guessing…

But of course, she admitted, as she buttoned her unadorned bodice, reflected in the glass, he would never see her in the role of lover—she hissed at her reflection, at her immodest visions—or ever see her as anything other than housekeeper. Then she swept her image a mocking curtsy. Certainly not when he had the Countess of Wexford to amuse him and warm his bed.

Sarah flushed at her thoughts. She had no intention of sharing Lord Faringdon’s bed. How could she allow her mind to drift into such fantasies? Ridiculous! She was nothing to Lord Faringdon and nor did she wish to be. With firm steps she made her way down to the kitchen before her heart could betray her further.

She did, however, notice that he watched her.

Because Joshua had been left in a critical state of indecision, as he had stated, how could he explain to Nicholas and Theodora if he continued to employ Thea’s sister in a menial position in his household? But if he dismissed her, he was damnably sure that she would simply take a position elsewhere—and perhaps not a very suitable one. He knew of the fate of both housekeeper and governess in some households—neglected, imposed on, treated with such lack of respect as to be an insult. He could not accept that for Sarah Russell. But he recognised determination when he saw it. She would take up any position that enabled her to walk her own path and care for her son.

Nor was there any way in which he could make life easier for her under his own roof without being inappropriately obvious.

He did what he could, but quickly discovered that if she suspected any degree of preferential treatment on his part, she retaliated. He saw her with the children taking the air in Hyde Park, noting that she looked chilled to the bone in a velvet spencer not at all suited to the suddenly changeable weather. Without thought beyond her comfort, he arranged for a warm coat, styled very much in the fashion of a gentleman’s greatcoat with little epaulettes, discreet frogging on the front and in a flattering deep blue velvet, to be delivered to her room with a note explaining his desire that she should not die of cold when taking his daughter for exercise in the Park. The coat was returned with an equally polite note. Mrs Russell thanked his lordship, but had no need of such a garment. She had her own coat and a voluminous cape for cold weather if he was at all concerned. Lord Joshua Faringdon swore at the intransigence of women, but could hardly force her to wear it!

He tried again. When he discovered her intention to visit Judith on a particularly damp afternoon, taking John with her, he ordered the barouche to be available for her at the front door. Sarah stared at it in disbelief and ordered its immediate return to the stables. They would walk. The exercise would do them good.

All he could do was what Mrs Russell could have arranged for herself. Which gave him no satisfaction whatsoever. He insisted through Millington that fires be lit in the lady’s rooms and the schoolroom, with hot meals for herself and the children, both at lunch time and in the evening. A ready supply of paper and pencils and books and free access to his library. She need never ask for anything. But, of course, infuriating woman that she was, she never did.

For her life below stairs, she would have to fend for herself, but even here he was tempted into gallant and high-handed decisions to remove some of the burden from the lady’s slight shoulders. He need not have bothered, he realised with gritted teeth. He was soon left under no illusions when he went too far. After much thought, he arranged for Mrs Russell’s responsibilities to be shared by other members of the staff to allow her a full day of leisure every week rather than the usual afternoon at the end of every fortnight. Within less than an hour he found himself facing a highly displeased Mrs Russell in the breakfast parlour. Her voice never rose beyond its usual cool, light timbre, but the emotion that she brought with her into the room was inflammatory.

‘I find, to my amazement, that I have been relieved of all my duties for today.’ A pause. ‘My lord,’ she added.

‘Correct.’ He could not read her face, so tried for the noncommittal.

‘I am due to only half a day every fortnight.’

‘Today you are at liberty, Mrs Russell.’

‘I do not need it. It is unfair on your staff who have to take on my work. And who will teach the children?’

He had not thought of that. ‘The children can spend some time with me.’ God help me! ‘Surely you can find things to do with a whole day at your disposal?’

‘That is not the point at issue, my lord.’

‘As your employer, it is in my power to decide when and how you work.’

‘I am your housekeeper and your governess.’ Her eyes flashed like sapphires in a candle flame. Flashed with temper. He could now read her face perfectly. ‘My terms of employment were agreed with the Countess of Painscastle before you took up residence. I need nothing but the terms on which I first came here. I shall take the afternoon on Wednesday as arranged. My lord!’

Without waiting for a reply, she dropped a curtsy, picked up his empty plate from the table, turned on her heel and left him to enjoy his cooling cup of coffee.

Behaving just like any other servant in the house! Damn the woman! But, by God, she had been magnificent. And astonishingly beautiful when she allowed her fury to break its bonds.

Lord Joshua Faringdon, used to ordering matters to suit himself, might not have felt quite so dissatisfied with events if he had known the lady’s reactions to his chivalry. In a moment of idiocy before returning the splendid coat laid out for her, she had buried her face in the blue velvet—before dropping the soft fabric as if it burned her hands. It was lovely. She could not allow it. Must not. But it hurt to throw his gestures back in his face—such as dismissing the barouche when he had been so thoughtful. But then, she did not know what his motives might be.

Neither, to be fair, did his lordship.

But one thing he could do over which she had no jurisdiction. The time had come. The Countess of Wexford, he decided, had long outstayed her welcome. Wycliffe had been instrumental in her presence to strengthen his cover as a dilettante. He had seen the value of that on his return to London when gossip over his immoral ways had run rife, but enough was enough. Nor, suddenly, for some inexplicable reason did he wish to appear quite so unprincipled and lacking in moral decency. He could no longer tolerate her attentions, her clear designs on his time and his interest. Certainly he did not appreciate her heavily patronising manner toward Mrs Russell, a manner that had been allowed full expression since the incident of the French banquet.