Delilah Marvelle – Prelude to a Scandal (страница 3)

The door eventually reopened.

Justine drew back her hand and announced in her sternest tone, “Name your price, sir, or I shall be forced to name mine.”

The butler smirked, clearly amused, and adjusted his snug livery. “I can assure you, my lady, I am not one to be bought.”

“Whilst I can assure you, sir, I am not one to be turned away.” Justine pulled out the pistol from her reticule and pointed it straight at his chest. Her forefinger played with the trigger as she boldly stepped toward him, wishing it really was loaded. “I recommend you step aside.” If need be, she’d thwack him on the head with the butt of her pistol and dash right in.

The man froze and wrinkled his pudgy nose as if realizing the residue dusting her entire frame was gunpowder. He scrambled backward and silently extended his thick, gloved hand toward the hall behind.

“Your cooperation is greatly appreciated.” She entered the large hall, still keeping the pistol pointed at him. Her heeled slippers clicked across the Italian marble floors as the delicate, sweet aroma of cigars teased her nostrils. She sniffed. Since when did Bradford smoke cigars?

A rapid, bristling sound caused Justine to snap the pistol toward the candlelit receiving room on the left. She paused and blinked in astonishment. For there, on all fours, was a young male servant in full livery wearing a ruffled, white apron. And of all things, he was scrubbing the floor as though he were a housemaid!

The young servant paused, clearly sensing she was watching him. He heaved out a long breath, as if his mother had died, then dipped the horsehair brush into a pail of soapy water and resumed his rapid scrubbing.

The butler shut the door and nervously glanced back at her as he fastened each bolt. “I hope you do not mind waiting whilst I inform His Grace of your arrival.”

Justine swiveled the pistol back to the butler. “So His Grace can altogether escape through a back door? I think not.” She readjusted her grip on the pistol, trying to exude deadly confidence, and purposefully stared him down. “You’d best take me to him.”

She stepped farther back toward the curving mahogany stairwell and eyed the gray silk lampas walls decorated with gold framed mirrors and oversized family portraits.

Nothing had changed. What is more, it reminded her of the first night she’d stepped into this house. That enchanted night when she and her parents had privately dined with the duke in honor of their return from Africa.

She’d been so impressed. But what had impressed her far, far more than the massive, ornate home that night—and thereafter—was the Duke of Bradford himself. A more dashing, charming and intelligent man she’d never met. Of course, her parents had argued that anything would have been impressive to an eighteen-year-old who’d been residing in canvas tents and grass huts since the age of seven.

The butler blew out an exhausted breath and stalked past. He gestured toward the stairwell. “If you please, my lady. The duke’s bedchamber is this way.”

Justine’s heart skipped as she gawked up after the butler, who was already mounting the stairs. Circumstances aside, was it crass to admit to herself that she’d always wondered what the duke’s bedchamber looked like?

The butler paused midway up the winding staircase and glanced down at her.

She cleared her throat and lifted the hem of her gown from around her feet, trying to remain calm. She was not going to melt into a puddle. After all, a woman had to retain some amount of pride and dignity, no matter how scandalized she was.

Still keeping the pistol leveled at the man, she moved up the stairs. When she alighted onto the landing, she bustled straight down the wide corridor, trying to catch up with the butler who had left her far behind, moving with the grace of an elephant at full speed.

The silence grew more pronounced. Glancing toward a passing row of portraits, Justine slowed her pace and paused before a rather stunning portrait of a young woman dressed in a flowing, white brocaded gown. Her large gray-blue eyes stared at Justine with a wrenching beauty that managed to be both provocative and shy.

The candles set within the wall sconces emitted just enough light to cast a perfect, warm glow upon the woman’s face, whilst shadowing the rest of the painting. Her pale skin was smooth, and gathered blond curls framed her face. A playful little smile lingered on her lips.

Justine lowered the pistol and blinked. Who was this beautiful woman to Bradford? A sister or a cousin she did not know of? Or was it—heaven forbid—his mistress? He was indeed always known to surround himself with less than reputable ladies, which sadly, if she believed the rumors, had brought him to his current physical state.

“You demand to see His Grace, yet you show no urgency?” the butler tossed back at her from up ahead.

Justine cringed and hurried down the passageway.

The butler opened a paneled door at the far end of the walkway and disappeared inside. Justine followed, entering a bedchamber that was about the size of a field.

She froze as the butler strode past an enormous four-poster bed draped with heavy, velvet burgundy curtains. The pillows, linens and coverlets were all in disarray.

The butler halted before a closed door on the other side of the room that adjoined another chamber. He cleared his throat and knocked. “Your Grace. Forgive the intrusion, but Lady Palmer is here. She insists upon a private audience and ardently awaits your attention within the confines of your bedchamber.”

Justine gestured with the pistol in complete exasperation. Why, the man made her sound like a wanton! As if she did this sort of thing all the time.

There was a movement, followed by a rather loud splash of water against porcelain.

Blessed be her soul, was the duke bathing?

A deep voice suddenly boomed from the other side, “Do my orders mean nothing? You’ve barely worked here a Goddamn week! I replaced the last butler for less.”

The butler winced and adjusted his livery, shifting from boot to boot. “Yes. I realize as much, Your Grace. But I should probably point out that aside from the pistol she is toting, and the threats she is spitting, given the time of night, I was rather concerned about turning her away. Her overall appearance is rather … disturbing.”

Justine cringed and glanced down at her daffodil gown, which was smeared with enough gunpowder to warrant an arrest in the name of public safety. And to think, she had worn her finest.

There was muttering from behind the door, followed by an aggressive splash of water within the tub. “Leave us. I will ring when it is time for you to escort her home. Which you will, Jefferson. As punishment. I also intend to temporarily suspend your wages.”

“Uh … yes, Your Grace.” The butler turned, set his thick chin a tad higher above his collar and strode toward her, never once meeting her gaze.

Justine sighed and couldn’t help but feel remorse. Shoving the pistol into her reticule, she held it out. “Take this, Jefferson, along with my sincere apologies. Rest assured, it was never primed or loaded. I shall see to it His Grace does not hold you accountable.”

The butler paused and lifted a thick brow, silently acknowledging her apology. He plucked the weighty reticule from her hand and strode out, shutting the door behind him.

One less soul to worry about. Justine blew out a shaky breath and turned to the closed paneled door leading to the bath chamber. If only she weren’t so worried about Bradford. That dark, overly agitated voice sounded nothing like him.

After all, once upon a time, the whole of London could be burning and the man would have still retained that playful lilt in his voice and that devious twinkle in his eye. He’d never been one to easily ruffle and knew how to make everyone, right down to a tinplate worker, feel as though they were all equal peers. Libertine though he was, yes, a more genuine and kind soul she’d never met.

Her pulse throbbed against her ears as she eyed the faint light peering through the crevices of the door. “Bradford?” He’d always preferred being addressed as such.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” he demanded. “Do you not realize you have a responsibility toward yourself and toward my name?”

Her brows rose. Since when did Radcliff Edwin Morton, the fourth Duke of Bradford, ever touch upon the hour or respectability?

Justine edged toward the direction of the bath chamber, curious as to what she would find on the other side of the door. Realizing she was almost an arm’s reach away, she halted. What on earth was she doing? The man was bathing, for pity’s sake. And unlike the African Bushmen and Hottentots, who kept their genitals bound in straps of leather even whilst bathing, she doubted he did. She wet her lips, trying not to imagine what was below his waist, lest she forget her reason for calling on him.

She fidgeted, knowing she should try to be civil. She was interrupting his bath. “It’s been quite some time since we’ve last seen each other,” she managed. Exactly two hundred and fifty-seven days. “Are you well?”