Unveiled (Turner, #1)

“There’s one last thing,” Mrs. Benedict said, coming to a halt. “I have standards for the conditions under which my girls must work.”


“In my London townhouse, I grant my servants a half day every week and a pair of full days each month.”

She let out a puff of air. “That’s not what I meant.” She squared her shoulders fiercely and then looked up. “I insist on this, Mr. Turner, as a condition of my employment. You and your brother are young, healthy males. I’ll not have you imposing on my girls. They’re from decent families. It’s not right to put them in a position where they can’t truly say no.”

Ah. Those sorts of working conditions. Ash had a feeling he was going to like Mrs. Benedict.

“You won’t have to worry about my brother,” Ash said. Unfortunately. “As for myself, I didn’t get where I was by indulging my wants indiscriminately. Besides, I had a sister, too. I couldn’t use any woman so cavalierly without her memory intruding.”

What he had planned for Miss Lowell could hardly be considered cavalier. He considered it more along the lines of a regular campaign.

But Mrs. Benedict must not have heard that unspoken caveat. She gave him a sharp nod. “You’re not what I expected, sir.”

“I’m not what I expected, either.”

She let loose a sharp chortle and reached into the pocket of her apron. With a metallic clink, she withdrew a chatelaine, heavy with keys, and unfastened the clasp of the ring. “I believe you.” She fished around and removed one. “Here.”

He held out his hand.

“It’s the master key.” She placed it into his waiting palm. “If you misuse it, I’ll have your ears, duke’s heir or no.”

The key she put into his hand was heavy iron, the bow fashioned into wrought curlicues. Interwoven amongst those was the stylized sword that was so prominent on the Parford coat of arms. Ash stared at it in bemusement before shoving it into a pocket. Mrs. Benedict, however, was already opening the door onto a long hallway, her interview of him concluded. She marched away as if she were the commanding general. Ash shrugged and followed after.

“Now,” she said as he came abreast of her once more, “tell me of your dining arrangements. Shall I manage the menus, or do you need to be consulted?”

“I trust you. But speaking of dining, it occurs to me that my brother and I make dreadfully uneven numbers. Once the rest of my men arrive from London, there will be no remedying that, not with any influx of women. But for this evening…” He trailed off invitingly.

Mrs. Benedict frowned as she walked. “Well, there’s the Misses Duprey, Amelia and Catherine, over north of Yeovil. They’d be delighted with an invitation. Further afield, we might think of Lady Harcourt’s daughters—a bit on the young side, fourteen and sixteen. Though Lady Harcourt wouldn’t mind in the least—she’s eager to marry them off.”

Ash choked. God. A fourteen-year-old child. He wouldn’t know what to say to such a creature.

“No,” he choked out. “Not Lady Harcourt. Definitely not her daughters.” Whoever they were. When he became the duke, he would have to know who these people were. He’d have to figure out the best way to accomplish that—after all, it wasn’t as if he would actually read a copy of Debrett’s. “Nor the Misses Duprey, whoever they might be. The lack of feminine conversation, you see, will be felt in a few hours’ time—and I doubt Lady Harcourt would forgive me if I sprung an invitation on her with no notice at all. No, Mrs. Benedict. I was thinking more along the lines of…you.”

This last line was delivered as they stepped from the hallway into the grand entryway.

“Me!” The housekeeper’s mouth dropped open. She stopped walking—right in the midst of the grand tiled hall—and clutched her skirts. She turned to him and peered into his face. Perhaps she was looking for telltale signs of madness. Finding neither rolling eyes nor froth at his lips, she shook her head.

“Me?” She managed to turn the syllable into a question. “I’m no lady to be taking my meals with the master. I’m a servant, sir, and a good one. I wouldn’t know—that is, I couldn’t carry on a conversation with a duke’s heir.”

“Nonsense,” Ash said. “You’ve done precisely that, this past half hour. You’ve watched the Dalrymples, haven’t you?”

At her faint nod, he smiled. She was already disposed to like him, however tentative that feeling was on her part. Now it was time to foster that delicate inclination.

He heard a noise from upstairs, as of a door closing. After a few moments, the quiet echo of footsteps in the upper gallery followed. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled.

“Can I tell you a secret? You must know the family history—that there was bad blood between the Turners and the Dalrymples, that my brothers and I grew up in near poverty.”