He pulled out the chair. “If you please.”
She didn’t see how she could refuse him. So she put her feather duster aside, smoothed her uniform and took the seat he proffered.
“The first move will be yours,” he announced. “Or”—he seemed to consider—“maybe I should give you three or four.”
“You are so confident you can beat me?”
That she would question his assumption caused him to arch his eyebrows, as if it was inconceivable for him to think anything else. “I fear I can do it quite handily, but I am hoping for a challenge, a true diversion.”
Rachel had played many hours of chess with her mother during the long winter evenings when her father worked at the mine. Even Geordie knew how to play and was quite good. “Then I shall do my best to provide one.”
Intent on that, Rachel slid her pawn forward, but she hadn’t yet retracted her hand when he grabbed hold of it.
“What is this?”
When she winced at the pain his grip caused, he let go. “Nothing,” she said. “Your move.”
“Nothing?”
“They will heal. It’s the… the lye and other chemicals I clean with.”
She slipped her hands under the table. They were unsightly, apparently too unsightly for his view. Except for that one night in his bed, when she’d felt him touching her, he kept a glove on at all times to hide the damage the fire did. He had it on even now. If she hadn’t been so caught up in his odd request to give him a game she would’ve known better than to let him see.
“I have yet to notice another maid’s hands so cracked and sore.”
“I apologize. We don’t have to play.” She started to stand, but he got up and insisted she remain in her seat.
“Wait here.” He headed for the door.
“My lord, please. Say nothing to Mrs. Poulson.” Rachel couldn’t believe she’d uttered those words. She had no right to tell him what to do. But she could not afford to make Mrs. Poulson hate her any worse. “It will not help me,” she added more quietly.
“It absolutely will.” He ground out each word as if it were a separate sentence. He simply could not imagine that Mrs. Poulson would disobey him. But he had no idea the many petty reprisals the housekeeper would have in store. Rachel was so convinced that whatever he was about to do would prove her eventual ruin that she nearly fled. It was the thought that she’d never see Geordie again that stopped her—the same thought that had stopped her all along.
Her palms were sweating by the time the earl returned with Mrs. Poulson in tow. Although the housekeeper carried a tray of bread, cheese, nuts and apples, which she brought in and set on the desk, she’d obviously been in bed and was not pleased to have been summoned from sleep.
“What is it she’s told you, my lord?” she demanded as she turned to face Rachel. “It must be a lie. She has been nothing but trouble since she arrived—always up to the devil’s mischief.”
“I find it difficult to believe that she has been up to much of anything other than scrubbing night and day.” He strode over and held Rachel’s hands out as proof.
Mrs. Poulson’s lips pursed. “Such is the nature of the job.”
“It’s barbaric.”
“She must be allergic to the soap,” she said, trying a different tack. “I have barely had her do a thing since you brought her to me.”
“Which was why she was waiting for me to retire so that she could dust in here at”—he glanced at the clock—“midnight?”
Mrs. Poulson sent Rachel a withering glance. “Perhaps she was looking to achieve more than the completion of her chores.”
His jaw hardened. “If she wants that, she knows where my bed is.”
Rachel was embarrassed by his response, but she was glad he hadn’t let the housekeeper get the best of him when she resorted to that reminder.
“She never even mentioned that her hands were sore!” Poulson said. “I would have adjusted her duties if only I had known.”
It was far more likely she would’ve gloated, but Rachel kept her mouth shut.
“Well, now you know,” the earl said. “She will not be required to scrub anything until her hands have completely healed. Do you understand? No”—he shook his head, then pointed a finger at Mrs. Poulson as if she had better mark his words—“she will not be required to do any work that requires the kinds of chemicals that cause this ever again. Do I make myself clear?”
“Surely your favoritism extends too far, my lord. How will she be of any use to me? To this house?”
At first he didn’t seem to know how he wanted to answer. Rachel was afraid he’d decide there really was no use for her. She couldn’t go back to the shop; no one frequented it anymore. She couldn’t return to the mine. And now she couldn’t work as a maid?
At best Rachel felt she could expect him to offer her a few extra pounds and a reference so she could go elsewhere. But then his gaze landed on the chess set. “I require a chess partner. Nightly. It will be her job to entertain me.”
Mrs. Poulson’s nostrils flared with disapproval. “Might I caution you, my lord, that such an arrangement would be unseemly for a man of your station?”
“I doubt others could think any worse of me than to believe I murdered my wife, Mrs. Poulson. And Rachel’s reputation is already ruined. You alluded to that fact yourself—indelicately, I might add—so I can do no more damage there.”
“I was concerned about… that other matter.”
“What other matter?” he asked.
“Concerning the Duke of Pembroke.”
“I’m sure you were.”
“It’s true! We both know what is at stake, my lord. I care only for your ultimate well-being.”
Rachel could scarcely breathe as she listened. What were they talking about? From the look on the housekeeper’s face, the “matter” she’d mentioned was serious, even ominous, but the earl didn’t address whatever it was.
“Please have her moved into Lady Katherine’s chambers immediately. She will be sleeping there from now on.”
At this, Rachel almost objected herself. She could not trust such benevolence. How long would Lord Druridge be able to tolerate such an arrangement—a maid living in his late wife’s chambers?
“My lord—” she started, but he angled his head to indicate the game.