Page 100 of Regency Whispers: Scandalous Matches

Miss Stick was his trusted housekeeper of the London townhouse. Employed by the family for decades, she was a stiff and proper woman in her fifties with a good head for household accounts and just the right mix of authoritarian discipline and warmth to mean servants under her command were fiercely loyal and hardworking. No doubt, at half past midnight Miss Stick and the small complement of servants in the house were long asleep.

He had not sent word he was returning to England. Throughout his journey back he kept telling himself he would write to his mother, to Maria, to his steward to alert them of his plans to return to the country, but he never had. If he searched his soul he knew it was because he had wanted the chance to change his mind, even up until the boat docked and his feet touched English soil.

‘Home,’ he murmured as he touched the railing outside his house for the first time in many months. It was a strange feeling: for so long he had thought he would never see home again, convinced he would go to die in some foreign country surrounded by strangers. It was surreal to be back, and for much of the last few weeks he had felt as though he were floating through a dream.

He contemplated knocking at the door and decided against it, instead slipping round the side of the house and going through the gate into the small back garden. There were stairs here that led to the kitchen at basement level, and unless things had changed drastically he knew where Miss Stick hid the spare key.

A smile formed on his lips as he reached up to the lip above the door, his fingers closing around the cool metal of the key to the back door. He put it in the lock, turned it and slipped into the house.

Tomorrow it would be a surprise for the housekeeper to find him returned, but tonight at least the servants could sleep. There would be one bedroom at least kept ready for guests, for he was not the only person to use the house. Maria would often make the trip to London to visit friends and family, and less often his mother would too. He knew they weren’t here now, though, for he had received a letter from his mother just before he had left Italy telling him that Maria and the children had just returned from London for the summer and that she was pleased to have them back in Northumberland.

Quickly he secured the door behind him and made his way through the kitchen and upstairs to the main part of the house. In the darkness everything looked the same as it always had, and he felt a sense of familiarity and comfort wash over him.

Upstairs he paused outside the bedroom door. There was a chance that his bedroom was not made up ready for someone to sleep in, but if that were the case he could check the others and choose one where the sheets were fresh to lie down on for the night.

He opened the door, surprised to find the room fresh and cool, a slight breeze blowing in through the open window. It was only open a crack, just enough to air the room and keep it at decent temperature despite the humidity outside. It was unlike Miss Stick to allow a window to stay open all night. She would normally cite the crime rate in this part of the city, figures Simon would not be able to refute but which seemed much higher than he would have imagined.

The curtains in the room billowed slightly with the breeze, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness of the room. Outside, the moon was obscured by the heavy clouds that still threatened rain despite the days of downpours, and it was hard to see anything beyond the outline of the furniture. He took a few steps towards the large bed and felt the covers, relieved to find bed-sheets under his fingers. Quietly he closed the door and began to undress. His luggage would follow, and he was too weary to go digging through drawers to find any nightclothes so instead he stripped naked to the waist, throwing his clothes onto the chair that sat in the corner of the room, then gripped the bed-sheets and climbed into bed.

As soon as his body slipped between the sheets he knew something was wrong. There was a warmth there that shouldn’t have been, the sort of warmth that can only come from a body. Tentatively he reached out, and his hand brushed against warm skin. For a moment he lingered, too shocked to move, and then he felt the person in his bed rolling over. Quickly he scrambled back, but it was too late. A hand shot out and grabbed hold of his wrist, and in the darkness he saw two wide eyes shining in an otherwise pitch-black room.

The woman screamed. It was the loudest sound he had ever heard, a scream filled with terror. He could not imagine anything more petrifying than finding someone else climbing into bed with you at night when you thought you were safe and alone in your room, so he did not blame her, but the sound pierced through him and made it impossible to reassure her.

From somewhere above he heard clattering as servants leaped out of their beds and rushed towards the stairs that would lead them here.

‘I mean you no harm,’ he said as calmly as he could muster. ‘I am sorry.’

His words took a moment to penetrate the noise, but after a few seconds the screaming stopped and was replaced by a quiet whimpering.

‘Miss James, is that you?’

‘Yes,’ she replied after a moment, scrambling to pull the bed-sheets up around her.

‘My sincerest apologies. I did not know you would be in London.’

‘No,’ she murmured, ‘I don’t suppose you did.’ There was a pause as she tried to compose herself, and then she said with more authority, ‘It is not Miss James anymore, my Lord. You may have forgotten our marriage, but by law I am still Lady Westcroft.’

Her voice was cool, almost cold, and if the servants hadn’t arrived at that very moment he thought she might go on to say more.

‘My apologies, Lady Westcroft,’ he said quietly.

‘What is happening?’ Miss Stick said as she rushed into the room, dressing gown billowing around her, cotton mob cap on her head. ‘Lord Westcroft?’

Another servant, a maid he did not recognise, came rushing in behind Miss Stick followed by a young footman. The maid was holding a candle, and finally there was light in the room.

He surveyed the scene, a sinking feeling in his stomach. This was not how he had hoped his homecoming would unfold. He’d wanted to slip in, largely unobserved, and make quiet enquiries to bring himself up to date with the world he had left behind before everyone found out he was home. Instead probably every house on the square would know of his midnight return by the morning, no matter how firmly he pressed his servants on the need for discretion.

Simon breathed deeply and then adopted his most commanding tone.

‘I am sorry to have disturbed you all. I thought to return without waking the whole household but was not aware Lady Westcroft was in residence.’ Momentarily his eyes met his wife’s, and then she looked away. ‘Please return to your beds and go back to sleep.’

The maid and the footman turned immediately, but Miss Stick called out to stop them.

‘The candle, Mary. You cannot expect Lord and Lady Westcroft to be left in the dark.’

The maid blushed and quickly placed the candle on the mantelpiece before curtsying and hurrying from the room.

Miss Stick waited until they had left and lowered her voice.