Page 17 of The Devil to Pay

Davenport pursed her lips, giving him a measuring look that made his skin prickle. “Very well. I suppose you must finish the job you’ve been given properly. I’ll wait.”

Jules experienced a qualm of disquiet at the way she watched him and told himself he was being foolish. Yet he swore there was a glimmer of amusement in her eyes, and it set him all on edge again. Suddenly he felt a deal less sure of himself and, once the bucket and cloth had been properly put away, he did not feel quite so sanguine about spending time alone with her. Irritated, he followed her back to the house, taking mental notes all the while about the way she moved, about her rigid posture and her air of ruthless efficiency, and that damned umbrella that she seemed to carry with her everywhere.

The predicted snow had not yet materialised, though the rain that had fallen all day had finally stopped, and so she used the umbrella like a walking stick, stabbing the metal ferrule into the ground as she went. Jules wondered idly if there was a concealed blade inside the handle and decided he wouldn’t put it past her. The idea had merit, and he decided his caricature of the lady would certainly involve a hidden blade in her umbrella. She would probably use it upon any man foolish enough to flirt with her or open a door.

He had not yet determined what to call his lady. It needed to be close enough that she would know it was her, but without opening himself for a libel case, for he would not put that past her. Selina could become Melina. That was from the Greek, derived from Meli, for honey. Oh, sweet indeed, he thought with amusement. But Davenport… perhaps an anagram would work?

Before he could decide, he found himself back in the fragrant-smelling apothecary. It was a pleasant room, with bare red brick walls and a terracotta floor. The shelves and fitted cupboards were of solid oak with neat cream porcelain handles. On the large, scrubbed work bench sat a fat pestle and mortar, and bundles of dried herbs were suspended overhead.

Jules sat down, waiting for her to ring for a jug of hot water, which she duly did. She moved towards him, but there was a hesitancy about her today, an awareness that had not been there before. He looked up, feeling her critical gaze upon him but she looked away before he could catch her eye.

Fatigue born of early rising and hard work, and the draining nature of spending all day out in the cold had made his bones ache, and until this moment he’d had little time to consider anything else. Now, however, he wondered just what a dishevelled mess he must look. His hair did not turn into a frizzy cloud like hers did when damp, but it did stick out at odd angles, much to his annoyance. If his hands were anything to go by, he was also exceedingly dirty, and he was so desperate for a hot bath he had actually dreamed of his bathing room at Beverwyck last night, despite not having lived there for several years. In short, he must look a wreck, and the farthest thing from the sophisticated gentleman he prided himself on being. He was, therefore, very much at a disadvantage.

Jules told himself not to be so ridiculous. It was pointless feeling vulnerable because he wasn’t properly washed or dressed when she was wearing that ghastly gown. Good lord, did the woman not own a looking glass? It was the most repulsive shade of vomit green, and whilst a darker or lighter shade would have been lovely against the dramatic colour of her hair, this washed out, shapeless monstrosity was a crime against nature, not to mention her spectacular figure.

“Show me your hand.”

As ever, her tone made his temper spark, and it was with some difficulty he raised his hand for her inspection. She made an irritated sound and set about unwinding the bandage.

“I don’t know why I bothered,” she said, with an impatient shake of her head. “Soak it, if you please.”

Jules wondered what she would do if he didn’t please and entertained a lively vision of her tackling him to the ground as he tried to make his escape. Except the resulting tussle made his nether regions take a decidedly active role in the fantasy and he hastily put an end to it before it got too interesting.

Once both hands were cleaned to Boadicea’s satisfaction, she reached for the cream she’d used before and took off the lid. Still feeling a little restless because of his too active imagination, Jules snatched up the pot before she could take any of the cream and applied it himself. She sent him a curious glance but said nothing.

“The greenhouse is looking much better. I can’t wait for the spring. As you may have guessed, I love my garden. It was Mother’s garden, actually, but she died nearly three years ago. I’m merely the caretaker in charge of it, to tell the truth. Though the rose garden will be mine, I suppose. It’s the first addition I’ve ever made, you see. I think she would have liked it,” she said, an almost wistful note to her words.

Jules frowned, taken aback. Why on earth had she told him something so personal? He shot her a suspicious glance, irritated by the information she had revealed, for he did not wish to think of his nemesis as a real person with hopes and ambitions, a woman who had experienced loss. She was a cruel harpy with a sharp tongue who had nothing better to do than crush other people's dreams and deserved to be set down a peg or two, nothing more. But he felt uneasy all the same.

Wrong-footed and annoyed by it, he allowed Davenport to dab the cream over the torn blisters and to bind his hand up again with a clean bandage. He watched her as she worked, finding her competence rather soothing despite his irritation, and it was perhaps for this reason he was lulled into betraying himself.

“There, all done. I’m sorry it took so long. Does it feel better at least?”

“Yes, I thank you.”

Their eyes locked, and Davenport gave a triumphant cry. “Aha!” she said, her eyes alight with a victorious gleam. “I knew it!”

Jules surged to his feet, taking a step back as if she might do him bodily harm, which he would not put past her. That dratted umbrella was in reach, for one thing.

“Come, come, don’t be shy now,” she said, folding her arms. “You may well have been kicked in the head by a horse, but I do not think it has had any effect on your ability to speak.”

Jules glared at her, wondering what tack to take. He could shake his head and try to fob her off, but she was sharp, and he suspected that straight spine of hers was an indicator of a will of iron. She’d not let it be. He could try to disguise his voice, but his only attempts to do so in private had persuaded him that was unlikely to be convincing.

“I’ve nothing to say,” he said, his voice terse.

“Oh, really?” she replied, a sardonic quirk to her lips that was exceedingly provoking. “I rather thought you had a good deal to say to me. Surely you wish to tell me how a lady ought not to put herself forward and command a workforce like a man. I ought to leave it to my brothers, no doubt.”

Jules frowned. For as much as he disliked Davenport and the way she barked commands at him, it was not because she was a woman taking charge. If he were honest, he rather admired the way she ran the place… which it had been clear she did do, and single-handedly from what he could tell.

“No,” he said, deciding it was best to keep things simple.

She snorted at that, clearly disbelieving him.

“Why did you get your cousin—if he is your cousin—to tell me you don’t speak? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

Jules considered this. Well, he was in trouble, though perhaps not the kind of trouble she thought. He nodded.

Her expression clouded, though he thought it was concern in her eyes rather than anxiety, which just showed how wrong-headed the foolish woman was. She was alone in here with a man who might be a criminal for all she knew. The door was open for propriety’s sake, and he could hear the sounds emanating from the scullery down the corridor, but still. She was foolish to court such risks when she knew nothing about him.