Ever a Princess Page 6

  "Then he's a gentleman like yourself."

  "I'm not sure either of us qualify for the title of gentleman," Adam said. "But he's my friend nonetheless. My closest friend." His voice held a warning note to remind Isobel that O'Brien was a friend and she was staff.

  "Very good, sir." Isobel understood the warning. "I'll prepare a room for Mr. O'Brien." She bobbed a slight curtsy.

  "Thank you."

  "The staff will await you in the library, sir, when you've finished your breakfast and completed your morning ablutions."

  Adam quirked an eyebrow in question.

  "They expect to be presented, sir."

  "Please ask the members of the staff to assemble in the library in half an hour," Adam instructed. "And ask Mr. O'Brien to join me here."

  "Very good, sir."

  Adam waited until the sound of the housekeeper's footsteps faded on the stairs before he lifted the breakfast tray off his lap and placed it on the table beside the bed. He flipped back the covers and climbed out of bed. Pulling the coverlet off the bed, Adam wrapped it around his waist, holding it with one fist as he padded barefoot across the cold floor to the privacy screen in the corner of the bedchamber.

  He answered the call of nature, then made his way to where his suit hung on the door of the wardrobe. The top drawer of the wardrobe was opened, and his shirt and linen undergarments were dried and neatly folded inside it. His boots stood beside the wardrobe, and his leather saddlebags hung on a brass hook inside the wardrobe door.

  Adam let the coverlet fall to the floor as he removed his trousers from their hook. He stepped into his underwear and trousers and pulled his shirt over his head. Still shivering with cold, he retrieved his boots and saddlebags, silently thanking the brave soul who had ventured out in the cold rain to tend to his horse and claim his belongings. Adam hopped from one foot to the other as he crossed over to the fire and set his boots on the hearth to warm. He stoked the peat fire, stirring the embers into a small flame before he made his way back across the room to the washstand. Christ! He was so cold his teeth were chattering. No wonder Bascombe sold the place. The rest of the world was enjoying a moderately warm summer, but a man could freeze to death in Larchmont Lodge in Scotland unless he kept a close proximity to the fire, and Adam had already learned that peat fires tended to smoke more than they heated.

  Sucking in a breath, Adam broke the thin film of ice on the water in the china pitcher on the washstand. He poured the icy water into the bowl, gritted his teeth, removed his mug and brush and a bar of soap from his saddlebags, and prepared to shave. Adam managed a grim laugh. He thought he'd put this particular brand of discomfort behind him. When he'd struck it rich working his silver claim, he vowed he'd have hot water to shave in every morning for the rest of his life. But he hadn't counted on winning a hunting lodge in the wilds of Scotland. He washed his face in the cold water and grimaced at his reflection in the mirror. What good was a staff when no one thought to provide him with hot water for shaving? Unless that was one of the duties of a valet...

  "Where are you, McKendrick?"

  Adam recognized the sound of O'Brien's hearty chuckle before his friend opened the bedroom door. He dipped his shaving brush in the basin of water and rubbed it across the bar of shaving soap. Murphy announced his arrival by entering the room. "Hold it!" Adam froze.

  "Yer handsome face will look like raw meat if you shave in water from that." He nodded toward the bowl. "Especially if it's been sitting overnight. Besides, the bossy little woman downstairs told me I should do my duty and bring this up to you." O'Brien held up a kettle, its handle wrapped to keep from burning him.

  Adam reached for it.

  "Careful, boyo, it's boiling," Murphy warned as he handed the kettle over.

  "Thank God," Adam breathed. He poured hot water into the basin, tested the temperature, then added some more. "I was ready to sell my soul for hot water."

  "Good." Murphy grinned. "You can pay me for it later."

  Adam met O'Brien's grin with one of his own. Trust Murphy to take him up on his offer to pay. He turned his attention to the mirror and began to lather his face.

  "Well, boyo, what do you think?" O'Brien asked. "I don't know about it's commercial appeal, but this is some setup you've got here." He gave a low whistle of admiration and lifted a scone from one of the plates on Adam's breakfast tray. Murphy slathered the scone with butter and marmalade, swallowed the biscuit in three bites, then crossed the room and stretched out on Adam's bed. He stacked his hands beneath his head and watched while Adam shaved. "Have you seen the place?" Murphy whistled again.

  Adam frowned. "I arrived during a storm. I saw gale-force winds, freezing rain, the outside of the lodge, and the shadow of a barn."

  "I don't know how to break the news to you, but you didn't win the deed to a hunting lodge," Murphy told him. "You won the deed to an estate that takes up half the bloody county." He scratched his forehead. "I should be so lucky."

  "Why aren't you?" Adam deadpanned. "I thought the Irish were famous for their luck."

  Murphy chuckled. "It never applied to the common Irish, only the wealthy landlords."

  Adam finished shaving, wiped his face on a length of toweling, then pointed to a garment hanging in the wardrobe. "Hand me that waistcoat, will you?"

  Murphy reached up and lifted the waistcoat off its hook and tossed it to Adam.

  Adam caught the waistcoat in one hand and shrugged into it. "Thanks."

  "Anything for you, Your Lordship," Murphy replied in an exaggerated British accent.

  "I'm not Your Lordship."

  "All right, then, Mr. McKendrick, what say we saddle up and spend the morning surveying your estate, evaluating its potential?" O'Brien rolled off the bed and onto his feet.

  "Can't," Adam answered.

  "Too sore to ride?" O'Brien speculated.

  Adam shook his head. "I have to inspect the staff," he answered in a near perfect imitation of Murph's exaggerated English accent.

  "Inspect the staff?" O'Brien nearly doubled over laughing.

  "A place this size has to have staff," Adam reminded him. "And I've been informed that they're waiting for me to pass judgment."

  "Well, lead on, boyo, I wouldn't miss this for the world."

  "Of course you wouldn't," Adam agreed. "Because I believe you've just become a part of it."

  "What?" O'Brien's mirth died a quick dead.

  "The bossy little woman who sent you up here with the hot water is the housekeeper," Adam explained. "And she thinks you're my valet."

  "Your what?"

  "My gentleman's gentleman."

  O'Brien cast a suspicious glance Adam's way. "And just how would she get an idea like that?"

  Adam held up his hands. "Don't look at me. You're the one who gave her the idea."

  "Impossible!" Murphy scoffed.

  "And I quote, 'The only men I've ever known who fussed over luggage that much were valets.' "

  "Criminy," Murphy swore. "That luggage cost me a bloody fortune!"

  "I explained that," Adam said. "And I told her you were my friend and traveling companion, but apparently she chose to believe otherwise." He clucked his tongue. "It's amazing, really. I thought she'd take one look at you and know."

  "Why should she?" O'Brien demanded. "What's wrong with the way I look?"

  "Nothing," Adam teased. "Except your clothes, your hair, and your manner." O'Brien's clothes were the latest fashion and made of fine cloth, but he would never be considered stylish. He was too big, too brawny, and too ruggedly handsome to fit the image of a valet.

  "What about them?"

  "There's no way in hell you'll ever pass inspection."

  Chapter 7

  A Princess of the Blood Royal is obliged to attend all court presentations.

  —Maxim 8: Protocol and Court Etiquette of Princesses of the Blood Ro-fAt'oF the House of Saxe-Wallerstein-Karolya, as decreed by His Serene Highness Prince Karol I, 1432.

  And all other mun
dane and tedious presentations...

  —Addendum to Maxim 8: Her Serene Highness, Princess May,

  1850.

  The staff of Larchmont Lodge weren't the only ones under scrutiny. Adam couldn't walk down the halls of the lodge without feeling the fine hairs on the back of his neck prickle in reaction. The walls lining the central corridor were hung with massive portraits of long-dead ancestors of the previous owners, and dozens of pairs of painted eyes seemed to follow his progress as he made his way from his bedchamber to the library.

  And the sensation of being watched increased as he entered the comfortable oak and leather confines of the lodge's magnificent library and glanced around to find eight—nine, if he counted Murphy O'Brien's—pairs of actual eyes staring at him.

  Albert Langstrom stepped forward, bowed to Adam, then turned to another slightly older gentleman with jet-black hair liberally streaked with silver and a ramrod-straight posture. He spoke in a language Adam didn't understand, which seemed odd for a Scottish staff. Odder still, since Adam thought he understood English—even English spoken with a Scot's burr. When he finished speaking, whatever he was speaking, Langstrom took his place in line beside his wife.

  The older man turned to Adam. "My name is Maximillian ... umm ... Langstrom," he said. "I am Your Lordship's private secretary. You may call me Max. My brother"—he paused ever-so-slightly—"Albert begs your pardon for his failure to perform his duty as expected, but his English is limited. He asks that you allow me to stand in his stead and perform the required introductions." Max's English was heavily accented, but Adam had no trouble understanding it. "May I present to you the remaining staff of Larchmont Lodge?"

  They stood in a line in the center of the room—obviously according to position and rank, rather than height.

  "You're not Scottish?"

  Max shook his head. "Gordon and Isobel are Scottish. They are brother and sister. The rest of us are from continental households, most recently from the late Countess of Brocavia's household."

  "There are only eight of you?" Adam's tone of voice mirrored his surprise at finding the lodge so thinly staffed.

  "Eight at present, my lord ..."

  Adam held up his hand. "I know you're accustomed to addressing Lord Bascombe as my lord, but I'm an American, not a lord."

  "But, my lord—"

  "McKendrick," Adam told him, extending his hand for a handshake. "Adam McKendrick."

  Max glanced at Adam's outstretched hand. Adam clamped his teeth together as the older man accepted his hand in a brief handshake, then quickly released it and stepped away. Max's discomfit at being asked to shake his employer's hand was patently apparent.

  "Jesus!" Adam swore beneath his breath. "You'd think I was contagious. Haven't they heard that 'all men are created equal'?"

  "Easy, boyo," O'Brien whispered, placing a hand on Adam's shoulder to steady him. "You're in the old world now."

  Adam shot him a look of disbelief. "I realized that."

  "Then you should realize that here America is a distant dream. It's not you. In America all men are created equal. Here, they occupy different stations in life," Murphy told him. "Act like a bloody lord and they'll respect ya. Act like an American and they'll look down on ya."

  Adam focused his attention on Maximillian Langstrom. "Sir." He didn't raise his voice, but spoke in a firm tone loud enough for everyone to hear. "Not my lord. I prefer to be called sir."

  "Yes, sir." The male members of the staff bowed their heads, and the female members of the staff bobbed a brief curtsy—with one notable exception.

  George stood straight and tall with her shoulders back and her head held at a regal angle. Unusual in a girl so tall. His sisters had tended to hunch their shoulders and to slouch to keep from appearing taller than the boys they knew from school and church. That habit had been a continuous source of concern in the household. Adam remembered his mother commanding his sisters to stand straight and tall and to look a fellow right in the eye, forcing them to walk around the house with books on their heads to make certain they did so. Unfortunately, looking the fellows right in the eye was the problem, since like George, his sisters tended to tower over their would-be beaus.

  But George appeared to have no qualms about standing straight and tall and looking a fellow right in the eye. Even when she wasn't supposed to. Adam bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling as a younger, smaller girl elbowed George in the ribs and motioned for her to curtsy.

  Langstrom rushed to cover George's gaffe by clearing his throat and resuming the inspection. "Would you care to introduce your man, my ... sir ... and have him join us so that we might continue our inspection?"

  He couldn't be serious. He couldn't really believe that O'Brien was a valet. Or could he? Adam glanced at Maximillian and realized that Langstrom was entirely serious. Apparently, Isobel hadn't believed him when he'd told her that O'Brien wasn't his valet because she hadn't seen fit to pass the word along to her husband or brother-in-law. "O'Brien is my friend. He's not my—"

  "I'm honored that you consider me so, sir," O'Brien interrupted smoothly. Leaving his place beside Adam, O'Brien crossed the Turkish carpet and stepped into line with the rest of the staff. Turning to Langstrom, he replied in a thick Irish brogue, "My name is Murphy O'Brien and I'm proud to serve Mr. McKendrick not just as his valet, but as his gentleman's gentleman."

  Adam lifted an eyebrow at Murph's bold claim, but he didn't dispute it.

  A couple of inches shorter than Adam, O'Brien stood at least a head taller than everyone else in line except George, who stood at the end of the line, with the dog seated beside her. O'Brien gingerly took his place on the other side of the dog. He and George stood shoulder to shoulder with the wolfhound sandwiched between them. Adam watched as O'Brien cautiously patted the wolfhound on the head and winked at the girl peeking around George to get a better look at him.

  Adam was doing his best to give the introduction ceremony the attention Max and the rest of the staff thought it deserved, but his stomach tightened at O'Brien's flirtatious manner and Adam gestured for the older man to precede him down the line. "Shall we continue?"

  "Very well." With one quick nod of his head Maximillian Langstrom acknowledged O'Brien's introduction and dismissed it. There was, after all, a hierarchy and a schedule to maintain.

  Max gave another of his characteristic bows. He cleared his throat and walked to Albert. "Sir, may I present to you Albert Langstrom, butler at Larchmont Lodge, last in service as head of household to the late countess of Brocavia."

  "Albert." Adam acknowledged the butler.

  "Sir." Albert inclined his head.

  Max stepped down the line to the next person. "Sir, may I present to you Isobel Langstrom, housekeeper at Larchmont Lodge, last in service as housekeeper to the late countess of Brocavia."

  "Mrs. L.," Adam said.

  "Sir." Isobel bobbed a curtsey as Max and Adam moved to the next person.

  Max continued down the line introducing Isobel's brother the gamekeeper, Gordon Ross.

  His official title was houndsman and gamekeeper, but Gordon Ross had been responsible for taking care of the lodge in the absence of its previous owner, Lord Bascombe. He was the man Adam had telegraphed requesting that the lodge be suitably staffed. It came as no surprise to Adam that, upon such short notice, the gamekeeper would turn to his family for help in staffing the house, but it came as something of a surprise to learn that an experienced household staff with such sterling qualifications and references had been available.

  Unfortunately, there weren't enough former members of the countess of Brocavia's to go around. The grounds and stable staff consisted of two men: Gordon Ross and the master of the stables, Josef Langstrom, who was Max's son.

  Adam turned to Gordon Ross. "I'd like a tour of the grounds and the stables as soon as possible. If the property proves suitable for my purposes, you'll need to hire more men to tend the grounds and the horses." He glanced at Josef. "There will be more work th
an the two of you to handle."

  "Understood, sir."

  Adam nodded in reply and moved to stand before the two remaining members of the household staff: Brenna and Georgiana Langstrom, Albert and Isobel's daughters, who worked as housemaids.

  The younger petite Brenna looked nothing like her sister. She was short and small-boned with brown hair and eyes. She appeared shy and favored her mother more than her father.

  Adam knew that sisters didn't necessarily have to look alike to be sisters, but coming from a family with four sisters who were pairs of identical twins made the other reality seem strange. In his family Adam was the different one. In George's family she was. It gave them an unexpected bond.

  And Adam supposed the bond also extended to the dog, which bore no resemblance to any breed of dog he had ever encountered. He stared at the animal sitting quietly beside George. Beauty and the beast.

  "What about the beast?" He asked the question of Max, but Adam kept his gaze on George to see if she would speak for herself and for her pet.

  The girl opened her mouth, but Max smoothly interrupted. "The beast, as you call him, sir, is an Irish wolfhound. The countess of Brocavia was a great lover of dogs. She gave this one to my niece, Giana, when he was orphaned at birth. Giana raised him, and as you can see, he's as devoted to her as she is to him."

  "With the exception of the beast, the countess of Brocavia's loss appears to have been my gain," Adam commented.

  "He isn't a beast. He's a dog. His name is Wagner." Unable to contain herself any longer, George ignored her uncle's warning look and challenged Adam's authority. "And he goes where I go."

  "I trust you have no objections." Max's response wasn't a question but a statement.

  Adam ignored Max and focused all of his attention on the girl. "That depends."

  "Upon what?" she retorted.

  "Upon whether the two of you intend to occupy my bed again tonight."

  Chapter 8

  The Princess of the Blood never acknowledges, encourages, or engages in vulgar flirtations.

  —Maxim 71: Protocol and Court Etiquette of Princesses of the Blood Royal of the House of Saxe-Wallerstein-Karolya, as decreed by His Serene Highness Prince Karol I, 1432.