Ruthless by Anne Stuart Page B

She’ll never notice if one of her pairs of boots has gone missing.”
    â€œI can’t wear stolen boots!” Elinor said, scandalized.
    â€œOf course you can.”
    The door opened and Janet appeared, bearing a tea tray with a pair of kid-leather boots under her arm. She looked like a younger version of Mrs. Clarke, and she set both her offerings in front of Elinor. There were toast strips on the tray as well as tea, and a pair of silk stockings with the boots, and Elinor gave up being virtuous.
    â€œNo disasters, pet?” Mrs. Clarke inquired of Janet.
    â€œThey’re all sleeping it off, most of them starkers,” Janet said. “No worries.”
    â€œI never do,” her mother said. “Drink your tea, Miss Harriman. The doings of this household, while shocking, needn’t concern you any more than they concern me.”
    â€œThey don’t concern you?” Elinor said with a mouthful of toast.
    â€œI never venture into that part of the château. His lordship likes to misbehave, but as long as no one is hurt I keep out of it. This part of the house is small but cozy, with no strumpets allowed.”
    â€œYou don’t think I could be a strumpet?” She poured her tea and put obscene amounts of sugar in the cup. She might as well enjoy it while it lasted. “I suppose it’s The Nose,” she said resignedly.
    â€œThe nose?” Mrs. Clarke said, her forehead wrinkling. “You mean your nose? What’s wrong with it?”
    â€œIt’s the Harriman Nose,” she said gloomily. “Strumpets are pretty.”
    â€œStrumpets are tarts. As for your nose, it’s nothing that extraordinary. It gives your face character, something those foolish girls lack.”
    â€œLucky me,” Elinor murmured. She took another toast sliver. Then jumped, as she realized Janet had knelt before her and reached for one bare foot.
    â€œI’ll take care of this, miss,” Janet said. “Me mother wanted me to train as a lady’s maid.”
    â€œUnfortunately there are never any ladies at his lordship’s house parties,” Mrs. Clarke said grimly. “And Master Francis should be returning momentarily—you wouldn’t want to be flaunting your bare feet in front of him, now, would you?”
    Trapped. “Thank you, Janet,” she said. “You’re very kind to help me.”
    It was almost seductive. The warm, sweet, rich tea, the toast slivers with lashings of butter and a sprinkle of cinnamon sugar, a maid assisting with her clothes. It had been so long since they’d had a lady’s maid that she could barely remember what it was like. Janet drew the silk stocking up her leg for her, and the feeling was decadently wonderful, too splendid to fight. Besides, she could give the stockings to Lydia, who’d delight in the extravagance. She’d have to somehow convince her younger sister that she herself couldn’t wear them—Lydia had grown suspicious of Elinor’s stratagems. Her sudden dislike of sugar, her inability to drink cream, the discomfort of the one decent pair of boots between them. She’d be hard put to come up with a reason why Lydia simply must accept the silk stockings as her own, but she could prevaricate with the best of them. She’d had her mother as an example.
    The boots were a perfect fit, roomy for her less-than-dainty feet. By the time she’d finished her tea and toast and had the kid-leather boots neatly fastened she felt she could face any kind of ogre. Including the one who’d reappeared in the door of the cozy drawing room, looking enigmatic.
    â€œI’ve had the carriage brought round,” he said. “Where’s your cloak?”
    â€œHere it is, sir,” Janet said, reappearing from behind him, carrying a fur pelisse. The sort of thing that was shockingly expensive and deliciously warm.
    Elinor set the tray away and rose, speechless for the