Chapter 4 of "Selene's Vow"

Chapter 4 of "Selene's Vow", a novella set in The Môrdreigiau Chronicles universe

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The story began in A Grail for Eidothea and continued with A River Trembles and A Sword for Wellington. We take a side trip to London for a young lady to retrieve a precious heirloom from a ne’er-do-well rake… New here? Save this post and have a binge read. You deserve it.

Pressed for time, Lady Selene decides that stealing her moonstone is the only way forwards. (That escalated quickly.) She is caught. The viscount sees through her disguise and decides it would be fun to watch her dangle after the jewel and apprentices her as his valet. She locked up in the viscount’s dressing room to await her fate in the morning.

Daimon pondered Lady Selene’s fate. To his surprise, it gave him a moment’s pause. He could ruin her reputation with this. Not only would it free him of marrying her but it would scare off any other takers, including, probably, the man she had been betrothed to since birth.

It would not take much for the truth to be discovered.

He pursed his lips, considering. Murray would keep her busy. Indeed, he could assist his valet and keep an eye on her himself.

Her mannish disguise revealed a fine turn of leg and almost all those other curves that fashionable dress refused to hint at. Even her eyes, the way they flashed rebellion at him. Keeping watch should not be too difficult a task at all.

But he wouldn’t touch her. Her valet disguise would remind him to keep his distance. For while she attracted him, he could never trust himself with her. Just like every other woman. He did not dare curse his children with the same dark fate as his.

Something nudged Selene. Muttering, she huddled even deeper into her coat. The nudging grew more insistent. “Wake up!”

At the hint of candlelight, her eyes fluttered open. She gasped, her hand flying to her cap. She exhaled, relieved. The cap remained pinned in place. She blinked, her bleary eyes gazing upwards.

“On your feet, lad.” The valet stood over her, a handful of cloths tucked into his sling, a candle in the other. “There’s plenty to be done.”

“What time is it?” Selene restrained a yawn.

“Five in the morning,” Murray chirped, grinning. “I had a devil of a time waking you.”

“Five!” She had perhaps slept three hours!

Murray narrowed his eyes. “Your old master never got you up this early, Sam?”

“That is none of your business,” Selene rapped out, not awake enough to disguise her true social position.

“You, lad, will call me sir.” Murray drew himself up to his full height, their eyes at the same level. “You’ll remember your new place here and not get any fine and fancy ideas about yourself, although heaven knows how as you’re nothing more than a guttersnipe.”

His rant woke Selene more effectively than cold water. She bowed her head, hiding her angry eyes. “I’m sorry, sir.” She slipped back into a lower-class accent. “I wasn’t awake, like.”

“Your new master, Lord Carton, in case he didn’t introduce himself, will be waking in a couple of hours. We have a lot to do before breakfast.”

Selene’s stomach rumbled at the thought. Doubtless, if she had not skipped supper at Lady Aylesford’s, she wouldn’t suffer hunger pangs now.

“Well?” He tapped his foot.

“Yes, sir,” she mumbled, the words sticking in her throat. Receiving orders instead of giving them made her most uneasy.

“Your first task is to clean this room.” Murray handed her some rags. “There is not to be a speck of dust.” He crossed to the curtains and flung them back to reveal a window and the dark grey of predawn, which added a little light to his candle. Kneeling at the grate, he built a fire. Murray looked over his shoulder and saw she hadn’t moved. “Begin.”

Selene cast around her for a starting point. Wardrobes lined both walls, cedar inlaid with a darker wood. One door to the right of the window led to Lord Carton’s bedroom. A truckle bed tucked into a corner under the window.

She turned to Murray, ready to give him a piece of her mind at his lack of hospitality.

“Why you didn’t sleep there, lad, I don’t know.” He glanced at the narrow bed, then at her. “Used to sleeping on the floor, are you?”

Selene took a deep breath. “I didn’t know it was there. Nobody left me a light to see by.” She sought another calming breath.

She assumed all one had to do was use the rag to wipe the dust away. She’d seen her maid covertly use her apron whilst in her presence. She brushed the rag along the windowsill. When she turned to tackle a chair, Murray interrupted. “Don’t forget the sash.”

Sighing, Selene turned back and completed the job. She dusted everything in the room, finishing with wiping down the wash basin stand. Her arms shook with the effort.

Murray pulled open a small closet door and retrieved a broom, handing it to her. “Sweep.” He sat in the freshly dusted chair and watched her work, pointing out missed spots. “Haven’t you ever swept a floor before?”

Shooting him an angry glare, Selene swept again, not that she saw any difference. Murray finally claimed himself satisfied.

Selene leant against the broom. “Breakfast?”

Murray shook his head. “You missed the servants’ breakfast. If you do well, I’ll get you some bread and dripping.”

She grimaced, imagining the the clotted oil on horrible dry bread.

“Keep up with that attitude, and you won’t get anything,” Murray remonstrated. “Now watch what I do, and don’t touch anything. This is how we lay out Lord Carton’s clothes.”

Selene stood by the fire, enjoying its warmth on her cold fingers. Murray opened the wardrobes, revealing rows of jackets. The chest of drawers housed Lord Carton’s underthings, his shirts and cravats.

With painstaking instruction, Murray hung each item on a rack by the fire, to air and warm them. The sling didn’t appear to slow him down. He brushed down a pair of trousers and neatly laid them over the back of the chair. Coat and waistcoat followed suit.

Murray painstakingly ironed three lengths of cloth on the padded table he kept for such a purpose. “Just in case the first two don’t go right,” he muttered, his concentration on the linen in front of him. As each iron cooled, he switched it with another near the fire.

The door opened. Lord Carton strolled in, dressed in nothing but his nightshirt.

Selene gaped.

His black hair mussed from a night’s sleep, he ran an impatient hand through his now unruly curls. The nightshirt gaped at the neck, revealing a curly nest of dark wiry hair. His bare legs shocked her most of all: the lean calves, the hint of a muscled thigh, all covered with dark hair. She gripped the windowsill and willed herself to look away.

“My lord,” Murray prompted in a strangled voice.

“What the blazes—“ Lord Carton stared at his bare feet. “Oh.” A night’s growth of beard darkened his jawline.

“Sam” Murray got her attention. “See that his lordship’s bed is made.” She bolted. He bowed to Lord Carton. “I’ll be with you shortly, my lord.”

“I must look my best,” Lord Carton called after them. “I’m proposing to Lady Selene today!”

She swallowed her smirk. Murray hastened past her, checking the door to the hall had been locked. “His lordship told me you were a thief. Think I’d trust the likes of you with the run of the house? Get to work.”

It took Lord Carton almost an hour to wash, shave, and dress. Tugging the sheets tight and flinging the quilt over them, Selene declared the bed made. She sat on a persistent lump in the bed, hoping to squash it flat and pondered her next move. With a locked door she could not resume her search. Could he have kept the moonstone here?

Listening for activity in the dressing room, Selene searched his bedchamber, pulling open drawers. She even looked under the bed.

Nothing. Her eyes fell on the papers lying on his bedside table. Maybe the viscount really had pawned them and one of those papers could tell her where? Then, she could leave at once.

“Sam, was it?” Selene jumped, spinning to face Murray. Behind the valet, Carton leant against the dressing room door, fully dressed to the nines, and frowning.

Murray grabbed her arm. “We don’t go looking through the master’s things. Is that clear?”

Selene nodded, trembling.

Murray released her, giving her a little push towards Lord Carton. “Go clean up the dressing room.”

She skittered across the room, squeezing by Carton. He did not move an inch to let her by, glowering at her as she squeezed past.

Locked into the dressing room again, she took the opportunity alone to relieve herself, finding a cracked chamber pot in the small closet that had contained the broom and rags. On edge, she listened for Murray’s return, hoping to be done before he returned.

She crossed to the washstand. The bowl contained soapy water, with a fine mat of short dark hairs floating on top. Shuddering, she poured the remaining water from the jug over her hands, damping her face.

She dried her hands on an already used towel, grimacing. Had he dried his face on it or … other parts? She thrust the towel over the rail.

Murray returned. “Good.” He held a tray. “A valet must always keep himself clean and tidy, for he is a reflection of his master.”

“With my clothes?” Selene gestured at her ill-fitting outfit.

Murray raised an eyebrow. “They will do for now. When you have your own employment, you will find yourself with a better set.” He laid the tray down on the truckle bed. “Here, your breakfast.”

A veritable feast of toasted bread and jam was laid out before her, capped off by a mug of cold milk. “No dripping?” Selene raised an eyebrow at the valet.

Murray grinned. “Cook needs it for tonight’s dinner.” Selene did not believe him for an instant. She hesitated. His grin vanished. “Come on. Eat up! Our duties aren’t over yet.”

Breakfast eaten, Murray added more wood to the fire. “I’m going to give you a lesson in ironing.”

Selene could hardly contain her excitement.

Flat irons stood on the brickwork in front of the fire. Murray instructed her on the art of setting up the padded table for ironing. She forbore to remind him that not only had she dusted it, she had seen him set it up that very morning.

The valet licked his finger and tested the base of the iron, satisfied with the resulting hiss. He sucked his finger, heading for the chest of drawers. He pulled out a brown paper package and handed them to her.

“Iron these,” Murray withdrew to the door. “You saw how I worked this morning and it won’t matter too much if you ruin this lot. I have to run some errands. You are not to leave this room.”

He closed the door behind him, the key turning. She dropped the package onto the ironing board and went to try the lock.

Imprisoned. Selene paced, the crowded walls of the tiny room crowding in around her. She had no choice but to suffer it. How could she escape this room and find her moonstone?

Her thoughts turned to her father. Had he recovered at all? She hoped he hadn’t thought to send a message to her aunt. A draig môr herself, Lady Margaret sometimes really could behave like a dragon.

With a sigh, Selene opened the brown paper package—and blinked.

Boot laces? He wanted her to iron boot laces? She picked up a handful of the black and brown laces and flung them back down into the paper in disgust.

“What kind of a man orders his servants to iron boot laces?” She stomped a foot, her arms folded across her chest.

If she proved her reliability by completing tasks, she might be given leeway to move about the house. Time to start ironing. Heaving another sigh, Selene returned to the ironing board and pulled out the first boot lace.

With exaggerated care, she laid it out along the length of the ironing board. She bent to retrieve an iron. With a cry, she snatched back her hand, blowing at the burn.

Her eyes watering, she gazed sightlessly at the red mark branding her palm. With her good hand, she dashed away the tears.

Wishing for some butter with which to dress and soothe her wound, Selene found a small pad of rags lying by the irons. Using them to protect her hand, she picked up the heavy iron and set to work.

Daimon’s surprise at discovering his dressing room door locked lasted only a moment, before he recalled his unrequested guest. He turned the key and strolled in.

Absorbed in her work by the fire, Lady Selene either ignored him or had not heard him enter. He watched her iron a boot lace before lying it to the side, being careful to sort by colour.

He cleared his throat.

Her head shot up, her blue eyes wide and startled. One long lock had tumbled free of her cap and she swiftly hooked it behind her ear.

Daimon decided not to notice that lapse. “What on earth are you doing?” He stepped forwards to examine her work.

“What does it look like?” Her voice remained calm although her eyes snapped. She placed the iron in front of the fire, next to a haphazard row of its mates.

He picked up her handiwork, still warm. “Boot laces?” His eyebrow cocked upwards in amusement.

“It was your valet’s idea,” Lady Selene kept her eyes lowered, avoiding his gaze. “Unless they were your orders?”

“Oh no.” Daimon shook his head, trying to conceal his mirth. “I never even dreamed he ironed my laces. Where is Murray?”

“An errand.” Lady Selene returned her attention to her work. She reached for another boot lace.

He couldn’t help it. The laughter welled up at the sight of an earl’s daughter ironing boot laces. The ridiculous vision made his eyes water and he bit the inside of his cheek. Rich chuckles bubbled out, unbidden, from between his lips.

Lady Selene stared at him, her outraged gaze causing further paroxysms. Muffling his mouth, he quit the too small room, utterly forgetting why he had gone there in the first place.

Locking the door behind him, he doubled up in silent laughter. He crossed to the bed, collapsing on it, still giggling like a schoolboy. Oh, his mother would have his hide if she knew what he had done.

He sobered, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He should send Lady Selene away. Her reaction to his half-clad body reminded him of his mother’s mistake. After this humiliating experience, she wouldn’t dare make another burglary attempt.

Done then. He returned to the dressing room. She sat on the truckle bed, staring down at her hands. She curled them on hearing his approach. Even hunched over, Lady Selene took up all the air in the dressing room and then some. He saw nothing but her and he could not allow that. “You and I need to have a little talk.”

He led her into his bedchamber and to a wing chair that stood in one corner of the bedroom. He kept her hand in a loose grasp. Standing before her, he gestured she sit.

Lady Selene obeyed, perching on the edge of the chair, refusing to get comfortable.

“I am going to send you home,” Carton began.

“Send me home?” Selene leapt to her feet, fists clenched.

“Sit down.” He ran a hand through his hair. How to get through this and keep both their reputations intact? “My philanthropic idea of taking you in and training you.... It is not working out. I am not used to having my dressing room locked.”

“I am not used to being locked in a dressing room.” Selene’s chin jutted up.

He nodded. “Just so. You are free to leave.”

Lady Selene stared at him, mouth dropping open. “You won’t call the watch?”

Unsmiling, Daimon gestured to the door. “Go.”

She remained still. “I cannot go. I gave my word upon my honour that I would remain until the end of the week.”

“You are an inconvenience to me, Sam. I am releasing you from your vow.” His brow darkened. Why did she make this so difficult? Jewels or no, did she not see how untenable this entire situation was? “Besides, what honour does a thief have?”

“Thieves honour, my lord.” Her chin rose even higher. “I could not hold my head up in the streets if I broke it.”

Daimon gritted his teeth. Was the chit so naive as to not recognise the danger he posed to her? “Damnation, Sam. Nobody out on the streets is going to know!”

“Besides, this is my one chance to gain a decent living for myself.” She thrust out a hand, palm up. “I’m working hard and—“

The air swept from the room. He saw only the ugly red mark on her palm, the blisters swelling yellow. He snatched her hand “How did this happen?”

She tried tugging her hand free, but he held on. “Ironing, my lord. It is nothing.”

His eyes met hers. Her eyes widened, huge and vulnerable. He fought the urge to gather her into his arms, to soothe her. He did not have the right. Already, he had damaged her person. He had been an utter idiot to think he could keep her like this. He shoved her hand at her. “It is not nothing. You should have been more careful.” With this jape, he had put her in danger. Unable to face her, he rang the bell-pull.

Resting his palm against the wall, he took a steadying breath. “Sam,” he said, keeping his voice gentle and coaxing, “I will have your hand fixed and then you will be on your way.”

“Please! I beg of you.” Lady Selene hiccuped a sob. “I will obey you in anything but this.”

He turned at that, leaning his shoulder against the wall. “Anything?” he drawled, letting himself forget her disguise as a valet. How easy it was to fall into the role of the rake, to not care, even when his heart still stumbled over her burnt palm.

Her chest heaved. He wondered how on earth the chit thought she continued to fool him even in daylight. “Within reason.”

He chuckled and straightened, tugging on his waistcoat. “Already you prevaricate and bargain. Sam, what am I to do with you?”

“Let me stay.”

By the Lady, her begging would undo him. A manservant answered the summons. He banished the image of this fiery gentlewoman surrendered before him in his bed, pleading for release. Daimon tugged at his cravat, his neck far too warm.”Sam burnt his hand. See that it is taken care of.”

Her fist balled, the knuckles going white, the burn on her hand forgotten, but she followed the manservant.

Daimon sank into the wingback chair, rubbing at his temples. He should insist on her departure, but he could not resist her sweet, imploring face. He did not want to let her go. He rubbed at his cheeks. He didn’t want an impoverished, indebted estate, but it would at least be his. He didn’t have to sire children.

Maybe, he could convince Lady Selene to change her mind…

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