Shall We Dance?. Kasey Michaels

“I tell you, Mrs. Fitzhugh, I don’t remember Mistress Fredericks saying a word about someone to replace Mr. Carstairs. It hasn’t been above a few hours since he left. She’s a quick one, I’ll say that for her.”

      “Now, now, Maryann,” she answered herself, “just because you took the man in dislike doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong. Best to keep mum. Could get you the sack, seeing as how your background couldn’t exactly stand up straight to much of a look-see, even if he said he’d made things all right and proper and—”

      “All right, all right. But I can’t like the man. He’s got no chin. Our uncle Oliver had no chin, remember? Those same shifty eyes. And he never missed a chance to pinch our bottom. I’ll not be turning my back on the likes of Mr. Nestor. Shh, footsteps.”

      Both of Maryann Fitzhugh peeked around a corner of the hallway to see Gerado pacing with his head down, muttering to himself in that suspicious foreigner tongue.

      “Here, here. You’re not to leave your post. Po-st. Position.” She raised one fist, pantomimed a rapping motion. “Door. Knock-knock.”

      Gerado rolled his eyes. “Visitors for Miss Fredericks. Tea and cakes, si? And to tell Miss Fredericks? And, si, the knock-knock.” He raised both hands, palm up, and shrugged. “Where to go first, capire?”

      “Yes, yes, I understand,” Mrs. Fitzhugh crowed, thrilled at this breakthrough. Why, she was almost talking Italian herself! She pointed to Gerardo’s chest. “You…go knock-knock Miss Fredericks. After, you go back to door knock-knock.” She placed both hands on her bosom. “I…go kitchen for cakes and tea.”

      “Idiota,” Gerado said, nodding his head as he turned and walked away.

      Feeling quite generous, now that she’d managed to settle a domestic crisis Mr. No-Chin Nestor should have by rights dealt with, Mrs. Fitzhugh returned to the kitchens, just in time to answer yet another knock on the service door. Busy place, a queen’s residence. How was she ever supposed to do what she came to do?

      “Yes?” she asked imperiously, more prepared than she’d been when Mr. Nestor all but barged into the kitchens.

      The woman on the doorstep was much of Mrs. Fitzhugh’s own age, fairly round—well cushioned—and marginally attractive in a faded sort of way.

      She didn’t quite look the housekeeper in the eye as she dropped into an abbreviated curtsy. “My name, ma’am, is Esther Pidgeon, and I once served as maid in the queen’s household, when she was Princess Caroline. I know I am being horribly bold, and I have no current references, as I left service several years ago to marry. But now that Mr. Pidgeon is gone, and once I saw that the queen, that dear, sweet woman, has returned to our shores, I had hoped, foolishly, I’m sure, that I could possibly once more be of service?”

      Mrs. Fitzhugh took in every word. “So, you’re not here because Miss Fredericks called you here somehow?”

      “Miss Fredericks? No, I’m sorry. I can’t say as I can place the name. We worked under a succession of housekeepers, but that name is not familiar to me.”

      A silent conversation ensued:

      Maryann: She seems decent enough. But no references? He had to have them for me, so they must be important things to have.

      Mrs. Fitzhugh: Oh, cut line, Maryann. You don’t have the foggiest notion how a housekeeper goes on. If this weren’t a household of crazy foreigners, that strange girl and one batty old woman, you’d never have gotten a toe in the door, no matter what he wrote. As it was, best thing could have happened was for that fool Carstairs to take a flit. He was looking entirely too hard at you.

      Maryann: It would be lovely to have some say in who is hired, wouldn’t it?

      Mrs. Fitzhugh: There you go. You want that odd Nestor fellow saying who stays and who goes? Call her your assistant, why don’t you? The girl wanted someone else anyway. Partridges and all that.

      “Very well. You’re hired,” Mrs. Fitzhugh said, and then bullied one young housemaid who most obligingly burst into tears. All while Esther Pidgeon looked on approvingly.

      NATE WATCHED, standing back to keep himself safe from the exuberant hugging and rather hysterical female screeching as Miss Fredericks and his Georgie greeted each other. His Georgie? What was he thinking?

      “I didn’t know you were in London,” Amelia Fredericks said, holding tightly on to Georgiana’s hands as the two of them sank onto the couch. “I’ve already sent you a note, hoping you could come visit, but to your mother’s country house.”

      “No, no, they brought me here, to marry me off to any poor fool who would have me,” Georgiana said, then quickly looked up at Nate, panic in her eyes. “That is, um, Amelia? I should like to introduce to you my…my, um…”

      “Sir Nathaniel Rankin, Miss Fredericks, although you may feel free to think of me as a prospective poor fool,” Nate said quickly, executing what he knew to be an impeccable leg. “A delight, I’m sure. Georgiana has told me that you and she are great friends. How affecting it is to see such joy in Georgiana’s eyes.”

      “Sir Nathaniel,” Amelia said, allowing him to bow over her hand. “I cannot thank you enough for bringing Georgiana to me.”

      “Yes,” Georgiana said, glaring up at him. “And now he’s going to take himself outside to check on a coach that we passed on the roadway, stuck in a ditch, and offer his assistance in righting it. Aren’t you, Nate?”

      “I am? Oh, yes, of course, I am, I am. You two ladies just sit here and natter and I’ll be out of your way.”

      A maid entered the room, carrying a heavy tea tray, and Nate grabbed up a freshly baked cherry tart on his way out the door, gratefully leaving Georgiana and Amelia alone to talk about whatever it is females talk about that men don’t really care to know.

      A half hour later, having enjoyed himself to the top of his bent in putting his back to pushing the Bateman coach out of the ditch, Nate wiped one muddy hand across his cheek as Georgiana appeared behind him, her hands on her hips and a smile on her face.

      “You’re filthy,” she said. “And you look embarrassingly happy about it.”

      “It was tricky,” he told her as he pulled out his handkerchief, which Georgiana took, then held up to his mouth so that he could spit on it. “Oh, I say, Georgiana, don’t play mother with me—oh, all right.” He closed his eyes, spit on the linen. “The wheel was fairly stuck, but m’tiger and I figured out how to shift it.”

      She scrubbed at his cheek. “Yes, I know. Amelia and I watched through the window. She thinks you’re a very nice gentleman. I think you’re an idiot, but a very nice idiot. Now, shall we go meet your aunt?”

      “LAND HO, SIR, or ahoy, or whatever it is.” Clive scrambled to his feet once more in the boat, putting one foot up on the low bow to steady himself as he pointed toward the shore. “And there be a lady on the boards, M’Lord, watchin’ us come. See her?”

      Perry narrowed his eyes and followed Clive’s pointing finger with his gaze. “It could be, my friend, that we’ve struck gold on our first shovelful. Seems the artist was more talented than I’d supposed. Not beautiful, but still rather striking.”

      “She’s the one Sir Willard talked about? Miss Fredericks?”

      “I think so, yes. But now brace yourself, Clive, or else you’ll—ah, too late,” he said as the Bow Street Runner, decked out in all his naval finery, toppled head-first into the water. “How very inventive of you, Clive. But, then, I knew you’d come in handy. What a splendid entrée into the queen’s residence, although first, alas, I’ll probably be forced to save you. You there—yes, you. Mind scooping up my friend with your oar before he sinks again? Don’t worry about the hat, it’s no great loss. There’s a good fellow.”

      Then he looked to the small pier, where the young woman he most ardently hoped would indeed turn out