Free Her Ladyship's Companion by Joanna Bourne Page A

And in another measure or two the footmen would finish their work in the ballroom and would come in here to light the candles. She couldn’t be found like this.
    Melissa stopped, dropped her hands, and stepped away from him.
    “Thank you,” she whispered.
    “But the music hasn’t stopped,”
    “I have.”
    The smile that had been hovering behind Giles’s face broke through. “Do you ever do anything you’re not supposed to?”
    “Not often.”
    “I should have known. Do you think Dorothy will eat you for three minutes of dancing? She won’t, you know.”
    Melissa gave the question more serious consideration than it merited. “I wasn’t thinking about Lady Dorothy,” she said with painstaking honesty. “I was thinking about the footmen.” There was a glint of grim humor. “I’ve never done anything the footmen might disapprove of.” She curtsied formally. “Thank you, though. It was kind of you to take pity on me.” Her sudden laugh flashed out, really amused. “Ridiculous, isn’t it, making such a fuss over a minute’s harmless pleasure?”
    “Perhaps.” Giles watched Melissa leave the room and close the door after her. “But it may not have been as harmless as you think.”
     

Chapter 7
     
    ... write letters. Later in the morning, if it’s fine, I take Robbie out and gabble French to him for an hour or so. This does him no harm and may possibly do some good. Early in the afternoon I finish the letters, read French to my lady till teatime, run errands ...
    Excerpt from theletter of Melissa Rivenwood toCecilia Luffington, July17, 1818
     
    One warm July day Melissa was installed at a round table of glowing mahogany in the yellow parlor and set to answering tradesmen’s complaints. This was quite the usual thing. Lady Dorothy looked upon the mercantile community much as Wellington looked upon the French, as an enemy to be routed. There was still a lot of pirate in the Tarsin strain.
    “This to Jarvis in King Street. Tell him I’m displeased with the red cushions and I want the work redone.” Lady Dorothy was fierce as if the unhandy Mr. Jarvis were within earshot instead of safe in London. “There will be no payment until the task is finished to my satisfaction. Ashton has orders to admit the men to the town house for this purpose. As to that carrier fellow, where did I put the letter? Ah, here it is. Refer him to my lawyers. The address is in the leather book under Biddle, Bundle and Redshaw. And add at the bottom of the letter that I am still,” she repeated awfully, ‘‘still, I say, awaiting the decision on the removal of the ruins of the old island summerhouse. I have heard more than enough shilly-shallying about major changes in entailed property. Poppycock. I expect action.”
    Melissa sat with bowed head, writing in her beautiful, painfully acquired copperplate. It was more translation than straight dictation. She wished Lady Dorothy would approach these things more calmly. She’d grown fond enough of the old lady in the last weeks to have a genuine fear for her health.
    For a time there was no sound but the scratch of quill on paper. Then the dowager interrupted Melissa’s reply to the irate upholsterer to have her write, as she dictated, a long chatty letter to “Cousin Sarah” in Bath. It was concerned mainly with giving a charitable account of Anna’s activities. Lady Dorothy closed the letter with a snort. “That should satisfy the damn fool for another week or two.”
    Lady Dorothy resumed pacing. A long morning of complaint to tradesmen and malicious gossip to friends had, if anything, revived her rather than fatigued her. Perhaps, Melissa thought, the doctor was quite mistaken, and the only thing wrong with Lady Dorothy’s heart was its textural similarity to granite.
    “I’ve a treat in store for you,” Lady Dorothy announced suddenly. “You remember Amelia Edge-water?”
    “Lady Amelia. You sent her grapes.”
    “More grapes ahead. She’s been stricken with