The Highborn Housekeeper (Saved From Disgrace Book 3) Read online

  A disgraced lady

  Turned lowly housekeeper

  Earl’s daughter Nancy turned her back on the aristocracy when she fled a forced marriage, working instead as a cook and housekeeper. But in nursing an injured man back to health, Nancy uncovers a deep longing for the dangerously attractive Gabriel, and a surprise: he’s working to protect government secrets! She wants to help him. But to do so, Nancy will have to return to the life she once cast aside...

  When he reached for her hand, she gave it to him without thinking. He pressed a kiss upon her fingers and let her go. A friendly gesture, she told herself. Nothing more.

  “Good night, Mrs. Hopwood.”

  “Mr. Shaw.”

  Oh, how she wanted to stay! Her whole being protested as she turned away from him and her spine tingled with the knowledge that he was watching her. He would not object, she was sure, if she remained to drink another glass of wine with him, but then what? There was only one way the evening would end if she showed such a preference for his company. And though her body might cry out for relief from the longing that disturbed her nights, Gabriel Shaw was too charming, too attractive, and she feared she might grow too attached to him. She would not risk her heart for a moment’s pleasure.

  She walked out, closing the door quietly behind her, and kept walking until she had reached the safety of her bedchamber, where she resolutely turned the key in the lock.

  Author Note

  The heroine of this novel may be familiar to you—she first appeared in The Ton’s Most Notorious Rake as the bighearted cook at Prospect House and she masquerades as a rich widow in Beauty and the Brooding Lord. I thought she deserved her own story, and here it is.

  Nancy’s talent for cooking is quite important in this love story (and don’t they say food is one way to a man’s heart?). This meant a fascinating troll through recipe books of the period, which made for fascinating reading.

  Some of the cooks among you might want to try an eighteenth-century recipe. Nancy makes very good Bath cakes, but that requires a spoonful of “barm” (the soupy yeast mixture skimmed from the top of a fresh batch of ale) and I doubt many of you have that to hand! Instead, here is Nancy’s recipe for Shrewsbury cakes. Warning: the measurements are in pounds and ounces, the instructions sparse and the cooking times nonexistent, so try this at your own risk!

  Nancy’s Shrewsbury Cakes:

  Take half a pound of butter, beat to a cream. Add half a pound of flour, one egg and six ounces of sifted sugar, plus half an ounce of caraway seed.

  On a floured board, roll pastry out thinly and cut out with biscuit cutters. Lay the biscuits on a lightly greased baking sheet, prick with a fork and bake in a low oven until cooked.

  Bon appétit!

  SARAH

  MALLORY

  The Highborn

  Housekeeper

  Sarah Mallory was born in the West Country, UK, but now lives on the beautiful Yorkshire moors. She has been writing for more than three decades, mainly historicals set in the Georgian and Regency period. She has won several awards for her writing, most recently the Romantic Novelists’ Association RoNA Rose Award in 2012 (The Dangerous Lord Darrington) and 2013 (Beneath the Major’s Scars).

  Books by Sarah Mallory

  Harlequin Historical

  The Scarlet Gown

  Never Trust a Rebel

  The Duke’s Secret Heir

  Pursued for the Viscount’s Vengeance

  Saved from Disgrace

  The Ton’s Most Notorious Rake

  Beauty and the Brooding Lord

  The Highborn Housekeeper

  The Infamous Arrandales

  The Chaperon’s Seduction

  Temptation of a Governess

  Return of the Runaway

  The Outcast’s Redemption

  Brides of Waterloo

  A Lady for Lord Randall

  Visit the Author Profile page

  at Harlequin.com for more titles.

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  To my four-legged companion, Willow, who keeps me company when I write and keeps me fit with regular walks!

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Secrets of a Highland Warrior by Nicole Locke

  Chapter One

  The snow started at dusk. Only a few flakes at first, but soon it was falling steadily and coating the icy ground.

  Nancy was warm enough, dressed in her riding habit of plum-coloured velvet with its matching curly-brimmed hat and wrapped in a voluminous cloak. Her companion, too, looked snug in a heavy wool redingote and shawl and they both had their feet resting on warm bricks and snuggled into sheepskin, but she felt some sympathy for the servants sitting up on the box.

  However, when they stopped to change horses at the Crown in Tuxford and her driver suggested that she might put up there for the night, she was adamant that they should continue. William, who had come to the chaise door to issue his advice, pushed back his hat and stared at her, perplexed. His breath formed small icy clouds as he spoke with all the confidence of an old and trusted retainer.

  ‘I don’t like it, madam, and that’s a fact. The snow don’t show no signs of easing. We should stop here.’

  ‘It is but very fine snow,’ she responded. ‘There is nothing much to accumulate and no wind to cause any drifting, so we shall go on.’ She noted his frown and conceded one point. ‘You may order yourselves something hot to drink, if you wish, and have them bring coffee out for Mrs Yelland and me. And perhaps you will ask them to provide fresh hot bricks for our feet.’

  ‘You won’t step inside, ma’am, just for a few minutes?’ The woman sitting beside her spoke for the first time. ‘We might warm ourselves by a fire.’

  ‘No, Hester, we will push on.’ Nancy shook her head. It was not only the memories this place conjured for her, she dared not risk being recognised.

  Her companion read the determination in Nancy’s face and sighed as she settled herself back into her corner. ‘Very well, ma’am, you know best.’

  Nancy heard the disappointment in Hester Yelland’s voice, but would not change her mind. She was unusually tall for a woman and that would attract attention. Someone might recognise her. After all, she had immediately known the landlord as he stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, watching the travelling chaise as it came into the yard. He had been assessing whether it was worth his while to step out into the cold and she was relieved that his experienced eye noted that it was a rather shabby vehicle. Instead he had sent a servant out to speak to William Coachman, who was calling to the ostlers for fresh horses and be quick about it.

  The landlord had barely changed in the twelve years since she had last seen him, save to grow a little rounder, and while Nancy fe
lt very different inside, outwardly she knew that with her height and abundance of dark hair she looked much the same as she had done all those years ago, when she had slipped away on the common stage with nothing but a hastily packed portmanteau and the little money she had managed to save. Looking back, it was a wonder she had survived the past dozen years relatively unscathed. But she had survived and with very few regrets.

  Within minutes they were travelling again. The snow had ceased, at least for the moment, and the waning crescent moon shone down intermittently between ragged clouds. However, it was noticeably colder. Nancy pulled her cloak more tightly about her and tried to sleep, but it was impossible in the lurching carriage. Very soon she became aware that they were slowing again and sat up. When they came to a complete stop she let down the window.

  ‘What is it?’ she called. ‘What has occurred?’

  The coachman had jumped down and was now standing beside the team.

  ‘One of the wheelers has cast a shoe, ma’am,’ he called to her, beating his hands together to warm them. ‘We’ll have to go back now—’

  ‘No.’ Nancy looked out at the moonlit landscape. ‘No, it makes more sense to go forward rather than back. Let us push on to the Black Bull.’

  ‘But we have come barely two miles from Tuxford—’

  ‘Then we are closer to the Bull,’ Nancy told him. ‘It has a smithy next door.’ Or at least there used to be. ‘Come, now, let us press on.’

  They continued at a much-reduced pace and Nancy breathed a sigh of relief when at last they reached the cluster of cottages that comprised the village of Little Markham. The Black Bull was a much smaller hostelry than the Crown at Tuxford and it was patronised mainly by local gentry and farmers. Nancy had passed this way frequently in her youth, but she had never stopped here before. Nevertheless, she kept her hood up, shadowing her face as the landlord escorted her and her companion into a small private parlour.

  ‘Thank heaven they have a good fire,’ muttered Hester, moving to the hearth. ‘I hope to goodness the smith won’t be too long about his business.’

  ‘I hope so, too,’ Nancy responded, drawing off her gloves. ‘But it is not so very bad. We shall take up the landlady’s offer of dinner and we can then travel through the night and make up the time. There is some moonlight, after all.’

  The older woman turned to look at Nancy. ‘You wouldn’t stop at Tuxford and now you are very anxious to move on. Why would that be, madam? Do you know this area?’

  ‘I know it very well. I grew up near here.’

  Nancy was grateful that she did not press her to say more, but she was not surprised, for they understood one another. Hester Yelland was a widow whom Nancy had hired to be her companion while she was in London. They had become firm friends and when Nancy had invited her to travel north with her, Hester had jumped at the chance.

  ‘After all,’ she had said, giving one of her rare smiles, ‘there’s no one here to care whether I go or stay.’

  Now she merely shrugged, accepting Nancy’s reticence and saying gruffly, ‘Very well, you make yourself comfortable, madam, and I’ll go and chivvy the landlady to bring us our dinner as soon as possible!’

  * * *

  When they had finished their meal, the two women moved to the chairs by the fire. Hester was soon dozing, but Nancy was far too restless. She was impatient to be gone, but the coachman had not long returned from the smithy and would not yet have started his dinner. She knew she could insist that they set off immediately—after all, the men were being paid handsomely for their services—but she would not. She knew only too well what it was like to be at the beck and call of a selfish and demanding employer.

  She went over to the window and looked out. The sky had cleared and the snow-blanketed fields gleamed bluish-silver in the pale moonlight. An icy frost glittered on the roof tiles of the buildings and all at once Nancy felt stifled by the little parlour. She glanced at Hester, who was snoring gently, then she quietly left the room, picking up her cloak and swinging it about her shoulders as she went.

  The night air was so clear and cold it caught in her throat. Nancy paused for a moment, deciding which way to go. The majority of the cottages hugged the roadside to the south of the inn, but to the north the road wound its way through an expanse of heath, the open vista broken only by a small copse in the distance. Nancy put up her hood and set off northwards, striding out purposefully, glad to be active after so many hours cooped up in the carriage. It was very still and nothing was moving—soon even the sounds of the inn were left behind. Fleetingly, Nancy wished she had remembered her gloves, but to go back now might disturb Hester and she was loath to do that, for her companion was clearly exhausted by the journey. She might also try to dissuade Nancy from walking out alone at night, although there was nothing to fear: she had a clear view across the snowy heath and nothing was stirring. There was no sound save the crunch of her boots on the thin layer of snow that covered the iron-hard ground.

  She glanced at the eastern horizon, where black clouds were massing, threatening more snow. That might well delay even further her return to Compton Parva and all her friends at Prospect House. She had been away for several months and wondered how they had managed without her to fuss and cosset them. Almost immediately she scolded herself for such conceit. No one was indispensable and she had no doubt they had coped exceedingly well. She hoped they had missed her, then was shocked to realise how little she had missed them while she had been in town.

  Her only excuse was that she had been very busy and it had not been a trip of pleasure. Nancy had gone to London, masquerading as the rich widow of a tradesman, to help a good friend, but she could not deny she had enjoyed herself, wearing fine clothes and shopping in Bond Street, visiting the theatre, attending parties. Dancing. Flirting. It had all been pretence, of course. A charade, necessary for the character she was playing, but it had given her a glimpse of what her life might have been, if she had not cut herself off from the polite world. She might even be happily married by now. Perhaps with children.

  Nancy gave herself a little shake. She had made her choice and it was too late to change now. And she did not regret her decision to remain single and independent. Not at all. Yet the little worm of doubt gnawed away at her, the vague feeling of dissatisfaction, as if something was missing from her life. Not something, she realised now. Someone.

  ‘Bah. You are becoming sentimental,’ she scolded herself, her breath misting in the cold air. ‘Just because you are passing so close to your old home. That is all in the past now, you have a good life with your friends at Prospect House. And you are not totally bereft of family.’

  She had her sister, Lady Aspern, but they only ever communicated by letter, and in secret. Mary’s husband disapproved of undutiful daughters who disobeyed their fathers and ran away. Thinking of Aspern, Nancy’s lip curled. He was just the sort of gentleman she most despised. She would much rather keep her independence than be wed to such a man.

  But the feeling of discontent still gnawed at her and she was forced to admit that she was not as keen to return to her old life as she had thought she would be. The future stretched ahead of her, safe, predictable. Dull.

  She was so lost in her own thoughts that it was something of a shock to find herself beside the little wood, the thin, straight trunks and bare branches forming a black latticework against the night sky. Heavens, had she walked so far? She was about to turn back when something in the copse caught her eye. There was no more than a dusting of snow on the ground between the trees and a faint shaft of moonlight sliced between the straight trunks and rested on a more solid block of white, something that almost gleamed in the shadowy copse. Curiosity got the better of Nancy. She stepped into the little wood. Leaves crunched beneath her feet as she moved closer. Then, when she was almost upon it, she realised it was a man’s shirt of fine linen. And the owner was still wearing it.

 
Her heart began to pound heavily. The man was lying face down on the ground and dressed only in his shirt, breeches and top boots. She dropped to her knees beside him and put her fingers against his neck. The skin was cold, but she could feel a faint pulse. Nancy became aware of the smell of spirits and spotted an empty bottle on the ground nearby. Her lip curled. A drunkard, then, who had wandered out half-dressed. Even so, he was someone’s son. He might be a husband and father. She could not bring herself to leave him here to perish. She shook him roughly by the shoulder.

  ‘Come along, man, you must get up. If you stay here, you will be dead of cold by the morning.’

  There was no response. She took hold of him and tried to turn him over. Nancy was not a small woman and she considered herself no weakling, but he was a tall man and heavy. It took her a great deal of effort to turn him on to his back. His damp shirt front was covered with twigs and leaf mould. Her eyes moved to his face. She expected to see a haggard countenance, blotched and ravaged by drink, but even in the near dark of the trees she could see he was a handsome man, despite an ugly bruise on his cheek. He was clean-shaven, his dark hair tousled and falling over his brow. Absently she put out a hand to smooth it back and felt the warm stickiness of blood on her fingers. Her first thought was that he had been attacked and she snatched her hand away in alarm. She glanced fearfully around her. There was no movement, no sound. She breathed slowly, trying to settle her jangled nerves. She was surely being fanciful, for who would be abroad on a night like this? It was most likely the man had cut his head when he had fallen in a drunken stupor.

  ‘And serves him right,’ she muttered, wiping her fingers on her handkerchief. ‘Wake up!’ She slapped his cheeks. ‘Wake up, damn you, or I will leave you here to die.’

  A response, at last. No more than a faint groan, but Nancy exhaled with relief. She patted his face again and this time he grimaced and moved his head.