Master of Sin Page 5

  Miss Peartree relented and helped herself to a pickle. The three of them sat in companionable silence in the warm kitchen, watching Mrs. MacLaren move capably between the larder and the stove preparing tonight’s fish pie dinner. Thanks to the provisions they’d brought over on the boat yesterday, his household was spared from eating roasted gulls or their eggs. One could not precisely go to market with a basket over one’s arm out here, although Andrew had seen the store. Perhaps tomorrow if the weather held he’d have the courage to go down and face the islanders and check out the village itself. Maybe he could even bring Miss Peartree and Marc with him.

  Marc began drooping over his plate. The governess swept him up in her arms and whispered something in Italian in his ear. He shook his head no but was not defiant. No self-respecting boy would admit he was tired and needed a nap. She carried him upstairs, singing softly. Andrew was left with his housekeeper, who looked as if she’d prefer to be alone in her kitchen kingdom.

  He took the hint. Making a great show of patting his belly and bowing, he shut himself in his bookless library. A dozen crates were lined up along the walls. Mr. MacLaren must have taken the liberty of prying them open while Andrew was out on his ramble, but their contents were undisturbed. A very good thing, too, for Andrew did not want to shock the man with his naughty books.

  But he had others—histories, novels, scientific treatises. His education had been a hit-or-miss affair, so it had behooved him to teach himself that he might move smoothly in society. One would never guess that Andrew Rossiter was the son of a common Edinburgh prostitute.

  Not that his mother was common. She’d been extraordinarily beautiful, a golden angel as he remembered through his little boy’s lens. She’d had rich patrons—one of whom had been his unknown father—but when he was seven she had become ill and left him. Disappeared. Whether she was dead or simply in despair, the result was the same. Andrew had managed somehow on his own for a few weeks before Donal Stewart found him.

  Andrew was not going to let himself wallow in the unpleasant past. He removed the lid on one of the boxes and unwrapped a small marble statue of Pan. Safe enough. He placed it upon a shelf, then rummaged around for other objets d’art. Many had been gifted to him by grateful patrons, who had far more money than sense. He admired the bric-a-brac for its worth, not for sentimentality. He had little in his past to miss, but much to regret.

  Bah. He was doing it again. He shoved the empty box aside and began on the next. Books this time. Leather-bound and gilt-inscribed. He lined them on a shelf methodically bringing them out to the very edge. Andrew was particular when it came to his surroundings—he appreciated beauty and order. How he was going to set Gull House to rights would be a monumental task, although somewhere in the house came the steady tapping of a hammer. Mr. MacLaren had gotten right to work. Andrew’s new home’s deficiencies needed no explanation, which was fortunate as whatever Andrew said would not be understood. But the MacLarens seemed competent and hardworking. He would keep them on, but certainly for his own sanity Miss Peartree had to go.

  As if she knew she was in his thoughts, she knocked on the library door, not waiting for an invitation to barge in. She had changed into something else equally huge and hideous, only instead of pea-green it was more vomit yellow. Andrew raised an eyebrow.

  “You might have waited for me to say ‘enter.’ ” He could have been doing anything in here—gratifying himself with the image of Miss Peartree’s far lovelier appearance this morning, for example.

  “Marc is asleep, even through the hammering, poor lamb. I thought I would ask you if you need any help unpacking.”

  Well, this was something new. Miss Peartree actually looked meek and biddable. Ridiculous as well. “I’m perfectly capable of moving a few books on my own.”

  “Of course you are. I meant no disparagement. How did you injure your arm, anyway?”

  “An accident,” he said tersely.

  “The same one that killed your wife?”

  He had been mistaken. She wasn’t here to help but to hound him. “Miss Peartree, you ask far too many questions. Even an upper servant such as yourself should know your place. I cannot think how your previous employer tolerated your inquisitiveness.” He plunked a stack of books down on his desk with a deliberately loud thud, hoping to frighten her away. Instead, she took the top off one of the crates and peered into it.

  Damn it! Before he could tell her to close the box, she had lifted what was surely one of his more salacious volumes and opened it.

  To her credit, she neither blanched nor blushed. There was no sign of a ladylike swoon, no shriek, no revulsion. She looked up at him quite calmly, the book still open in her hands. “Oh! I can see now why you wanted to do this task alone. I know you care nothing for my opinion, but these books should not be around an impressionable child. What if Marc were to come upon them?”

  Andrew stalked across the room and snatched the book from her hands. “I have no intention of placing them on the shelves! Nor will I put up with your meddling, Miss Peartree.”

  She raised her pointed little chin. “You have employed me to help raise your child, sir. I think I should have some influence in what is appropriate for the household.”

  “You do? I believe I should have even more influence than you, and right now your presence in this household is about to be terminated.”

  That chin grew more pugnacious. “You cannot sack me every day, Mr. Ross. I won’t go. You do remember that I still have that pesky contract in my possession. Any magistrate would uphold my right to this job.”

  “Your right! You serve at my pleasure, Miss Peartree, and may I say I am getting none.”

  She bristled. “I was not hired to give you pleasure, Mr. Ross, but to teach your son. And I will not have you ogling me when I take a bath, either.”

  “Ogling! You were naked in my kitchen. I challenge you to find a man who would not notice such a thing.”

  “You noticed for an exceptionally long time.” She picked up another erotic book and skimmed through it. “Judging from your taste in reading, I begin to understand you. Your poor wife. I feel now more than ever I must clarify the terms of my employment.”

  This was outside of enough. Andrew was not about to let this impudent creature dictate to him. If she could snoop on him, he could turn the tables. When he had the opportunity, he’d go through her reticule and tear the vaunted contract to shreds. “There are no terms. You are fired, Miss Peartree. I suppose I’ll have to put up with you until the next boat comes, but I’ll carry you up the gangplank myself when it docks.”

  She snapped the book shut. “You will not lay a hand on me, sir, if you know what’s good for you.”

  Andrew loomed over her, but she refused to back down. Her face was mutinous, her lips a bloodless thin line of disapproval. He fought back the incomprehensible urge to kiss her. She’d probably bite his tongue in two.

  She was driving him mad. He must get hold of himself. Marc needed this woman now, no matter what Andrew thought of her. In just a little over twenty-four hours his son was becoming a happy child again. Andrew truly understood for the first time just how difficult it must have been for Marc all these weeks to be surrounded by strangers who didn’t speak his language. Andrew had only been on this island a day, and his frustration was getting the better of him. The only person who understood him was the virtuous, vicious little Miss Peartree, and he was afraid she understood him only too well.

  He sighed wearily. “Look here, Miss Peartree, once again we are at sixes and sevens. I assure you my first concern is for my son. Keeping that in mind, I am willing to overlook your argumentative behavior. As we are in absolute agreement about the contents of those books, that is one less impediment between us. Rest assured I will not be laying a hand on you now or in the future. If you can keep a civil tongue in your head, I shall endeavor to do the same, and perhaps we can see what transpires in the next two weeks.”

  She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. �
�So I am to be on trial.” “As am I. Should I offend your delicate sensibilities in any way,” he said over her snort, “you may leave and I will fulfill the financial obligations of your contract. You’ll be paid for the full year, even if you spend a mere two weeks here. Fair enough?”

  Her eyebrows knit. “Not really. You might go out of your way to be offensive, ensuring that I will leave. I can think of any number of objectionable tricks you might play.”

  Andrew sat down heavily at his desk. “Miss Peartree, I’m too tired to play tricks, objectionable or otherwise. I’ve had a bad few months. I simply want to be left in peace. I want my son to get used to me. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

  “N-no, I suppose not.”

  She looked as if she wanted to say more, but he cut her off. “Well then, that is all. Let me get back to my books. Mrs. MacLaren might have need of you in the kitchen if you truly insist on being helpful to someone.”

  “Unlikely. Are you sure—” She had the sense to stop when he gave his most glacial stare. “Very well. I suppose I’ll see you at supper.”

  “I will dine alone tonight. Here in the library. Please tell Mrs. MacLaren.” The last thing he needed was more time spent in Miss Peartree’s company. Let her dine in the kitchen with Marc, or even in the dining room. He was not equal to another inquisition or her unsettling effect on him.

  “Yes, sir.” She wavered a moment and finally turned, tripping on her voluminous skirt. Andrew rose from his chair, shut the door, and turned the key. At least he’d be alone for the rest of the afternoon, unless he was called to referee another fight between his housekeeper and governess. Though they seemed to enjoy hurling insults at each other that neither one could understand.

  Miss Peartree was an odd little thing. She didn’t have the demeanor of a servant, so it was up to him to school her, if he could stand her company for any length of time. How ironic that a boy from an Edinburgh slum was now more smoothly polished than any lord of his acquaintance.

  Over the next half-hour, Andrew consolidated all the erotica and tapped the boxes shut with Pan’s hoofed feet. He would store them until he could sell them. No point in throwing good money after bad. He must know someone perverted enough to enjoy this particular collection. He would write to the few he trusted and see if he could recoup his investment.

  Which reminded him. He needed to make a list. Needed to replace his parlor sofa if Miss Peartree’s nose was accurate. But first he’d line his shelves to help him endure the days ahead. His conversations with Miss Peartree must be limited. Andrew imagined pretty soon he’d turn into a doddering old cripple, talking to himself and counting snowflakes and seabirds.

  Something about Andrew Ross smelled to high heaven. A man as handsome as he was shouldn’t need dirty books to find his satisfaction. Although, Gemma realized, now that he was out of society perhaps those awful books and his hand would be his only comfort. It wasn’t as if she was going to tumble into his bed. Or bend over the parlor sofa like the first picture she saw. That looked most uncomfortable. Her mamma had always advised her a little variety in the bedroom was the key to male happiness, but Gemma had no intention of making any man happy in whatever room she found herself in. Especially Andrew Ross.

  It was true she had not entered the library solely to be useful. There was unfinished business between them from this morning. She could not very well have spoken of it over lunch, not that Marc or Mrs. MacLaren would have understood a word. It wanted a private moment, but as soon as she was in the man’s presence, he put her back up.

  Faced with an hour of idleness, Gemma didn’t dare to take advantage of the comparatively fine weather and go outdoors. Marc could wake and would expect her to be nearby. Really, at some point she would have to sit down with Mr. Ross, for surely he wouldn’t enslave her to his son twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. They needed to set the conditions for her employment, at least as long as she was employed. His daily threats to remove her from his house had already become tiresome. Perhaps a girl from the village could be hired for a few hours a week to give Gemma respite, not that there was anything to do or anywhere to go. Mrs. MacLaren had been prevailed upon to take Marc with her so Gemma could have her disastrous bath this morning, but the woman couldn’t be depended on to do her any more favors. They had reached an uneasy truce—or at least Gemma thought they had. Mrs. MacLaren was no longer wild-eyed waving knives around and shrieking like a banshee. Marc’s presence had a quelling effect on her, and his father was even more powerful. Mrs. MacLaren seemed besotted by Mr. Ross. Mr. MacLaren had better watch out.

  There was no doubt Andrew Ross possessed his unfair share of charm. Gemma had been subjected to a parade of men through her mother’s life, but she could not recall any one of them coming close to Andrew’s physical perfection. He was so tall, so blond, so very blue-eyed, like a Viking god returning to the Western Isles. Wounded in body and spirit, he was even more appealing. Vulnerable. Although he did not wear mourning for his late wife, it was clear it pained him too much to speak of her.

  Unless—

  Unless he was responsible for her death. Gemma stumbled as she mounted the stairs to her bedroom. She was becoming fanciful, having read far too many gothic novels. Looks were often deceiving, but surely a man who so resembled an angel could not have killed his wife. Though perhaps he had caused her accident and was so steeped in guilt that he couldn’t talk about it. She could not quiz his poor little boy, who refused to even call the man “Papa.” It was almost as if Andrew Ross was a complete stranger to him.

  Gemma threw herself down on her bed and sighed. There was a mystery here. Oh, dear. Her mother had despaired of her curiosity, calling her a little terrier after a rat when Gemma wouldn’t leave well enough alone. “Be careful what you catch,” her mamma had warned. “Rats have sharp teeth and they carry disease.” Andrew Ross’s teeth were blindingly white and even, and he looked clean, but who knew what lurked within? And how could she find out without winding up like the late Mrs. Ross? If he decided to toss her over the cliffs, Mrs. MacLaren certainly wouldn’t object.

  Didn’t she owe it to her own safety to discover what Mr. Ross was hiding? For she certainly wasn’t going to get any straight answers from him. A proper governess might not rummage through her master’s belongings, but Gemma was not a bit proper, and she hadn’t been a governess long enough to teach herself propriety. She was used to living by her wits, and one handsome employer should not drive them from her.

  There might be clues in all those books downstairs as to what kind of man Andrew Ross was. Already she knew his taste for sins of the flesh. She’d really like to examine those erotic books a bit more closely to further her education, but couldn’t, seeing how Mr. Ross had staked out that room and rarely ventured out of it except to eat and sleep.

  Sleep. She had nothing else to do at the moment. And as Mr. Ross had said last night, she needed stamina to deal with Marc. Gemma closed her eyes, listening to the crash of the waves beneath her window. Tomorrow she’d figure out a way to begin her investigation of her employer. For now, she’d steal a nap while she could.

  CHAPTER 5

  The sun played hide-and-seek with the clouds all morning, but it was still a second day of relatively good weather. In an unprecedented act of civility, Mr. Ross had actually invited Gemma and his son to stroll down to the village with him, but Gemma begged off. Making a great pretense of sneezing and pinching her little nose until it looked realistically red, she convinced him to go by himself and gave him a long list of things to look for in the tiny village shop. As soon as she heard the front door slam, she hurried into the library, plunked Marc down with his favorite spoon and pan, and began her search.

  The shelves were lined with books now and interesting bric-a-brac. The boxes were empty, stacked neatly against the wall, but for three that had been nailed back shut. The “bad” books, no doubt. Gemma had nothing with which to pry them open, so she concentrated on other areas. A cursory glance thro
ugh the desk drawers yielded the same old ledgers and papers relating to Gull House that she had already committed to memory while she was stuck downstairs for two weeks waiting for the Rosses’ arrival. She’d almost been desperate enough to bird-watch herself, but the weather had been so inclement she soon disabused herself of that notion.

  Wait. She hadn’t been waiting for the Rosses. She’d been waiting for the Rossiters. She was almost positive that was the name that Baron Christie had given her in the employment interview. Of course, she had been terribly nervous what with lying left and right, so maybe she had heard the name incorrectly. However, she found a yellowed sheet of foolscap and the nub of a pencil and began her second list of the day.

  Name???

  There was nothing personal in the desk except for a list that Mr. Ross had begun himself, listing necessary items of furniture for the house. She was pleased to see the addition of a new sofa on it, as well as the word toys. There had been very few items in Marc’s baggage that could amuse him. As if to emphasize her thought, Marc rapped noisily on the saucepan.

  “I hope your father buys you quiet toys. I shall go mad otherwise, sweetheart,” she told Marc, taking the sting out of her words with a smile. Not that he knew what she said. She pulled a book down from the shelf.

  It was an ordinary history book, no bookplate affixed to the frontispiece with its owner’s name. Someone had defaced it during reading. Various words were underlined, and tiny notes were written in the margins throughout. She could be mistaken, but Mr. Ross didn’t strike her as a scholar. He seemed too physical to be contained behind a desk for long. She could see him riding to the hounds, swimming across a lake, or boxing, stripped to the waist. When he had come in from his walk yesterday, he’d taken her breath away. His color was high, his fair hair windblown, his eyes sparkling from whatever adventure he’d had.