The Ace: His undercover Maid

His smile

*Daisy*

I should never do anything to make him smile.

Good Goddess, but his grin is devastating, making him look unburdened, carefree, and fun. It makes me want to reach out and touch his mouth, his cheek, his jaw.

Then the way he rolls my full name off his tongue... I never liked Marguerite. It seemed too pretentious, too large for the girl I used to be. But his deep voice makes it sound as though I fit it perfectly. I'll never be a great beauty like my mother, but in that moment, I felt seen, appreciated, and lovely. And terrified, because no man has ever made me feel like he has a true interest in all of me, not just the shell that comes with a dowry.

Part of why I never felt like I fit properly within pack Society is because I want to be viewed as more than just the overseer of a pack and the bearer of children. Hence, much to my uncle's chagrin and my aunt's disappointment, I set up my own business instead of moving within their social circle of Alphas, Lunas, and the high packs.

I consider giving my notice to Perkins and then informing my client that he needs to hire another detective. But I've never been one to accept defeat, especially due to something as innocuous as feelings stirred to life by a brief meeting. Ace's charm is such that I fully understand why she-wolves are falling into bed with him. But my moral fiber is such that even the thought of succumbing to his allure is revolting, or should be. Instead, I wonder if he grins at a she-wolf while debauching her. I rather suspect he does, and it would be as intoxicating and pleasurable as the finest wine.

I also wonder why he goes through lovers with the ease and frequency that most men change shirts. Does he grow bored? Does he require a constant carousel of new she-wolves to hold his attention? Or do ill feelings arise when husbands sue him? Or perhaps the she-wolves are disappointed that he hasn't been discreet enough and their liaison has been discovered.

Not that any of it really matters. The man is a devilishly handsome scoundrel, and I would do well to remember that. No more fluttering heart, quivering stomach, or warmth whispering along my skin whenever I encounter him.

*****

Still, as the days rush toward that all-important Monday, I find myself hoping I'll run into him. In one of the many hallways. Or in one of the chambers that I'm tidying. From what I've been able to gather, he spends most of his day and early evening in his library. Breakfast, luncheon, and dinner are all served to him on a tray delivered by a male servant. I've considered volunteering to handle the chore, but I don't need the distraction of him, and I'm striving to be as unnoticed as possible. No one pays him a visit on Saturday or Sunday.

However, Sunday night from my bedchamber window, I catch sight of him strolling about the gardens, and I can't help but think that he strikes me as a solitary, perhaps lonely, soul. I'm unable to take my attention off him, even considering slipping out and joining him.

My curiosity regarding him seems to know no bounds, even as I know time spent in his company would come to no good. I have to remain impartial and distant because once I gather my evidence, I will speak out against him in court. I can't experience any remorse at betraying him, and I won't be riddled with guilt if we share no confidences, if our relationship remains as it should: employer and employee.

Yet it seems such an odd thing to see him wandering about alone when he has she-wolves aplenty seeking his company. I wonder if he is reminiscing about one of them, absurdly I would have welcomed him ruminating about moments spent with me.

I am grateful when Monday finally arrives, heralding what could turn out to be my last day of mixed sentiments where Ace is concerned. As usual, before a single ray of sunshine peers over the horizon, Mr. Perkins calls the servants together in the room in which we take our meals so he can alert us to any additional requirements for the day.

I don't see how another hour in bed would hurt. I'm rather certain we'll still have plenty of time to get our chores done, and probably with a good deal more efficiency because we'll be bright-eyed with no cobwebs filling our heads. But the butler is a stickler for routine.

"All right then," he begins, his tone stern and uncompromising. I'm not certain he is capable of emitting a laugh or demonstrating a smile. "We have a busy day ahead of us. Following his dinner as is his customary habit with a tray delivered to the library the master will be enjoying the company of a friend. Mrs. Karson, he has asked for a platter of strawberries, a bowl of your chocolate glaze, and a few other sweets of your choosing, along with some cheeses, to be delivered to his bedchamber shortly after nine. Tom, you'll see to the delivery."

"Yes, sir," the servant answers sharply with military precision. I'm surprised he doesn't salute.

"Today's flower is to be lilies and baby's breath. Sarah, ensure all is in order upstairs." The butler says.

She nods sharply. "I always do, sir."

He gives the tiniest of scowls before nodding. "Everyone else, carry on as usual. Remember, you are to clean without being seen."

As the servants begin to scatter, I'm relatively certain Perkins has his final words embroidered on a framed sampler hanging over his bed, because he ends any directions or discussion with them. I follow Sarah to the linen cupboard and hold out my arms for the fresh sheets the chambermaid hands to me.

"I was wondering," I begin hesitantly, "if the she-wolf tonight might be the one I saw on Friday when I delivered tea to the library. A Luna Duckling." Although I think it unlikely. That woman had been fair and in no way resembled a raven.

"Ah, no," Sarah says, as she begins marching up the back stairs. "Monday is Luna Parker."

My breath catches. "You know her name?"

"Yeah. Tom heard it once when he carried a tray into the bedchamber. He told me." She admits.

"Have you ever caught a glimpse of her?" I ask curiously, I might soon have my proof.

"No." She winks. "I clean without being seen."

I smile. "Perkins really does like saying that, doesn't he?"

"We're supposed to be quiet, unobtrusive. The master of the manor isn't supposed to know he has servants, is he? We're like the cobbler's elves, aren't we, coming in and getting the job done, leaving people to think it's all magic? But he pays well, so I never complain. Although Tom does it often enough." She says.

"What has he to be unhappy about?" I ask, well aware that crucial information could come from the most unexpected of places.

"He considers it beneath him to cart a tray about. Thinks it's a chore best handled by maids. He sees it as an absolute waste of his talents... as well as those strong muscles of his." She smiles sheepishly. "I can think of better uses for those lovely muscles."

I raise a brow at her. "Such as?"

Sarah laughs lightly. “Carrying me up these stairs for starters.”

At the landing, in front of a door, is a table. “Place the linens there,” Sarah says. “We’ll change Ace’s bed once he’s up and about.”

She opens the door that leads into the wide and elaborate corridor of bedchambers. I follow Sarah’s lead, dusting and polishing and sweeping. I gather up the flowers in the vases that adorn several of the tables in the hallway when the door to his bedchamber opens and he steps out. He halts and stare at me.

But then I stop as well. As do my lungs. I’ve forgotten how devilishly handsome he is, dark hair, hazel eyes, dark brows. I haven’t seen his valet go into the room. Does he even have one? However, he is freshly shaven and immaculately attired.

“Good morning, Marguerite.” He says softly.

My arms full of wilting blossoms, I give a quick bob. “Sir.”

“You probably believe me to have an inordinate number of flowers in this residence.” He says.

“It does seem odd to have so many up here where few people see them.” I admit.

He lets out a soft sigh, “My mum loved flowers. When I was a lad, l would help her plant them, water them, and keep the weeds away from them. Having the blossoms about reminds me of her. I suppose in a way they are a tribute to her.”

“It’s lovely that you have such a special memory.” I tell him, feeling something warm spread in my chest.

“What about your mother? What did she like?” He asks.

With regret at having nothing to share, I shake my head. “I can’t think of anything.” Then something tickles the furthest recesses of my mind. “Singing perhaps. I remember her singing me a lullaby, something about angels guarding me all through the night. She had a lovely voice. I’d forgotten that.” I haven’t many fond memories of the she-wolf who gave birth to me but didn’t want to dwell on the reasons for their absence.

“We’ll have to find a musician, see if perhaps he knows it and can give you the tune and lyrics. Do you play the piano?” He asks softly.

“My aunt insisted I learn.” I admit.

He smiles. And I wish he hadn’t, because it’s like the moon drawing the tide and I want to step nearer to him, to be within reach of his embrace. “I’ll have to keep that in mind. Have a productive day.”

Then he's loping down the steps as though late for an appointment, and I wonder why he would care at all if I know how to guide my fingers over a keyboard.

"Clean without being seen," Sarah whispers harshly beside me, nearly causing me to leap right out of my skin.

"What was I to do? Duck into a room?" I ask

She shakes her head. "You should have been listening for him. If he complains to Mr. Perkins."

"He's not going to mention anything to the butler." I don't know how I know it, but I do. I also know that no matter what servant he's encountered, he wouldn't have been bothered enough to tell anyone.

"You finish with the flowers," Sarah orders. "I'll see to his chamber. As he had no guest last night, it won't need much tidying today."

As the chambermaid disappears into the room, I wonder how it is that a man who seems to idolize his mother can treat she-wolves as playthings and can't be satisfied with only one.