The Ace: His undercover Maid

A guest

*Daisy*

The advantage to the tryst beginning at nine is that Perkins has dismissed all the servants for the night, except for the cook and Tom. While I know I'm expected to trot off to my room, I've found an excuse to linger in the kitchen, claiming a megrim and sipping on the Earl Grey, in which Cook has added a powder she guarantees will cause my pains to melt away.

Leaning against the counter, I watch as Mrs. Karson arranges the tray on the worktable while Tom sits at the far end of it, engrossed in reading David Copperfield.

“Everything is laid out so beautifully," I tell the cook. The strawberries, stems removed, are arranged in a circle around a porcelain bowl filled with a chocolate glaze. Little tea cakes are lined up like soldiers down the center of the tray. On the other side are scattered small chunks of cheese. Everything is designed to be eaten with fingers. No cutlery needed for any of it. “You’re practically an artist with your creation.”

With a blush rising in her cheeks, the cook glances over at me. “Thanks, ducky. I’ve always believed food should look appealing, and I suspect he’ll be feeding all the nibbles to his guest himself.”

My cheeks warm as I envision the intimacy of such an action and wonder if he’ll do it in bed. “It’s a shame for them to mess it up by eating any of it.”

“No shame in it at all. It’ll please me if they gobble up every last bit after my going to such a bother.”

Mr. Perkins suddenly strides into the room. “She’s here. He took her upstairs straightaway.”

The massive foyer doesn’t provide any hiding places, and I haven’t been able to determine how to get a good look as the she-wolf enters the residence. Spotting Blue-Eyes had been serendipitous because I had been sent to light a fire in the parlor, but no such chore that would place me in the right spot at the right time had been given to me this evening.

“Very good,” Mrs. Karson says. “I’m almost done here.”

“I’m off to take up the wine.” He disappears.

“It’s quite a production when he has a guest,” I say.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Mrs. Karson mutters.

I asks casually. “Does a maid assist her . . . afterward?”

The cook shakes her head. “No. I reckon he sees to the matter himself, putting her back to rights.”

“Does she stay all night?” I enquire.

Turning slightly, with her hands on her hips, she scowl. “You’ve got a lot of questions.”

“I’ve never been employed in a residence where such goings-on take place. Or if they do, people are much more discreet.” I say.

“What goes on upstairs is none of our concern. You keep it to yourself, or you’ll find yourself let go without a reference.” Th cook warns me.

I nod. “I completely understand that. I'm just curious as to whether she’ll be there in the morning when Sarah and I begin our chores and how it might affect them. I suppose I should simply ask Sarah.”

Cook turns back to her work. “She’ll be gone long before then. He usually escorts them home before midnight.”

Perhaps I could stand on the front lawn behind a tree and catch sight of the she-wolf then. But in the dark, how clear might she be? Even with the lamplights along the drive, I might have difficulty identifying her.

Mrs. Karson steps back. “There it is, Tom, all ready for you.”

He looks up from his book and studies the clock on a shelf. It shows a couple of minutes past nine. “Bit early yet. He likes it delivered at a quarter past.” He turns his attention back to the story.

“I’d be willing to carry it up,” I offer.

Cook's brow furrows. “What about your aching head?”

I lift the teacup. “It’s much better now, thanks to your marvelous concoction.”

“You should get to bed then. It’s Tom’s job to deliver it.” Mrs. Karson says.

“I don’t mind.” I tell her quickly.

“To bed with you.” She orders.

Disappointed, knowing I would raise suspicions if I argued further, I set the cup aside. “Pleasant dreams.”

But when I'm out of the kitchen, rather than going to the stairs that lead to the servants' quarters, I go to the back stairs I know Tom will use to reach the bedchamber hallway. And I wait.

I want, need, to see the she-wolf in order to verify that it's Mrs. Parker, my client's Mrs. Parker. He gave me a small photograph of his wife so I could recognize her, but the challenge is to get a clear enough glimpse so I can identify her. Parker is too common a name, so I can't assume the guest is the correct one.

A short time later, I hear footfalls and smile at Tom when he comes around the corner. “You looked to be enjoying your book and are probably anxious to get back to it. I’m happy to deliver the tray for you.”

He glances back over his shoulder, as though fearing being caught doing what he ought not, and then returns his attention to me. “It is a good read but…”

Wanting to cut off his rejection before he voices it, I reach out and squeeze his upper arm. “Truth be told, Tom, it seems like such a menial task for a man as strong as you. I’ve never felt muscles so firm.” I bat my eyelashes, something I’ve never done before because I consider it a ridiculous flirtation maneuver, but Tom fairly preens with my praise.

“’Tis a waste of me abilities.” He says with a sigh.

I release my hold on him. “I so agree. It’s a shame you have to spend your time doing something that is more suited to a she-wolf.” I wink. I lift my shoulder. “Let me handle this for you, so you can attend to more important matters. Like your book.”

“Perkins won’t like it.” He mumbles.

“I’m not going to tell him. And Ace certainly won’t mind. His attention is no doubt on his lover. What does he care who brings up the tray as long as it’s brought?”

He furrows his brow. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Not at all. I so hate seeing you not being fully appreciated. As I’m new to the household, a chore so inconsequential really should fall to me, not to a strapping, competent lad like yourself.” I tell him.

With his chest puffing out at my latest bit of fawning, I'm surprised his waistcoat buttons don’t suddenly pop off. “Right you are. The task is simple enough. Just knock on the door, take it in, and leave.”

Excitement thrums through me as he transfers the tray. It has been far too easy to get him to relinquish the chore, but since my arrival, he has struck me as the sort willing to do as little as possible, and based upon what Sarah shared this morning, I had hoped he would prove to be a fool for flattery.

I head up the stairs, clearing my mind of everything but the image of Mrs. Parker in the photograph. A narrow face. Sharp chin. Black hair, according to her husband, as well as brown eyes. Her nose tipped slightly on the end, as though as a child, she had kept it pressed against a toyshop window, longing for what was inside. Although perhaps I am merely recalling my own childhood, of wishing for things that always seemed beyond reach. Before I can travel that path, I refocus on tonight’s goal.

I arrive at the landing where this morning I laid the linens, linens that are now spread out over his bed. Where presently the couple might be cavorting. I carry on down the hall and rap on the door.

“Come in.”

That deep, resounding voice sends what feels like little bubbles of pleasure cascading through me. I take a deep breath, regaining my focus.

Shifting the tray slightly, I use my smallest finger to turn the latch. It puts a painful strain on my hand. The things servants endure. I’ll never take staff for granted again. The door finally clicks. I push it open and step into the room.

Lounging on a settee, he wears only boots, trousers, and shirtsleeves, the buttons undone to the middle of his chest, the parted linen revealing flesh and a scattering of dark, springy hair. I’m so surprised by the sight of him practically naked that I nearly don’t notice the she-wolf he's easing off his lap. When he's free of the she-wolf, he shoots to his feet. “Where’s Tom?”

“Oh… uh.” I’ve never seen so much of a man bared before. My fingers want to touch, to glide from the dip at his throat all the way down to the secured button. Perhaps give it its freedom and travel farther. He seems more muscled and toned than Tom, and I have an inclination to put my theory to the test and squeeze his upper arms. Unfortunately, I fear I won’t be able to stop there, but will want to explore the entire landscape of him. “He was indisposed, had something important to attend to. Where shall I place the tray?”

My voice sounds like it's coming from a great distance, each word a struggle to push out. It doesn’t even sound like me. It's more of a rasp, as though I’ve gone my entire life without swallowing a single drop of water.

“I’ll take it.” He strides over. He has such long strides. Have I noticed that before? He places his large hands, strong with thick, blunt-tipped fingers, the nails evenly trimmed, on the tray and gives a little tug. “Release it.”

“Right.”

His lips twist slightly as though he knows I'm flummoxed and he finds my reaction amusing. He walks over to a small, low oblong table near the wall, sets down the tray, picks up a strawberry, and dips it into the chocolate glaze. Holding it over his cupped hand, he walks… no, it's not a walk, it's a prowl, slow and leisurely like a predator on the hunt… towards the she-wolf and offers it to her, touching the tip of it to her red lips. Gazing at him adoringly, she takes a bite. The smile he bestows upon her is filled with wicked promises. Then he tosses the last bit of strawberry into his own roguishly luscious mouth. Should a man's lips be so full and tempting? After chewing and swallowing, he licks from his palm the chocolate that has dripped onto it.

I have a strong urge to stop him, to lick it for him. Whatever is wrong with me? I never have these sorts of scandalous thoughts. But then, I've never been in a bedchamber with a half-clad gent before.

That indecently attired man, his eyes smoldering, directs his attention to me like a fine-honed blade. “That'll be all. Close the door on your way out.”

After giving a jerky nod, I rush from the room, hating that the door practically slams shut behind me. It's only when I reach the stairs that I realize I haven't even bothered to catalog enough of the she-wolf's features in order to recall exactly what she looks like.

Damn him for distracting me, for making my knees so weak I have to sit on the top step and gather my wits about me. I can't very well barge back in there. By now, more clothing has probably been discarded.

With a deep sigh, I shove myself to my feet. It seems I'm going to be spending the remainder of my evening outside, waiting to catch a glimpse of the she-wolf as she's leaving.