“I thought the gray,” Melisande murmured absently.
She frowned over a German word in the story she was working on. The old book of fairy tales had belonged to her dearest friend Emeline, a memento from her childhood. It had apparently come from Emeline’s Prussian nanny. Before she had left to sail to America with her new husband, Mr. Hartley, Emeline had given the book to Melisande so that she could translate its stories. When she’d accepted the task, she’d understood that it meant much more to both of them than a simple translation. Giving the cherished book to her was Emeline’s way of promising that their friendship would endure this separation, and Melisande had been touched and grateful for the gesture.
She’d hoped to translate the book and then have the stories copied out and hand-bound to give to Emeline when next she visited England. Unfortunately, Melisande had run into a problem. The book consisted of four related fairy tales, each the story of a soldier returning from war. Three of these stories she’d translated handily enough, but the fourth . . . The fourth was proving to be a challenge.
“The gray, my lady?” Suchlike repeated doubtfully.
“Yes, the gray,” Melisande said.
The problem was the dialect. And the fact that she was trying to translate the written word. She’d learned German from her mother but had mostly spoken the language, not read it, and the difference was proving to be key. Melisande stroked her finger across the brittle page. Working on the book reminded her of Emeline. She wished her friend could have been there for her wedding. And she wished even more that she was here right now. How comforting it would be to talk to Emeline about her marriage and the puzzle that was gentlemen in general. Why had her husband—
“Which gray?”
“What?” Melisande finally glanced at her maid and saw that Suchlike wore an exasperated frown.
“Which gray?” Suchlike opened wide the doors to the wardrobe, which, admittedly, was filled with a rather dull-colored collection of gowns.
“The bluish gray.”
Suchlike took down the indicated gown, muttering under her breath. Melisande chose not to comment on the sound, instead rising and pouring out a basin of tepid water to wash her face and neck. Thus refreshed, she stood patiently while Suchlike dressed her.
Half an hour later, Melisande dismissed the maid and made her way to the lower hall, paneled in palest pink marble with gold and black accents. Here she hesitated. Surely breakfast was served in one of the lower rooms. But there were so many doors to choose from, and yesterday, in all the excitement of meeting the staff and moving in, she’d not thought to ask.
Nearby, someone cleared his throat. Melisande turned to find the butler, Oaks, behind her. He was a short man with round shoulders and hands that were too big for his wrists. On his head he wore an extravagantly curled and powdered white wig.
“Might I help you, my lady?”
“Yes, thank you,” Melisande said. “Could you have one of the footmen take my dog, Mouse, out into the garden? And please show me to the room where breakfast is served.”
“My lady.” Oaks snapped his fingers, and a lanky young footman sprang forward like an acolyte to a priest. The butler gestured to Mouse with a flick of his hand. The footman bent toward the dog and then froze as Mouse lifted a lip and snarled.
“Oh, Sir Mouse.” Melisande bent, picked up the little dog, and deposited him, still growling, in the footman’s arms.
The footman arched his head as far away from his own arms as possible.
Melisande tapped the dog on the nosp hog on te with one finger. “Stop that.”
Mouse ceased growling, but he still eyed his bearer with suspicion. The footman headed to the back of the house with Mouse held straight-armed before him.
“The breakfast room is through here,” Oaks said.
He led the way through an elegant sitting room to a room that overlooked the town-house gardens. Melisande looked out the window and could see Mouse sprinkling every ornamental tree along the main path as the footman followed.
“This is the room the viscount uses to breakfast when he has guests,” Oaks said. “Naturally, should you wish to make other arrangements, you need only inform me.”
“No. This is quite nice. Thank you, Oaks.” She smiled and sat in the chair he held for her at the long, polished wood table.
“Cook’s coddled eggs are excellent,” Oaks said. “But if you wish for herring or—”
“The eggs will be fine. I’d also like a sweet bun or two and some hot chocolate.”
He bowed. “Then I shall have a maid bring them up directly.”
Melisande cleared her throat. “Not yet, please. I’d like to wait for my husband.”
Oaks blinked. “The viscount is a late riser—”
“Nevertheless, I shall wait.”
“Yes, my lady.” And Oaks eased out of the room.
Melisande watched Mouse finish his business, then come trotting to the house. In another few minutes, he appeared at the breakfast room door with the footman. Mouse’s button ears pricked forward when he saw her, and he ran over to lick her hand and then settle beneath her chair with a groan.
“Thank you.” Melisande smiled at the footman. He looked quite young, his face still spotty beneath his white wig. “What is your name?”
“Sprat, my lady.” His cheeks reddened at her notice.
Good Lord, hopefully his parents hadn’t christened him Jack. Melisande nodded. “Sprat, you shall be in charge of Sir Mouse. He needs to visit the garden in the morning, again just after lunch, and before retiring for bed. Can you remember to see to him for me?”
“Yes, my lady.” Sprat’s head jerked down in a nervous bow. “Thank you, my lady.”
Melisande repressed a smile. Sprat didn’t look entirely sure if he should be grateful. From beneath her chair, Mouse gurgled a soft growl. “Thank you. That will be all.”
Sprat backed out and Melisande was alone again. She sat for a minute until her nerves couldn’t stand her inaction anymore; then she stood and paced to the windows. How to face her new husband? With wifely serenity, of course. But was there any way she could gently—discreetly—make it known that last night had been, well, a disappointment? Melisande winced. Probably not over the breakfast table. Gentlemen were notoriously sensitive in this area, and many were not at their most reasonable in the early m>much better than last night.
Somewhere a clock chimed the nine o’clock hour. Mouse stood and stretched, yawning until his pink tongue curled. With a twinge of disappointment, Melisande gave up waiting and went to the hall. Sprat was standing there, staring rather vacantly at the ceiling, although he brought his gaze hastily down when he saw her.