He had shed his jacket and waistcoat. He wore only a beautiful lawn shirt with cascading lace lapels and cuffs, fawn-colored breeches and stockings and shoes. His hair remained tied back loosely, with many hanks falling about his shoulders. He slowly looked up. His gaze was unwavering upon her.

"I can't sleep. I want to make a list. I have so much to do tomorrow." How hoa.r.s.e she sounded!

He stepped aside. "Only you would wish to make up lists at one in the morning."

She hesitated. It was very late. Friends or not, she should not walk into that room-they should not be alone together. "Is that a criticism?"

"Hardly. It might even be a compliment."

Their gazes met again. He looked away first. "Would you like a drink? It is bedtime, Amelia."

His tone wasn't exactly suggestive. Yet it wasn't entirely formal, either. "I am your housekeeper," she heard herself say. "Perhaps we should set our friendship aside entirely, now that we are in London?"

He shrugged, glancing at her. "Is that what you really wish to do?"

She was afraid to answer.

Suddenly his regard was intent. "I don't think we can set our friendship aside, even if we wish to. And we have had a long day." He turned and walked into the room, which was a library. Two walls were filled with bookshelves. Another wall was painted burgundy, and boasted a black-marble fireplace. The fourth wall boasted windows and doors that led to the gardens outside-or so she a.s.sumed. Amelia watched him set his gla.s.s down on a handsome side table, where several bottles of wine graced a silver tray. He poured a second gla.s.s.

He was right, she thought. They could pretend many things, but the truth would always be between them. The past would always be there, too. She wondered if traveling together had also disturbed him. "I suppose we must stumble about, finding our way as employer and housekeeper."

He turned and smiled. "Yes, I think so. But I do not mind making up the rules as we go. Besides, I would like to have a drink with you."

He was so calm, while she was filled with tension. Worse, his smile had made her heart somersault. She knew that she should take the writing materials she needed and go back to her room. She felt more attracted to him than ever before. "I'd like that, too."

"Do you mind red? It is an exceptional French claret. But if you wish for white, I have a fine Burgundy in the house."

She slowly walked inside, against all of her better judgment. Her heart drummed. "Thank you." She took the gla.s.s from him, and took a much-needed sip. Then, as she realized she was standing much too close to him, she walked about the room, pretending to inspect it. "I expected you to be asleep by now." She tried to sound casual, but their late-night gla.s.s of wine did not feel casual, and one glance in his direction told her that he was staring.

"I rarely sleep at this hour."

She was surprised, facing him, some distance between them now. "Why not?"

He picked up his gla.s.s, settling his lean hip against the table. "Like you, I have trouble sleeping. There is always something to brood about."

She realized she was noticing how his breeches molded his hips and thighs; she jerked her gaze away. "I a.s.sume the boys are sleeping?"

"John was asleep before his head even hit the pillow." Grenville smiled. "William was asleep a moment later. They are exhausted." He seemed to carefully note the distance she had put between them-the length of the sofa, at least.

She said, "I have so much to do tomorrow. I have an entire house to familiarize myself with and to organize. But the boys need direction. Do you have any interest in taking them for an afternoon outing?"

His stare moved slowly over her features. "You need not build Rome in a day."

When he looked at her mouth-as if he were thinking very illicit thoughts-it was difficult to think clearly. "You and your sons must be fed, at the very least."

"We will manage."

"I happen to be an excellent cook."

His eyes widened. He set his gla.s.s down so hard as he stood up that red wine spilled over its rim. "Absolutely not!"

Why would he object to her cooking for him and his children? "Grenville, you must eat. At sunrise, I will send a maid out for fresh eggs and bread. I can make excellent eggs and sausages-"

"Absolutely not!" he repeated, seeming aghast.

She hugged her gla.s.s to her chest. His gaze slammed to her hands-her b.r.e.a.s.t.s-and lifted.

"Amelia, you are not an ordinary servant. I will not treat you as if you were one. You may supervise breakfast-and lunch and supper-but you make certain one of the housemaids cooks our meals. And if neither maid can manage that, we will adjourn to the St. James Hotel." He was final.

Should she be flattered? she wondered. "I really don't mind, but I see that you have made up your mind."

"I have." He stared. "And as you are both my guest and in my employ, you will do as I wish."

She felt like pointing out to him that she could not be both his guest and his housekeeper, just as she could not be both his friend and servant. But he had been explicit-he intended to make the rules of their relationship. "Very well. In any case, tomorrow will be a busy day. I appreciate the fact that you do not expect me to build Rome in a single day. However, I intend to try."

He did not smile.

She wet her lips. "Are you all right? Is something wrong? I was trying to make a jest."

He simply picked up his drink and began to slowly pace. "I cannot take the boys out tomorrow. I have a great deal to do myself," he said.

"Then I will make the time to do so. Simon-" she hesitated "-is something bothering you?"

He faced her, eyes wide. "You call me Simon now?"

She trembled. "Grenville, then. I sense that something is amiss, although I may be imagining it. If something is wrong, I would like to help."

"Of course you would." His stare was hard. "I hope I have not made a mistake, Amelia, asking you to join us here in London."

He was having regrets, she thought, stunned. "I know that this is awkward, but the children need me. I am glad to help. I am glad to be here. Even if you hadn't asked me to become your housekeeper, I would do what I could to help you and the children."

He paused for a long moment. "Your determination-compa.s.sion-loyalty-they all amaze me."

"In time, we will both become accustomed to our new relationship," she said, still not believing it herself.

He raised a brow, clearly skeptical. Then he drained his wine. "You deserve more than to be embroiled in my life."

She was so surprised by his words. "I want to be here. Otherwise, I would have rejected your offer."

"I hope you do not come to regret the decision you have made."

"You are confusing me," she heard herself say. "I know you are in mourning, Simon, but sometimes I wonder if it is only the crisis of Lady Grenville's death that is affecting you." When he did not respond, she tensed. "Last night, I realized you were worried about something. I thought it was the boys. But you were in a terrible rush to return to town. And your expression is so dire. What is bothering you?"

"If I have frightened you, I am sorry." His smile was tight. "Nothing is wrong. I am overwhelmed, that is all." He set his gla.s.s down and walked over to the desk.

She stared, wishing he would be honest with her.

"I forgot. You have come downstairs not to enjoy my morbid company, but for writing utensils."

As he opened the desk drawer, something banged twice, very suddenly. It banged again.

Amelia a.s.sumed it was a shutter, banging against the house. But Grenville withdrew a pistol from the drawer and rushed around the desk.

"What are you doing?" Amelia cried, shocked.

He glanced at her, his eyes blazing. His expression was savage. "Stay here!"

She gasped, following him to the threshold of the room. "Simon!"

"Someone is at the door," he told her, his face hard and set. "I said, stay here!"

"Simon-it was a shutter!" she cried.

"Do not move from this room!" Giving her a frightening look, he rushed into the hall.

Amelia was stunned. She was certain the banging had been a loose shutter, not someone knocking on the door. And even if someone were at the door at midnight, it was probably a neighbor in distress. She followed Simon into the hall, hurrying toward the entry.

The front door was open. Simon stood there, holding the pistol, gazing out into the dark, cloudy night. Suddenly he pulled the door closed and locked it. Then he turned. Their eyes met.

"You were right."

Amelia realized that there was sweat upon his brow, trickling down his temple. And she saw him tremble.

Why would he think it necessary to go to the door with a loaded gun? She walked over to him. "Are you all right?" she asked softly.

He didn't hear her. She saw a faraway look in his eyes. It was haunted; worse, it was fearful. "Simon!" She clasped his arm.

He jerked and glanced at her. The faraway look vanished. "I told you to stay in the library." He was furious now.

She studied him, taken aback. "Who did you expect to see at this hour?"

His expression tightened. "No one," he finally said.

And Amelia knew he was lying.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

AMELIA CLOSED THE BIN beneath the large table in the center of the kitchen. "And we also need onions," she said to the maid, a slender girl with freckles and red hair.

Jane nodded, but she made no move to put on her cloak or leave.

Amelia had just given her an extensive list of the foodstuffs that she would need to make a satisfactory breakfast for Grenville and his sons. Not that she would cook their meal. She didn't see the point in defying Grenville, especially when the issue seemed so silly. Jane's aunt would be arriving shortly; she was an excellent cook, or so the maid claimed, and she was eager to help in these circ.u.mstances.

"And please, do hurry. It is almost seven," Amelia added, rather impatiently. When Jane began to slowly don her wool cloak, Amelia said, "Now, shoo!"

Jane started and rushed from the kitchens.

Perspiring, Amelia sighed. The maid was very shy, and possibly dim-witted. She certainly hoped the rest of the staff was more energetic. Noticing a speck upon the island table, she reached for a rag and wiped it off. Although the table was used for the preparation of meals and the cleaning of pots, pans and utensils, the oak surface was highly waxed and gleaming. Every surface in the kitchen-from the stove to the ovens to the sinks-was spotlessly clean.

The kitchens were vast, and boasted every possible convenience. A woman could always tell the nature of a household by its kitchens. Amelia was pleased and impressed.

She had learned that Lambert Hall had been a part of Lady Grenville's dowry. She did not have to ask to know that Grenville would not care less about modernizing his kitchens. This room, and all of its equipment, was the work of his wife.

It also had a door which let out onto the street, which was very convenient for the receipt of deliveries and groceries. Jane had left the door ajar and Amelia went to close it, glancing outside at the deserted London street. A single carriage was moving down the tree-lined block. Handsome homes with shady drives faced her on the adjacent side. It was a very posh neighborhood, indeed.

Lambert Hall took up most of the block. The gardens formed an interior courtyard of sorts, the house shaped in a U around it. It was very early, but Amelia had been up since five. She had explored the house as thoroughly as possible, given the fact that she felt very rushed and had a huge list of tasks to get through. She had discovered the staff's sleeping quarters upstairs, on the third floor, in the wing of the house where she had slept last night. The rooms belonging to Signor Barelli, Mrs. Murdock and the rest of the servants were being aired and refreshed by the other housemaid.

She had discovered three salons downstairs, in the central part of the house. The west wing of the house boasted a music room and a ballroom, the east side the dining room and the library. Every room was magnificently furnished. Royalty would be comfortable here.

The only rooms she hadn't explored were those belonging to Grenville and his sons. The family's apartments took up the entire second floor of the west wing. She had refused to set foot there.

Nor would she even think about the conversation they had had last night, the drink they had shared-or Grenville's odd reaction to the banging shutter. She did not have time to worry about the loaded gun he kept in his desk, apparently expecting an intruder he might have to shoot.

Grenville and the boys remained abed, but she imagined they would all be up shortly. A sterling tray was already set with biscuits and jams, and water was boiling on the stove. At least the family would have a small repast when they awoke.

She had already set the dining-room table, but she left the kitchens to inspect the table one last time.

The dining room was a long chamber with pale blue walls and dark gold damask draperies. A crystal chandelier was overhead. The table could seat two-dozen guests. The delicate, bone-colored chairs had elaborately scrolled backs, the seats upholstered in blue and gold.

She had set the table with gold-striped linens, Waterford gla.s.ses and gilded flatware. White roses and lilies from the hothouse behind the gardens formed a beautiful centerpiece.

Grenville would be pleased, she thought, smiling.

And then a movement outside caught her eye.

Amelia quickly moved to the window. A man was crossing the gardens.

He had obviously just entered from the street, and he was approaching the house!

For one moment, she watched, her mind spinning. Were the gates not locked? Or were they kept open, so anyone could enter? Was he trespa.s.sing? She could not imagine why someone was in the gardens.

She noted that he was tall and lean, his hair white. His coat was royal-blue, and he wore breeches with white stockings.

He was most definitely hurrying toward the house!

"Harold!" she cried, rushing out of the dining room. She ran into the library, directly to Grenville's desk. The pistol was in the drawer there, as it had been last night.

"Miss Greystone?"

She whirled at the sound of Harold's voice. He was a young man of perhaps eighteen, who did odd ch.o.r.es around the house and helped in the kitchens. "Have you seen St. Just? There is someone outside-I think a stranger means to sneak into this house!"

Harold paled. "His lordship remains upstairs, abed. Should I go rouse him?"