by Emily Larkin
Rumpole had deserved to be punished for what he’d done, and Mr. Donald did, too, but Miss Toogood was correct: justice was best served by the courts.
“You wished to see me, sir?”
He turned and saw the footman who’d defended him on the staircase. “Yes. Close the door, will you?”
Malcolm closed the door and advanced into the room. “Sir?” He looked attentive but expressionless, as all good footmen did.
“It’s come to my attention that Baron Rumpole has been practicing master’s rights,” Octavius said.
Malcolm lost his impassive expression. Shock flickered across his face.
The shock surprised Octavius. “Did you not know?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, but . . . but how did you know?”
Octavius hadn’t anticipated that question. He hadn’t anticipated any questions. In his experience, servants didn’t interrogate their social superiors. His first instinct was not to answer—but Malcolm had come to his rescue six nights ago. He deserved an answer. Or as much of one as Octavius could give him.
“I, uh, I suspected it, so I brought a female here, a . . . a . . . an actress, and she confirmed it for me.”
More astonishment bloomed on Malcolm’s face, and with it, dawning realization. “The housemaids! The ones Mrs. Clark never hired. That was your doing, sir?”
Octavius nodded.
“But there was more than one housemaid,” Malcolm said. “There were at least three!”
“Wigs,” Octavius offered hastily.
This explanation didn’t appease the footman. He directed a frown at Octavius. “Mrs. Clark almost lost her position over that. The baron thought she were to blame for it all.”
This was another first in Octavius’s experience—earning a footman’s disapproval—but unfortunately, he deserved it. He hadn’t given any thought to the consequences of his ruse upon the servants. “I apologize. It wasn’t my intention to cause trouble for anyone, least of all your housekeeper.” Especially if the woman had been trying to protect her maids from the baron.
Malcolm looked unimpressed by his apology.
The interview wasn’t going at all how Octavius had envisaged. He tried to bring it back on track. “You’ll be pleased to hear that Rumpole has had a change of heart regarding his housemaids. He won’t be practicing master’s rights again.”
If he’d been hoping for an outpouring of gratitude, he would have been disappointed. Malcolm didn’t look overwhelmed with joy; he looked skeptical.
“I have every reason to believe that Rumpole’s change of heart will be permanent, but on the off-chance it isn’t . . .” Octavius fished out his card case and handed the man a card. “Contact me.”
The footman accepted the card dubiously. “You, sir?”
“Yes,” Octavius said. “I’ll see to it that something’s done about it.”
Malcolm obediently tucked the card into his pocket, but he still looked skeptical.
“Promise me,” Octavius said, a note of command entering his voice. “Promise me you’ll contact me if the baron reverts to his old ways.”
Malcolm’s face became expressionless. “I promise, sir.”
“I’m aware that the baron isn’t the only problem in this household. Rest assured that Mr. Donald’s time here will be short-lived. Someone will be along to arrest him within the next few days.”
Malcolm may not have believed him about Lord Rumpole, but he believed him about this. His entire face brightened. “Mr. Donald? Arrested?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, sir.”
This was the shiny-eyed gratitude Octavius had been expecting, but now that he had it he found himself embarrassed by it. He wasn’t sure he deserved it, especially from this man. “You saved the actress I employed from Mr. Donald, I understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you. I’m extremely grateful to you, both on her behalf and my own.” Octavius restored his card case to his pocket and took out his pocketbook instead. He thumbed through the banknotes, extracted the largest one—fifty pounds—and gave it to the footman.
Malcolm blanched when he realized how much he’d been given. He tried to give the banknote back. “Sir . . . I think you’ve made a mistake.”
“No mistake.”
Fifty pounds was probably five times what Malcolm earned in a year, but in those few minutes on the staircase he’d more than earned it.
“If you should ever have reason to leave Rumpole’s employ, come to me. You’re assured of a place in my household.”
“Thank you, sir,” Malcolm said, folding the banknote very carefully and tucking it away.
The library door opened. Dex poked his head in. “Otto? You ready to go? They’re bringing the carriages around.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Octavius said. He waited until Dex had closed the door, then held out his hand to the footman. After a moment’s hesitation, Malcolm took it. “Thank you,” Octavius said again. “And remember: contact me if the baron reverts to his old ways or if you find yourself in need of employment.”
“Yes, sir,” the footman said. He didn’t look skeptical or reproving or dubious anymore, he looked a little dazed.
Octavius shook the man’s hand and left the library, heading for the entrance hall and the sound of voices and jingling harnesses. Quite a cavalcade was drawn up on the carriage sweep. Newingham was negotiating with his nieces over who would drive with him in his curricle first. Both girls looked as if they were bursting with excitement. Octavius wasn’t excited by the thought of the sixty miles that lay between Rumpole Hall and Newingham’s estate in Wiltshire, but he felt an almost impatient eagerness when he thought of tomorrow and the twenty miles that would take them on to Linwood Castle.
He went to stand beside Miss Toogood. “Ready?” he asked.
She looked at him and smiled, and for a moment he was transported back to London. It had been like this the very first time he’d seen her—the feeling that the world stood still for a moment, the realization that golden eyebrows and gray-blue eyes and auburn hair were what he’d been looking for his whole life.
“Ready,” she replied.
Octavius wanted to touch the scattering of freckles on her nose, to skim his fingertips over her skin, but now was neither the time nor the place. He contented himself with letting his hand briefly brush hers, then he strode forward and said, “Right, you slugabeds, let’s get moving!” Because the sooner they left Rumpole Hall, the sooner they’d reach Linwood Castle.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
A day and a half later
Pip hadn’t been at all sure what to expect in a castle. “Castle” was a word that brought to mind images of great dark-stoned edifices with towering ramparts perched atop grim cliffs. Linwood Castle was large, but it wasn’t dark-stoned and there were no grim cliffs anywhere. It did have ramparts, and also turrets and crenellations and stone mullioned windows and archways and a grand marble staircase and a fireplace in the great hall that was so large that she could stand up in it, but it also had quaint little spiral oak staircases and round rooms in the turrets and a round fernery, too.
The ramparts encircled the gardens, and beyond the ramparts were parkland and woodland and rolling hills, and everything was so picturesque and so beautiful that Pip felt a little discombobulated. Was this real? It felt as if it might not be. It wasn’t a dream, because she was most definitely awake, but she had the oddest sensation that she’d stepped out of the everyday world and entered a different reality.
Ordinary England lay behind her; she had crossed the threshold into an enchanted England, complete with a golden castle.
Linwood Castle wasn’t made of gold, of course, but it was built of honey-colored limestone that glowed with mellow warmth in the sunshine. The castle wasn’t enchanted, either, but it was charming—and that was puzzling in itself. How could a structure so enormous be charming? It shouldn’t be possible, and yet Linwood Castle was charming, with its fanciful
crenellations and its softly golden limestone, its spiral staircases and its whimsical arches.
Pip hadn’t known what to expect in a duke, either. “Duke” was a word that conjured up images of someone coldly formal and forbiddingly stern. Maximus Pryor, Duke of Linwood, was neither of those things. He did have gravitas though, more gravitas than anyone Pip had ever met. He also had what she’d come to recognize as the Pryor nose and the Pryor eyes.
One glance at him told her what Octavius would look like in fifty years’ time: silver-haired and a little stooped, but still striking. A man with presence. A man who drew the eye.
She met the Duke of Linwood over afternoon tea on the day of their arrival. It was a private audience, just herself and Octavius. Pip felt ridiculously nervous when she entered Linwood’s personal sitting room. Her legs shook while she made her curtsy, her heart beat far too fast, and she was afraid she might be perspiring.
The sitting room wasn’t as ostentatious as she’d expected. In fact, it wasn’t ostentatious at all. It was comfortable, if such a plebeian word could be applied to a duke’s sitting room, cozy even, with its polished wood and its dark brown leather and red damask.
The duchess wasn’t present. She was visiting friends in Naunton, the duke informed them, and then he politely asked Pip to pour the tea.
Pip’s heart beat even faster, but she managed to pour three cups without spilling anything, which was a feat, given that her fingers were trembling ever so slightly.
“Thank you,” the duke said, with a courteous smile. If he was appalled that Octavius had brought a mere governess into his castle, he hid it well. He sipped his tea and asked about their journey. There was no condescension in his manner, just polite curiosity. He was assessing her, though—Pip knew he was—watching her with those keen, dark eyes, listening with those terrifyingly acute ears, taking her measure, deciding whether she was worthy of his grandson.
Pip had never thought of herself as a liar, but she found herself scrutinizing every word she said. It was a relief to let Octavius do most of the talking. Pip listened as he told the duke about Baron Rumpole, and as she listened she found herself forgetting to be nervous, because Octavius was telling his grandfather more than just the bare bones of the story.
He started by describing what had happened at Vauxhall Gardens in such detail that Pip shivered in vicarious fear, then he told the duke about meeting Pip in London and everything that had happened after that. The duke looked amused, not scandalized, when Octavius mentioned the lessons in defensive techniques. He winced when Octavius confessed that he’d accidentally revealed his magic to Pip, and he frowned quite alarmingly when Octavius recounted how he’d terrified Baron Rumpole in the library.
“He cried, and he was so frightened he wet himself. It was awful, Grandfather. I thought it was the right thing to do, but I know now that it wasn’t.”
The duke’s frown eased. Pip wasn’t completely certain, but she thought he looked relieved.
Octavius then went on to describe Mr. Donald’s attack on her. “I almost killed him afterwards,” he admitted. “I might have, if Miss Toogood hadn’t stopped me.”
The duke regarded his grandson gravely, then turned those unnervingly keen eyes to her. “And how are you, Miss Toogood, after such a shocking experience?”
“I’m perfectly fine,” Pip said, and then wondered if that sounded like a lie to him. “A few bruises,” she hastened to add. “That’s all.”
Linwood inclined his head, accepting this answer, but still he didn’t look away from her. “And in yourself?” he asked, touching two fingertips to his chest.
Pip had no difficulty interpreting that gesture. He was asking if she was emotionally well. She took a moment to find the most truthful answer.
“The day that it happened, I wasn’t, not at all, but now . . .” She struggled to explain something that didn’t quite make sense, even to herself. “It feels so far away, as if it happened to someone else in another lifetime—and I know that’s absurd, because it’s only eighty miles and two days ago, but that’s what it feels like.” It felt, in fact, as if leaving Rumpole Hall had been not just the end of a chapter in her life, but the end of a whole book, and that Mr. Donald and his attack were packed away between tightly closed pages in a distant library and that not even the merest memory of him remained to hurt her. Which was nonsensical. Too nonsensical to say aloud to a duke, so instead Pip said, “I don’t think I’ll have nightmares over Mr. Donald.”
It must have sounded like the truth, for the duke nodded. “I’m pleased to hear it. And I’m grateful you were able to prevent my grandson from killing him. Extremely grateful. Thank you.”
“He didn’t want to kill Mr. Donald,” Pip informed Linwood hastily, in case he had any doubts. “It wasn’t a deliberate intention.”
“No, of course not, but in the heat of the moment one can do things one deeply regrets later.”
“Yes.” Pip was relieved he understood—and relieved that she understood, too, because she very nearly hadn’t.
Linwood turned his attention back to his grandson. “Please continue.”
Octavius did, but there wasn’t much left to tell. He concluded by reading his brother’s letter aloud. When he’d finished, the duke nodded his approval. “I have no doubt the jury will find your Mr. Donald guilty.”
Pip had no doubt either.
Octavius refolded the letter and laid it on his knee. “You know how Uncle Deuce always says there’s more than one way to peel an egg? Well, Quintus’s way of peeling this egg was better than mine.”
The duke laughed at that, and Pip did, too, because really, peeling eggs? But then Linwood’s expression sobered. “The dispensing of justice is best left to the courts, Octavius.”
“Miss Toogood said the exact same thing,” Octavius said, catching her eye and smiling. “I’ve learned that lesson. We’ll do it Quintus’s way next time.”
The duke’s grizzled eyebrows went up slightly. “Next time?”
Pip’s nervousness came avalanching back. Perhaps Octavius sensed it, because he reached across to take her hand. “Mr. Donald isn’t the only man who’s attacked women and got away with it. There are others like him in England. Too many of them. It’s impossible for one person to stop them all, but some people can stop some of them—and that’s what Miss Toogood and I are going to do.”
Linwood’s eyebrows rose a little higher. “You are?”
Octavius gave a decisive nod. “We talked it over in the carriage. Made a lot of plans.”
The duke’s eyebrows were still raised. He looked rather bemused. “What exactly are the pair of you proposing?”
Octavius released Pip’s hand and tapped his brother’s letter. “Quintus’s way of peeling eggs, for one. We’re going to start a charitable fund for women who’ve been assaulted, so they can seek justice.”
Pip held her breath and waited for Linwood’s reaction. What would it be? Censure? Disapproval? Grudging consent?
Octavius didn’t hold his breath; he kept speaking: “Miss Belton was wronged, but she couldn’t do anything about it because she hadn’t enough money—and that’s not right. Everyone should have access to justice, even if they’re female and even if they’re poor. Especially if they’re female and poor.”
The duke regarded at his grandson for several long seconds, and then smiled. It took Pip a moment to identify all the emotions in that smile. Affection. Approval. Pride.
Her nervousness evaporated.
The duke leaned back in his armchair and looked at them both, his gaze moving from Octavius to Pip and back again. “Your charitable fund will allow these women to seek justice?”
“Those who wish to, yes,” Octavius said. “We’ll pay for the lawyers and meet all the costs. Court cases aren’t actually all that expensive, except that for maids and cooks and governesses, they are.”
“Do you have a name for your charitable fund?”
“Not yet, sir,” Octavius said.
&nbs
p; “I hope you’ll allow me to contribute?”
“Of course, sir. But the fund’s not the only thing we’re going to do. We’ve made a lot of plans.”
Linwood laughed. “Eighty miles’ worth of them?”
“More like seventy,” Octavius said ruefully. “I fell asleep between Basingstoke and Newbury.”
The duke laughed again and settled back more comfortably in his chair. Pip could see just how much he loved his grandson. It wasn’t merely in his smile, it was in every line of his face.
“Tell me,” the duke said.
“First, I’m going to check every one of our households, the same way I checked Rumpole’s—as a housemaid. I know none of us are molesting the maids, but I want to make certain none of the menservants are, either.”
Linwood frowned, as if this possibility had never occurred to him. He nodded. “Good, yes.”
“I’ll speak with the housekeepers and butlers, too. The housekeeper at Rumpole Hall, and the butler and all the footmen, were doing their utmost to protect the maids. I want to make certain that happens in our households, too.”
The duke nodded again. “Of course. What else?”
Octavius glanced at Pip. You tell him, his expression urged her.
Pip hesitated, and hoped that the duke truly was as broad-minded as he appeared to be. “Octavius will continue to teach me defensive techniques,” she told him.
Linwood didn’t tell her that it was unbecoming of a woman to learn defensive techniques, and in particular, unbecoming of a nobleman’s wife; he merely gave another nod.
“I’ll teach Phoebe, too,” Octavius put in. “If she wants to learn. Just to be on the safe side.”
Pip couldn’t imagine a circumstance in which a duke’s granddaughter would need defensive techniques, and she doubted Linwood could imagine one either, but he nodded again. “To be on the safe side,” he agreed.
Pip was relieved that hurdle had been cleared so easily . . . but it brought them to the next one. Please be open-minded about this, too, she prayed—and then she took a deep breath and said, “We’re going to start a school that teaches defensive techniques to women of the lower classes. Servants and the like.”