by Lynn Messina
Obviously, she did not relish the task, for interrogating the housekeeper on a deeply personal matter was not among the options she had considered when she had sought the woman out for their first discussion earlier that morning. Her plan to be either ingratiatingly deferential or offputtingly demanding was for naught, and as much as she would have preferred to delay the awkward scene, she had too much pride in her proficiency as an investigator to allow mortification to affect her inquiry.
She would conduct the difficult interview before visiting number forty-four to speak to Mr. Mayhew’s staff.
Although resolute, she could not quite smother the sigh that rose to her lips and to cover it, she assured Joseph that the matter was under her control now. If something nefarious had happened to the famous chef, he could trust her to bring it to light.
The relief that briefly overtook his expression was gratifying, even if Marlow’s visage remained impassive. To the butler, she requested that Mrs. Wallace be sent to the drawing room, and although it was on the tip of her tongue to ask him not to tell her the subject they would discuss, she realized such a cautionary measure was not necessary. Informing the housekeeper that her mistress wished to interrogate her on her flirtation with a servant from a neighboring house who had just been beheaded was not a duty any butler would voluntarily perform.
Mrs. Wallace, therefore, had no idea of the topic of conversation and entered the drawing room with a compact little book in her hands for taking notes. Naturally, she assumed she had been summoned to confer on various domestic matters, such as menus for the week or the new duchess’s preferred level of firmness in a pillow, and appeared eager to do so. Whatever grief she felt on the horrendous death of her beau was carefully concealed, and the only emotion Bea could discern on her lightly wrinkled face was curiosity. A petite woman with a slight frame, she wore a dark brown dress that could indicate mourning, but as it bore a marked resemblance to the gown she had worn the day before Bea concluded it was her uniform.
Apprehensive but determined, Bea began by offering her condolences to the housekeeper and insisting she take all the time she needed to recover from her loss. Recalling her comments to Mr. Réjane as relayed by Joseph, she suggested perhaps a visit to her mother.
Mrs. Wallace’s lips tightened at these words, and she clasped her hands together as she stared at Bea from underneath her mob cap, which seemed to engulf her small head. Quietly, she asked, “Are you dismissing me, your grace?”
Horrified, Bea sputtered, “No, no, of course not.” The last thing she wanted to do was unintentionally fire a longstanding member of the duke’s staff! “I am grateful for your efficiency and skill and would never dream of replacing you. If my words or actions have led you to think otherwise, I am sorry.”
The housekeeper nodded with visible relief and opened her notebook to a fresh page. Her respite was short-lived, however, for a moment later Bea asked about Monsieur Alphonse’s proposal and her shoulders stiffened again. A furrow formed between her brows as she repeated the question with an air of disbelief, “Had I expected Monsieur Alphonse to propose?”
Observing the simmering umbrage, Bea wanted to pretend she had not posed the query and put her off with a ruse—to raise her eyebrow archly, for example, and ask with haughty indifference what interest she could possibly have in the romantic dealings of a pair of servants. As absurd as such a ploy would be, it would carry the day easily, for she was mistress of the house now and her whims would be catered to. Furthermore, Mrs. Wallace could not like the topic any more than she and would gratefully follow her lead.
But Bea had asked the question and, refusing to succumb to her embarrassment, staunchly held the course. “Yes, had you realized his feelings for you had advanced to the point of marriage?”
If the housekeeper was outraged, embarrassed or deeply insulted by the question, she gave no hint of it as she replied no, she had not anticipated a proposal from the French chef.
Bea waited for her to say more, perhaps to articulate her surprise at receiving the offer, but Mrs. Wallace restricted herself to answering only the question itself. As the silence stretched to a full minute, Bea grudgingly conceded she would have to ask her why she thought the chef had decided to propose.
Alas, speculating about the motives of anyone, even a former suitor, was a presumption the housekeeper would not dare. “I can only speak to my own behavior.”
As it was a reasonable policy, Bea could not quarrel with her stance, and yet she could not allow the other woman’s scruples to impede her search for Mr. Réjane’s killer. Firmly, she pressed on. “Did it not strike you as a little strange that he would take time away from preparing for a large dinner party to propose marriage?”
Now, for the first time, Mrs. Wallace’s face showed emotion and she said with some alacrity, “It was not a large dinner party.”
Bea could not comprehend the relevance. “Excuse me?”
“Only eight people were expected,” Mrs. Wallace explained, “so one could not describe the dinner party as large. Be that as it may, I cannot say it struck me as strange that he would take time away from preparing for a small dinner party to propose marriage because Monsieur Alphonse made a habit of doing things when he wanted, not when it was deemed appropriate. As Mr. Mayhew’s chef, he had a fair amount of freedom.”
“Did the other servants in the house begrudge him this privilege?” Bea asked, knowing how easy it was to resent another person for having something you lacked. In the past few months, she had often yearned for more liberty in her ability to move around London.
Mrs. Wallace found the question outrageous—as if she had ever given any thought to the resentments of the other servants who lived in the square. She huffed in offense, then realized her faux pas and immediately apologized for forgetting herself. “I am sorry, but I simply cannot see what the thoughts and opinions of the neighbors have to do with me, your grace.”
As her confusion appeared genuine, Bea did not hesitate to explain that she was gathering information to discover who had murdered Monsieur Alphonse. “The more I learn about the situation, the more quickly I will discover the truth.”
But the housekeeper refused to entertain the notion that the French chef had been anything other than a victim of misfortune. “The constable has declared it an accident, and I must abide by his decision.”
Beatrice, of course, was under no obligation and continued to ask questions in hopes of discovering something useful, but having declared her allegiance to the law, Mrs. Wallace declined to be of further help. She was happy to stay as long as the duchess required, however, for although she had other matters to see to, attending to her mistress’s needs was foremost among her responsibilities. “I am sure the shopping can wait indefinitely.”
Patently, it could not.
The shopping, the accounts, the linens—all these tasks were clearly more important to the housekeeper, who could not understand why she had been called away from them to surmise wildly about the neighbors. Her expression remained placid, but Bea could detect annoyance simmering beneath the surface, and although she conceded that it was perfectly justified, she could not allow that to sway her from her course.
Determinedly, she persisted in her questions.
Ultimately, it was to no avail, for the housekeeper’s insistence that she had no light to shed on the topic proved remarkably accurate. She knew nothing of the machinations at number forty-four and appeared to have less insight into her own proposal than the footman who overheard it from the stillroom.
“Was he truly in despair?” Mrs. Wallace repeated quietly. “That is not a determination I can make. All I can do is refer you to his words, and he said he was in despair at my refusal.”
“Yes, of course,” Bea murmured soothingly, for there was no reason to reveal her frustration. She had already made an unfavorable impression on the housekeeper by plaguing her with queries and heedlessly ignoring the ruling of an official constable. No doubt she considered Kesgrave H
ouse’s new mistress to be intolerably brash and assertive as well.
Intolerably, Bea thought wryly, as if there were some measure of brashness and assertiveness that was tolerable.
Deciding she had mortified them both enough, Bea thanked Mrs. Wallace for her time and assistance. “You have been very helpful.”
“My pleasure, your grace,” she said, tapping the little notebook with her finger before asking if the duchess had any thoughts regarding the management of the house. “Perhaps you would like to discuss menus now?”
Bea, who had assumed she could do nothing worse than interrogate the servant about her relationship with a decapitated French chef, felt herself sink lower in the other woman’s estimation as she admitted to having no thoughts regarding the planning of that week’s meals.
Mrs. Wallace, seemingly incapable of grasping this concept, said with baffled incredulity, “None at all?”
In the housekeeper’s bewilderment, Bea felt her inadequacy keenly, for a real duchess would have dozens if not hundreds of thoughts on that week’s menus, and scrambling to come up with a single thing, she recalled her determination to make an outrageous demand.
Oh, but if outrageous demands were difficult to think of while wandering the passageways of the servants’ quarters by oneself, they were impossible to produce while sitting in the drawing room in the company of one’s housekeeper. Wretchedly, she stared at Mrs. Wallace with a vacant expression and tried to come up with a lovely indulgence that her exalted status suddenly made available to her. Surely, there was something she had craved during her years of deprivation with her aunt and uncle. Unfortunately, just thinking of her aunt reminded her of everything that was intimidating about Kesgrave’s position: the eight footmen, the litany of maids, the pinery.
Of course, yes, the pinery!
Knowing little about the process of growing a tropical fruit in the chilly British climate, she could only feel awe at its production and unable to conceive of anything more decadent or absurd, she apologized for misspeaking and requested that a plate of fresh pineapple slices be served every morning with her toast.
Chapter Five
In seeking out Kesgrave in his study, Bea had intended only to inform him of her immediate plans. She had not meant to stand in the doorway like a lovestruck schoolgirl sighing over her handsome dancing master—and yet that was exactly what she did. As soon as she arrived at the room, she could not help but pause on the threshold to gape at the golden brilliance of his locks.
How luminously they glowed in the light from the window.
She was spared the further indignity of staring dreamily at the elegant line of his nose or the appealing curve of his jaw by the tilt of his head. If he had not been bent over a ledger, there was no telling how deeply she might have descended into besotted appreciation.
Would she have spent the rest of the day gazing in awe at her beautiful husband and marveling at the utter inexplicability of desire—the way satiating it had somehow made it stronger?
Mr. Stephens coughed, alerting the duke to her presence, and rose to his feet. “I see the tea has grown cold. I will fetch us a fresh pot from the kitchen. If you will excuse me, your grace,” he said with a polite nod at Beatrice.
“You were perfectly correct to fire Mr. Wright,” she said in mocking reference to the identity she had briefly assumed in order to gain entry to a victim’s house during an earlier investigation. “Mr. Stephens is a far better steward. Mr. Wright would never have thought to discreetly absent himself, preferring instead to gawk at the new mistress of the house with her oddly elaborate curls.”
Kesgrave smiled as he stood and pushed his chair away from the desk. “Why oddly? Are they arranged in the Waterfall or the Mathematical?”
“An excellent point, your grace, and I happily concede it,” she said, crossing the threshold and closing the door behind her. “I should have said excessively elaborate, although then you would have compared it to the Infinitesimal.”
“Such a cravat style does not exist,” he said.
“Then you would have invented it to suit your needs,” she replied.
He shook his head as he strode across the room to her. “I would never play fast and loose with the truth. Do you not know me at all?”
She drew her brows together as she examined him in a quizzical manner. “Are you not Mr. Theodore Davies, lowly law clerk and dashing figment of my imagination?”
His grin widened as he stopped a mere inch from her and said with amusement, “I am no figment.”
No, he was not, she thought, gazing into the spectacular blue of his eyes and feeling lodged there.
Terra firma.
When she made no reply, he lowered his head and murmured, “Hello, my love,” before capturing her lips with his own.
’Twas splendid indeed, the sensations he created with his touch—his lips, his hands, both gently searching—and she could scarcely comprehend how it was possible to feel suddenly as if she were floating when seconds ago the ground had been so solidly beneath her.
“He is not coming back,” Kesgrave said softly as he pressed a kiss to her neck.
“All right,” she said, reassured by the comment without properly understanding it. “Who?”
Delighted by her confusion, he laughed lightly and said, “Stephens. He will wait to be summoned. Another way in which he is vastly superior to Mr. Wright.”
Heat suffused her body at this statement, but it was not embarrassment at the thought of the steward patiently cooling his heels belowstairs while they satisfied their desire. No, it was lust, hot and sweet.
But this was not why she had come to the study, she thought vaguely, nor was it the reason he was there. “What about the tenants?” she asked despite the wild pounding of her heart.
“Flood,” he whispered, trailing his lips against her ear, “fire, famine.”
Although the words were said with tender pliancy, she felt their rigidity and pulled away. “The tenants.”
Kesgrave sighed and rested his forehead against hers. “The tenants.”
“I’m sure it’s not at all bad as that,” she said reasonably.
“We have not yet arrived at famine,” he conceded, “but if we do not repair the damage caused by the first two conditions, then the crops might begin to fail.”
“It will not come to that,” Bea said resolutely, “for Mr. Stephens is far too capable a steward to allow you to succumb to base desires while the tenants wring their hands in despair. Even now, I am willing to wager, he is standing on the other side of this door, waiting to return after what he considers to be a reasonable interlude for a recently wedded couple to have a brief midday conference. Ready? He will knock in three…two…one…”
She paused as if genuinely expecting a rap upon the door.
The duke laughed. “I fear it is time for yet another lecture on my importance.”
“Oh, no, your grace,” she said, taking a step backward and grinning with impish impertinence. “If the tenants cannot wait for you to satisfy your base desires, then they certainly cannot spare the time it would take you to convince me of your consequence—and I say that knowing full well the languid thoroughness with which you do the former.”
Kesgrave’s eyes ignited—there was simply no other way to describe the fire that seemed to flair in their cerulean depths. “Mr. Stephens has assured me that if we resolve all the issues this afternoon, he will require nothing of me for a full week. And if he is indeed standing on the other side of the door,” he added, his voice growing louder as if addressing an unseen listener, “his understanding of the situation had better be accurate or he will be turned out without notice.”
Although her association with the steward had been short, she had little doubt the man was smart enough either to resolve all the issues with Kesgrave now or deal with the balance on his own later. Only a truly foolhardy man would detain a newly married duke in his study for more than a day.
Offering consolation, she said,
“It is for the best because I am myself otherwise occupied at the moment.”
“Ah,” he said with satisfaction, “so you have found the library, have you?”
“Actually, I have not because your tour of the house was singularly lacking in specificity,” she said. “I recall a lot of things being pointed at from far away.”
“The topic of my base desires has already been addressed in this conversation, but I am happy to defend in great detail a bridegroom’s impatience to bed his wife,” he said, lips quivering with familiar mirth.
That would never do, no, for she found his pedantry far too appealing to resist and if he launched into a dissertation poor Mr. Stephens would be perched on the other side of the door until dinner.
As much as for her own sake as for his, she said rousingly, “The tenants!”
“The tenants,” Kesgrave agreed with a dip of his head. “And while I am ordering thatch for the farmers’ roofs, what will you be doing?”
Ah, yes, indeed!
Since her purpose in interrupting was to provide this very answer, she said easily, “Establishing myself with the staff.”
’Twas vague, to be sure, and if one chose to be fussy about it, misleading, but it was also the unvarnished truth. She was establishing herself with the staff, although she withheld the method by which she would achieve that objective out of fear that Kesgrave would undermine it. It was a daunting task—indeed, she had failed so spectacularly with Mrs. Wallace, she had in fact lost some vital ground there—and if he insisted that they call in the Runners to handle the matter, she had a terrible fear she would concede just to save herself further humiliation.
But that was actually her secondary concern.
The more likely outcome was that he would insert himself into her investigation, and while she adored working in tandem with the duke, whose respect for her skills was as sincere as it was surprising, it was vital to her standing within the household that she accomplish this feat on her own. Marlow’s unequivocal dismissal in regard to the Particular investigation still rang in her ears: I’m sure it was his grace’s ingenuity that carried the day, not the duchess’s.