Lord Kendall might be of the Quality, but that hardly made a difference. There was even more reason to be distrustful of such men. William had been a knight, after all, and he’d been nothing but a scoundrel.
Scoundrels. A vision of Nicholas Baxter flashed across Marianne’s mind. Mr. Baxter had obviously made it his business to get her to trust him. Why? Oh, she was pretending to trust him now. Or at least to have declared a truce, but his insistence on their friendliness made her distrust him all the more. She simply had no intention of letting him know that.
“I heard something else that was interesting while I was downstairs,” Lady Copperpot continued, pulling Marianne from her thoughts once more.
“What, Mama?” Wilhelmina asked, still sipping her tea.
Lady Copperpot smoothed her skirts across her lap and leaned forward. “Apparently, Sir Reginald Francis has his sights set on Miss Frances Wharton.”
“Oh, dear,” Wilhelmina replied, blinking. “Poor Frances.” Wilhelmina shook her head.
Lady Copperpot sat up straight and glared at her daughter. “What do you mean, ‘poor Frances’? That girl could do much worse than Sir Reginald. She and her sister have no dowries to speak of, and everyone knows it. Why, she should be grateful Sir Reginald has taken an interest in her. He’s rich as Croesus.”
Wilhelmina scrunched up her nose. “But he’s so…old, and he has a smell about him, and…they’re both named Francis.”
Marianne had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing aloud at that. She wasn’t certain who Sir Reginald was, but Wilhelmina’s description of him certainly made her feel a bit sorry for Miss Wharton, whoever she was.
“Nonsense,” Lady Copperpot continued. “That girl would do well to marry him and her mother is quite aware of it. Mark my words, they’ll be announcing their engagement before the end of the house party.”
Wilhelmina sighed. “Well, if Frances wants to marry him—”
Lady Copperpot tossed her hands in the air. “Who cares if Frances wants to marry him? Her mother is no fool. She’ll ensure the match is made. Now, as to your introduction to Lord Kendall…”
Marianne barely heard another word. It was utterly disheartening, really, when one stopped to consider how the young ladies of the ton were sold off to the highest bidder on the marriage mart.
Marianne closed her eyes. If she thought very, very long and very, very hard, she could remember a time when she’d dreamed of marriage. Not just marriage, but love and marriage actually. It had been nothing more than a dream, but she’d been foolish enough to believe in it. Foolish enough to believe William when he’d told her he intended to marry her.
Was Wilhelmina’s situation much different? The only difference Marianne could think of was that Wilhelmina’s mother would ensure she received an actual offer, and that a wedding took place. In that way, perhaps the ladies of the ton were wiser than she had been. Marianne, of course, had made the ultimate mistake.
Chapter Seven
Later that afternoon, Beau stood with his ear to the door of Clayton’s study. Copperpot, Hightower, and Cunningham had convened in the room not ten minutes earlier, and those three having a conversation was something Beau needed to hear.
That the three noblemen were having any type of meeting was interesting. They were all on the special council, but they weren’t particularly close outside of Parliament. Beau had done months’ worth of research on each of them and knew such things. What could they possibly have to say to one another?
Clayton, thrilled with the prospect of being an unofficial spy, had tipped him off to this particular conference. Beau had been down in the servants’ hall in the basement, where he spent most of his time when he wasn’t attending to Lord Copperpot’s needs. Clayton himself had come looking for him to tell him he was needed in the corridor outside of the study, posthaste.
But Beau’s time in the servants’ hall hadn’t been wasted. The servants, he had found, were a treasure trove of information, just as he’d hoped. In addition to Harry and Charles, the Copperpots’ footmen, Beau had also learned a bit about Lord Copperpot’s comings and goings from the coachman, who often visited the servants’ hall from the stables in order to procure a snack or two. Beau had taken to sitting next to the coachman and offering him betel nuts in order to probe him for information. Of course, just as he had with the footmen, Beau began with seemingly innocuous questions. Establishing trust was the most important element in his work.
Trust. That was the problem with Miss Notley. The woman had started off not trusting him and it was damned difficult to earn trust after it had been lost. She was pretending to accept their truce. He could tell. But why was she so suspicious in the first place? She must have seen her fair share of questionable activities below stairs. Perhaps she’d been too trusting a time or two.
It always helped to know more about a person if one wanted to understand why they behaved the way they did. Beau had seen enough of human behavior—studied it—to realize that. Being a spy was nothing if not a trade that involved people. Convincing people of the things you wanted them to believe, and learning to trust—and not trust—the right people.
In Beau’s profession, one’s life wasn’t worth much if one didn’t learn to read people quickly and effectively. Miss Notley had a past, perhaps even secrets, and if he wanted to truly earn her trust, he needed to learn her secrets.
He’d written a letter to his cohorts at the Home Office yesterday asking for every bit of information they could find on one Miss Marianne Notley, lady’s maid to Lady Wilhelmina Copperpot. He hoped to receive a reply soon. In the meantime, he had a conversation upon which to eavesdrop.
Beau stuck his ear to the study door, while carefully listening with his other ear to any noise in the hallway that might alert him to someone coming down the corridor. It wouldn’t do to be found eavesdropping, no matter who walked past.
It took a moment for Beau to orient himself to what he was hearing on the other side of the door. The first words were definitely those of Copperpot. “Is it all set then?”
“Yes,” replied Hightower. “Confirmed.”
“What is the date again?” Cunningham asked.
“The fourteenth of October,” Hightower replied.
“Ah, perfect, we’ll all have time to get home from this party and settle into the new session of Parliament,” Copperpot replied.
“Yes, I thought we could use the rest.” Hightower said.
“Do you have the money?” Copperpot asked next.
“Yes, here,” Cunningham replied.
“Here’s mine,” Hightower said.
There was silence and some shuffling as two of the men clearly gave Copperpot some sort of payment. What was that about? Were all three of them up to something together? It seemed unlikely, but he couldn’t discount what he was hearing. They had something planned for the fourteenth of October, and whatever it was involved the exchange of funds.
“I can only hope we’re not discovered,” Copperpot replied.
Hightower laughed nervously. “Our lives won’t be worth a farthing if that happens.”
“Agreed, gentlemen,” Cunningham added with a slight laugh. “Here’s to success. For all three of us!”
A volley of hear-hears ensued. Beau steeled his jaw. Damn it. He had he missed the first part of this conversation in which they had most likely spoken more specifically about whatever they were planning. It may have been his only chance to discover what they were up to. The fourteenth of October was more than a month away. He would have time to question the servants more closely.
Beau kept his ear pressed tightly to the door, hoping one of them might say a bit more before they emerged from the study.
“Well, gentlemen, good luck to all of us, I suppose,” Copperpot said.
“We’re going to need it,” Cunningham replied.
The sound of someone padding down the corridor caused Beau to move away from the door and straighten up. He pressed his back to the
wall and crossed his arms over his chest, fully intending to act as if he just happened to be taking a small respite in the hallway.
The interrupter soon came into view, a flurry of bright blue skirts and a perfectly starched white apron. Beau expelled his breath and hung his head. Of course it was Miss Notley. He wasn’t lucky enough for it to be someone else.
The moment she saw him she stopped short, and Beau had the fleeting impression that she’d actually mentally wrestled with the idea of turning and walking in the opposite direction, to pretend as if she hadn’t seen him.
Pasting a patient smile to his face, he cocked his head to the side and waited. Hoping against hope the three men wouldn’t choose now to exit the study. Copperpot would recognize him as his errant valet, but Hightower and Cunningham, if they looked closely, just might recognize him as the Marquess of Bellingham, and not only would his ruse be up, it would be exposed in front of Miss Notley—and for some reason, he particularly disliked that idea.
Apparently, Miss Notley thought twice about turning around, because she continued walking toward him, pasted her own patient smile on her face, and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Baxter.”
Beau bowed. “Miss Notley.”
Far from ignoring him, she surprised him by coming to a stop beside him. Apparently, she’d chosen this most inopportune time to want to chat.
“Wot are ye doin’ here?” she asked next.
Oh, wait. Did she want to chat, or did she merely want to know why he was standing around in the corridor for no apparent reason? The woman was as curious as he was.
Beau shrugged one shoulder as nonchalantly as he could. In a tone dripping with irony, he replied, “Why, I was listening through the keyhole, of course.”
“I wouldn’t put it past ye,” she replied, giving him a saucy wink, before she brushed past him and continued down the hallway.
Beau took only a moment to look after her, admiring the way her hips sashayed from side to side, before mentally breathing a sigh of relief and turning to go. He might just be able to get out of the corridor before the three noblemen came out. But he still couldn’t help himself. “Miss Notley,” he called, not even knowing why he was stopping her.
She halted and turned her face slightly the side to acknowledge him. “Yes?”
If she was going to be contrary, so was he. “May I ask what you believe I’m doing in the corridor?”
Miss Notley turned away so he couldn’t see her demeanor when she said, “I’ve no earthly idea, Mr. Baxter. But I do know that Lord Copperpot and his friends went inta that particular room some time ago, and I admit that you bein’ there makes me wonder about men with a penchant fer always seemin’ ta be in the wrong place at the right time. Especially when they look like ye do.” She didn’t pause, instead she lifted her skirts and marched from his view.
Frowning, Beau pushed his back away from the wall and made his way in the opposite direction. He plucked at his lip. What the devil had she meant by being in ‘the wrong place at the right time’? And what precisely did she mean by, ‘Especially when they look like you do?’
But most intriguing of all was the fact that she’d apparently been paying attention to the room’s occupants, as well. What exactly was she doing walking down the corridor herself?
Beau only knew one thing for certain: his friends in the Home Office couldn’t get him information on Miss Marianne Notley quickly enough.
Chapter Eight
The next day, Marianne made her way down the staircase into the servants’ hall with tentative steps. She didn’t like it down here for one reason—Mr. Baxter tended to be here. In fact, the man spent most of his day down here when he wasn’t tending to Lord Copperpot. She might have a pretend truce with him, but Marianne had vowed to spend as little time as possible around Nicholas Baxter. He was too good-looking by half, and she still suspected he was up to something.
She’d been forced to come down to the servants’ hall this afternoon, however. Lady Wilhelmina had torn the hem of one of her gowns last night at dinner and Marianne needed to mend it. At present, Lady Wilhelmina and Lady Copperpot were taking naps in their respective bedchambers, so Marianne had decided it was time to go down to the servants’ hall to see if Mrs. Cotswold, the housekeeper, had any silver thread.
The hall was quiet and mostly empty this time of day. Marianne marched past the open servants’ dining room on her way to Mrs. Cotswold’s small office. There were a few odd workers in the dining room sitting on the benches behind the long table, but Mr. Baxter was not one of them, thank heavens. Marianne breathed a sigh of relief before knocking on Mrs. Cotswold’s door.
A quick conversation with the efficient, matronly housekeeper ensued, and a few minutes later, Marianne found herself walking down the corridor to look in the storage room at the end of the passageway for the spool of thread Mrs. Cotswold had promised.
The door to the storage room was slightly ajar. She pushed it opened only to see Mr. Baxter, of all people, sitting atop a keg in the corner. His booted feet were dangling along the side of the keg. His buckskin breeches were indecently tight, and his white lawn shirt was open at the throat, showing a sinful glimpse of his muscled chest. No cravat. No coat. No hat. His blond hair was ruffled as if he’d recently run a hand through it, and he was staring at his lap, in which he appeared to be writing a letter. A small inkpot sat on a crate next to him and he held a quill in his left hand.
“Ye can write?” The words flew from her lips before she had a chance to choose them.
He looked up and a wry smile immediately spread across his handsome lips. She gulped, wishing very much that she hadn’t said a word. Instead, she wished she’d backed up quietly and left before he’d looked up.
“I can,” he replied in a tone that was a mixture of amused and sarcastic. “Can you?”
He’d added that just to be contrary. She knew it.
“I can,” she replied, her back stiffening.
“Excellent. That makes two of us.” He dropped his gaze back to the letter.
What was he writing? She couldn’t help but wonder. No doubt one of many love letters to women who believed they were the only one. The way this man looked, he probably had a lady in every town. She shook her head. She shouldn’t be thinking such things about Mr. Baxter. She shouldn’t be thinking any things about Mr. Baxter. She’d come here to fetch thread, and that’s all she needed.
She glanced around the small room. There were scores of supplies of every type. Bags of flour and sugar, kegs of ale, bottles of wine, tins of beans, and all sorts of dried herbs in small pots. But she didn’t see any thread.
“Looking for something?” he asked.
She cleared her throat. “I came ta get some thread fer milady’s gown. Mrs. Cotswold told me there be thread in here.”
Mr. Baxter lifted his head again and glanced around. “I’m happy to help you look for it.”
“That won’t be necessary.” She gave him a tight smile. She didn’t need Nicholas Baxter doing her a favor. He seemed like the kind of man who would expect one in return.
Nonetheless, he set down his letter, jumped from the keg, and began opening cupboard drawers and doors. So did Marianne. As they continued to search in silence, she could feel the unspoken competition between them. He went faster and faster and so did she. She’d rather be struck with the plague than allow him to find the thread first.
As she worked, she made her way around to the far side of the room where his letter sat atop the keg. As she opened a nearby drawer to look for the thread, she couldn’t help but glance at the letter. Confound it. The man had laid it down face first. Would it be far too obvious if she flipped it over?
“Found it!” he called out, startling her from her thoughts.
She whirled around. “Where?” Her voice was much harsher and more accusatory than she’d meant it to be. She closed the drawer she’d been looking in and glanced back to see him pointing to a cupboard door that was quite a bit higher than she could hav
e reached.
“Up here,” he replied, a smug smile on his face.
She waited a few moments for him to hand it to her, and when he didn’t seem inclined to do any such thing, she finally extended her hand and said, “Well?” while tapping her foot on the ground.
“Well, what?” His smile was downright merry.
“Well, aren’t ye goin’ ta hand it ta me?”
“Oh, would you like me to, Miss Notley?” His smile went tight.
She could feel the glower on her face. “Yes, Mr. Baxter, I would.”
“There is a word, Miss Notley, that people often use in such situations, a word that is said to have great power.”
She narrowed her eyes on him. She wanted to slap his ridiculously handsome face. “And that word is?”
“Please, Miss Notley. The word is please.”
The man enjoyed torturing her. She could see it in his ice-blue eyes. She refused to make it any more enjoyable for him. She needed to get this over with and be on her way. Him staring at her that way unnerved her. She refused to look at him. Instead, she picked a point on the wall beside his head to focus her gaze. “Will you please hand me the thread, Mr. Baxter?” she asked in her most sickeningly sweet voice, while batting her eyelashes in a ridiculous fashion.
He scooped the thread from the shelf and handed it to her gently.
“Thank ye,” she replied, performing an exaggerated curtsy.
“My pleasure.” His smile was beatific now.
“I doubt it.” She swiveled toward the door, intent upon leaving immediately.
“May I ask you something, Miss Notley?”
He was still enjoying himself. Trying to rattle her more. She stopped and sighed. “I suppose so, Mr. Baxter.”
“What sort of a child were you?”
The Valet Who Loved Me Page 5