Marianne couldn’t help the strange sound that flew from her throat. It was a mixture of a laugh, a snort, and some sort of an exclamation. The man had surprised her. He might have asked her a score of things, but she never would have guessed he’d ask that. She turned to face him once again.
“You know, your laugh is beautiful,” he replied quietly. “But I’m curious, what was funny about my question?”
She immediately squelched her smile. Her laugh was beautiful? That noise she’d emitted? Hardly. And he’d said it just like a charmer. A man who used women and tossed them aside like so many used handkerchiefs. His words might fool some of the young maids, but he wasn’t about to fool her. “Why in heaven’s name would ye want ta know about me childhood?”
“I’m not asking you to recount the entire thing,” he replied with a grin. “I was merely wondering if you were the type of child who told on others when they broke the rules.”
“Ah, is that wot ye think o’ me?” She turned the small spool of thread over and over in her hands. This conversation was making her nervous. She needed to get back upstairs and mend Wilhelmina’s gown.
Mr. Baxter came to stand near her. He leaned one shoulder against the wall near the door. “You do seem to be a mistrustful sort.”
“Wot, me?” she said, squelching her smile.
“Yes, you,” he replied with a nod.
She crossed her arms over her chest and arched a brow. “Have ye given me anythin’ ta be trustin’ ye fer?”
He scratched his chin and cocked his head to the side. “I suppose not.”
“Well, then, there ye are.” She gathered her skirts in one hand and made to step around him through the still-open door.
“In such a hurry?” He was so close his words brushed her ear.
She froze, still looking straight ahead. “I have work ta do.”
“Do you never take a moment to enjoy yourself?” The words were like silk. The siren song of a skilled seducer?
She turned her head ever so slightly to the side to look at him. It was a mistake. He was far too close and far too handsome. She forced herself to speak slowly so her voice would remain steady and sure. “Is that wot this is? Enjoyable?”
“It could be, if you’d like.”
A rush of heat spread through Marianne’s limbs. Oh, he was good. A bit too good. “The truth is, I’m wonderin’ why ye’re so interested in findin’ out about me, Mr. Baxter.”
He bit his lip. Dear lord, the man had to know how good he looked when he bit his lip. “Perhaps because you’re a mystery, and I enjoy solving mysteries.”
She met his gaze with her own steady one. “I’m no more a mystery than ye are.”
“Fair enough.” He nodded slightly. “Before you go, may I ask you one more question, Miss Notley?”
“Very well.”
“Why did your accent change when you asked me to hand you the thread?”
Chapter Nine
Miss Notley was hiding something. Beau was certain of it. Yesterday in the storage room, she’d quickly brushed off his question about her accent changing. She told him she’d no idea what he was talking about. But he was in the business of noticing details, and he had not been mistaken; the young woman’s intonation had changed. Slightly, perhaps, and temporarily, but he heard it. She’d spoken one complete sentence without the hint of either an Irish or a lower-class accent.
He had to tread carefully. She clearly didn’t trust anyone, and she’d already put up her guard around him. If he pushed her too far, she might refuse to speak to him at all, and then he’d get nowhere. He’d backed off of the question once he’d seen the look on her face, a mixture of shock and the stubborn refusal to admit the truth. He’d sensed that if he pressed her for an answer, he would not like the results.
Last night, for the first night since he’d come here, he’d had trouble sleeping. He’d tossed and turned on his cot in the little room on the fourth floor where he slept. Miss Notley’s room wasn’t far away. It was on the other end of the hallway where the upper female servants slept. He’d watched her disappear into her room last night after she’d seen to Lady Copperpot for Mrs. Wimbley, who’d taken ill with gout and was confined to her own bedchamber.
While he’d tossed and turned, he’d come to the conclusion that he was spending far too much time wondering about Miss Notley. She might be hiding something, but he highly doubted she had anything do with the traitor of Bidassoa. Even if Lord Copperpot was the traitor, it was unlikely that he’d asked a female servant in his daughter’s employ to help him write the letter.
Beau would do much better to focus his attention on the male servants of Copperpot, Hightower, and Cunningham. The odds were much higher that one of them—specifically, one of their valets—was involved. That was the assumption the Home Office was working under, at least. Aside from speaking to Copperpot’s groomsman, Beau had been attempting to spend more time chatting up Hightower’s valet, Mr. Broomsley, and a Mr. Wilson, Cunningham’s man.
The two men couldn’t have been more different. Broomsley was a talker who left nothing unsaid, while Wilson barely uttered more than a word or two no matter how many questions Beau asked him or how friendly he attempted to be. He was beginning to wonder if Wilson was somehow distantly related to Miss Notley.
Of course, Beau had already discarded the notion that Mr. Broughton, Copperpot’s regular valet, had been the one involved. According to all reports from the other Copperpot servants, if the man wasn’t working, he was drinking and was otherwise indolent and unreliable. Beau doubted that Copperpot would have called on a man like that to help him write such an important letter. No. Whoever had written the Bidassoa letter had been quite close to and trusted by his master indeed.
A slight knock on the door to his small but private bedchamber made Beau glance up. He’d been writing another letter to the Home Office. This time asking for their help in gathering information about the two other valets.
Beau had been writing a different letter yesterday when Miss Notley had found him in the cupboard in the servants’ hall. That letter had been his report of the conversation he’d overheard between the three men in the study. He’d seen Miss Notley standing beside the letter near the keg. She’d wanted to flip it over and see who he was writing. He could tell. She’d kept moving closer and closer to the letter, circling like a carrion bird. It must have driven her mad to wonder to whom he was writing. Good. He smiled to himself.
“Come in,” he called, putting aside his latest letter, and standing to face his visitor.
Clayton pushed open the door and entered. He glanced around the room. “It’s a bit small, but I do hope it’s comfortable, Bell,” he said with a grin.
Beau spread his arms wide. “Trust me. I’ve slept in worse. Much worse.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Clayton replied before slipping his hand into his inside coat pocket and pulling out a letter. “You received this in the morning post. I came all the way up here to deliver it to you. I thought it might be important.”
Beau took the letter from his friend and glanced at the address. Definitely a private letter from the Home Office. He was no stranger to receiving them. They usually looked precisely like this, plain and innocuous.
“More about your covert operations?” Clayton prodded, his gaze darting back and forth between Beau and the missive.
“Perhaps,” Beau replied. Clayton obviously wanted to know what was in the letter. He’d been thrilled to have his house used for a covert operation such as one of His Majesty’s spies trying to root out a traitor. Clayton had never been to war. He’d never participated in any missions for the Crown. Using his house party as the locale of a cat-and-mouse game was as close to a patriotic act as the viscount was likely to get.
Beau had no intention of humoring him, however. Such things were top secret. He took the letter and tossed it onto his bedside table. “Thank you for the delivery, Clayton.”
Clayton’s face fell but he quickly reco
vered. “You never did tell me. What did you overhear at the study door the day before yesterday?”
Beau shook his head and put his hands on his hips. “They seem to be planning something.”
“Do they?” Clayton arched a brow. “What could it be?”
“I’m not certain, but I suspect that money changed hands. And whatever it is, it’s planned for the fourteenth of October.”
“Hmm.” Clayton narrowed his eyes. “They didn’t say what?”
“I didn’t hear much more, because Miss Notley walked past. I swear that woman is like a night watchman.”
“Miss Notley, the lady’s maid?” Clayton’s hazel eyes twinkled. “Getting under your skin is she, Bell?”
Beau shook his head again. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“You’ve mentioned her twice now. The other morning when we met in the library, and again just now.” Clayton immediately swiveled and opened the door to leave. “No need to deny it, Bell. I’ll just go and leave you to your letter.”
Beau wanted to argue with the man. He wanted to insist that Miss Notley was not getting under his skin. No one got under his skin. But more than winning an argument with Clayton, he wanted to read his letter immediately and in private.
Clayton left and Beau shut the door and returned to the bedside table where he scooped up the letter and carried it to the small, dark wooden desk and chair that sat in front of the window. He took a seat and broke the seal on the envelope. His eyes scanned the words written inside.
Baxter,
At present we’ve found no record of a Miss Marianne Notley other than as a recent lady’s maid to Lady Courtney of Brighton. However, we haven’t exhausted all options. We’ll continue to research and provide you more information as soon as it’s available.
‘Baxter.’ The Home Office always used his assumed name when he was on a mission, no matter how safe the mission appeared. But the letter didn’t offer much. So, Miss Notley had worked for another high-born lady in Brighton. It didn’t exactly indicate the maid had something to hide.
Beau ripped the letter into long pieces and burned them in the flame from the candle that sat on the desk. Habit from years of secrecy. This particular letter didn’t contain much of interest, but one couldn’t be too careful. Besides, if Copperpot, Hightower, or Cunningham suspected he was watching them, there was no telling what any of them were capable of.
Then there was the lady’s maid.
Frankly, he didn’t trust Miss Notley not to poke around his bedchamber, either. If there was one thing he’d learned as a spy, it was precisely what he’d told her that first day. A person with no past is usually hiding something. That made Miss Notley a prime suspect.
Chapter Ten
Nicholas Baxter was hiding something. Marianne was certain of it. It was far too great a coincidence that he had appeared the night after Mr. Broughton took ill, and Marianne didn’t believe in coincidences, especially when they came in the form of an Adonis.
As far as the Copperpots knew, she was a quiet little church mouse of a maid who’d rarely left Brighton and had been in Lady Courtney’s employ since she came of age.
That was partially true, but Marianne had lived a great deal of life outside of her employment with Lady Courtney. She had seen and done things that Lady Wilhelmina and her mother would be shocked to learn, and Marianne had absolutely no intention of allowing either lady to ever find out. Something told her that Mr. Baxter was up to no good, and she intended to find out what that was.
She waited for him to leave his bedchamber the next morning before glancing about to ensure she was alone in the corridor of the upper servant’s quarters—and then sneaked inside his room.
It smelled like him. And much to her chagrin, it wasn’t unpleasant. Those were her first two thoughts when she shut the door behind her, her heart hammering in her chest. In fact, the scent was a combination of spice and wood and something indefinably male that she didn’t want to think about for long. Strangely, it also smelled as if something had been recently burning.
She forced herself to put those unsettling thoughts aside and get to business. A quick glance around the room told her there wasn’t much to see. A bed, impeccably made. A wooden desk, bare save for a single candle. A matching wooden chair.
There was a small pile of ashes in the candleholder on the desk. Hmm. That was interesting. Had Mr. Baxter wanted to destroy something? And why? She leaned over to examine the ashes, but she couldn’t make out anything. The front page of the letter was still there and intact. She picked it up and turned it over. The letter had been addressed to Mr. Nicholas Baxter. At least he didn’t appear to be lying about his name. An innocent man didn’t burn letters, however.
The only other object in the room was a small wooden wardrobe. She moved over to it and opened the doors wide with both arms. The scent of starch and soap hit her nostrils. Two shirts, two pairs of breeches. One other pair of boots. She briefly went through the drawers on the bottom of the wardrobe. Two handkerchiefs, two neck cloths, one pair of suspenders, one pair of stockings. A variety of items for the care of men’s clothing. No doubt used in his position as valet. Hmm. There was nothing else here. It was as if the man owned nothing else. His small rucksack lay in the bottom of the wardrobe. It was empty, its contents having been hung up and put in the drawers.
The man was tidy. She’d give him that. But there was absolutely nothing personal here. Not one thing. Even she had a small cross her younger brother had given her before he’d left for the army, and book of poems her mother had given her for her sixteenth birthday. But this man, it was as if he didn’t exist.
There was absolutely nothing in this room that could give her a hint about him. She stood staring blindly into the wardrobe. She opened the first drawer again. A bit of marking on the edge of one of the handkerchiefs caught her eye. His initials! Perhaps he was lying about his name after all. She grabbed it up. NLB. Blast. Perhaps not. What did the L stand for? She couldn’t help but wonder. But it was odd for a valet to have monogrammed handkerchiefs… unless they were a gift from a former employer.
Feeling a bit desperate, she leaned down and looked under the bed. It was completely barren. There wasn’t even a dust ball. Confound it. She’d no idea what she’d hoped to find coming in here, but she hadn’t found anything at all. Well, nothing more than a suspiciously burnt letter.
Standing up again, she turned in a circle, her hands on her hips. That was it. There was no other place to hide anything. She was just about to admit defeat and leave the room when the door slowly swung open and Mr. Baxter himself stood leaning one shoulder negligently against the frame.
“Ah, Miss Notley. So good to see you. May I help you with something?”
Chapter Eleven
Beau stood with his arms crossed over his chest blinking at Miss Notley with a smug smile pinned to his lips. Two thoughts raced through his mind simultaneously. First, he’d been right to burn that letter. Second, this couldn’t have gone better if he’d planned it himself.
He finally had Miss Notley precisely where he wanted her. At the moment, given her stammering and flushed cheeks, that place was at a distinct loss for words.
“Mr.…Mr. Baxter,” she finally managed to choke out.
“Yes?” he asked agreeably, still smiling at her. The woman had some explaining to do and he couldn’t wait to make her do it.
“I…I…”
“Umm hmm,” he prompted, grabbing his opposite wrist behind him, and rocking back and forth on his heels.
“I was lookin’ fer…” Her eyes darted back and forth. The poor woman was clearly floundering for an excuse.
“Yes?” he asked, frankly on tenterhooks to see what she would come up with. Just how good of a liar was Miss Notley? He was about to find out.
“I was lookin’ fer my room, and must have got lost.”
He shook his head. Obviously a very, very poor one. “Oh, come now, Miss Notley, surely you can do better than that.”
> She turned a shade of pink that was most becoming, and her freckles stood out in stark relief against her pale skin.
“I didn’t mean ta…” Her lips pursed and her eyes darted back and forth. She looked as if she might attempt to grab her skirts and run past him.
“What?” he asked, ensuring that his form filled the doorway. He wasn’t about to let her run away from this. “You didn’t mean to poke through my things? I see you opened my wardrobe. What were you hoping to find?”
She looked as if she wanted to sink through the floor, poor woman. He might feel sorry for her if he wasn’t having such a grand time watching her squirm. After all of her high-handedness, accusing him of being untrustworthy, she had just been caught poking around his private room. Comeuppance was delightful. He’d always thought so.
“No need for further excuses,” he said. “I see you’re as meddlesome as you are condemnatory, and honestly, I like it.”
“What?” Her eyes became round blue orbs and her jaw fell open.
He nodded once. “You heard me.” He wasn’t about to point out that her accent had disappeared yet again.
Her brow furrowed. “Ye like it?”
Oh, apparently her accent was back. He stood to the side and rested one shoulder on the doorframe again. “Yes, because now you won’t be so self-righteous around me. You’ve no excuse to be.”
She opened her mouth, no doubt to issue some sort of scathing retort, but quickly snapped it shut and blinked at him instead.
“Well, that’s a first. I’ve left you speechless, have I?” He chuckled.
She smoothed her hands down the front of her bright white apron and nodded slowly. “I suppose ye’re right. I’ve no excuse. I shouldn’t be here.”
Beau looked her up and down. By God, he didn’t hear a hint of sarcasm in her tone. She’d been caught in flagrante delicto, and she was admitting to being wrong. Now that was something he could admire. In his line of work, he’d generally met people who would lie till their dying breath, in the face of overwhelming proof to the contrary.
The Valet Who Loved Me Page 6