The Footman (The Masqueraders Book 1)

by S. M. LaViolette

  The boy—and that’s what he was, a green boy—sauntered into the sitting room with more bravado than courage. Whatever Fielding had done to him, he was scared.

  “Mr. Bailey, won’t you have a seat?” Stephen gestured to one of the gilt chairs in front of his desk.

  The boy dropped into the chair, his pose slouchy and deliberately unconcerned.

  “’Oo are you then?” he demanded.

  Stephen’s lips pulled up on one side. “I am an associate of Mr. John Fielding.”

  Bailey sat up in his chair as if he were a marionette and somebody had just yanked his strings. “Oh. Mr. Fielding.”

  Stephen would eventually have to make Fielding tell him what he’d done to petrify the youngster, but for now, he was grateful for the bigger man’s terrifying influence.

  “I’m curious about your relationship with Lady Trentham.”

  The boy looked startled for a moment before a sly look took over his features. He narrowed his eyes and slid down in his seat. “Is that so?”

  “It is so.” Stephen waited, his arms resting lightly on his chair while he studied the younger man. He could sit for hours without talking, but most men could not. Bailey was no exception.

  “I knew ’er back ’ome.”

  Stephen merely waited.

  Bailey sighed and gave Stephen his approximation of a world-weary stare. “She likes a bit o’ rough, her kind always does.”

  Stephen controlled his breathing and forced his hands not to grip the arms of the chairs. “I’m going to give you a moment to reconsider your answer, Mr. Bailey.”

  Whatever the boy saw in his face made him blench. He raised his hands. “Awright, awright. Don’t get in a twist. I used to live on the Trentham estate with my mum.” He paused, but not before Stephen noticed his Cockney accent had miraculously disappeared.

  Stephen took the decanter from the corner of his desk and poured himself a glass. He looked up at the younger man. “Brandy?”

  Bailey nodded, the tip of his tongue skimming his lower lip, as though he was parched. Stephen sat back in his chair and the boy hopped up and snatched the glass from the desk. He slurped down half of it and his eyes widened.

  “Nice.”

  “Do you still have the money Lady Trentham gave you?”

  Bailey nodded.

  “Tell me what I want to know and you can keep it.”

  Bailey’s eyes went even wider. “All of it?”

  “Yes.”

  Bailey swallowed another sip, this one smaller than the last, savoring it more. The gears of his clever brain turning and whirring loudly enough that Stephen knew he was going to lie. The truth never took this much thought.

  Stephen would let him speak; sometimes a lie was more telling in the end.

  “I lived on Trentham’s estate with my mum. She was—” He sighed heavily. “She was the old earl’s whore.” He gave Stephen a look that dared him to pass comment. So, the boy had stones after all.

  “Go on.”

  “I’m the old earl’s bastard.”

  Stephen waited.

  Bailey sipped. “I wasn’t born on the estate. Trentham brought my mum from London, where he’d met her. I don’t know why, she wasn’t exactly talkative when I reached the age to ask questions.” He held up his glass, which was almost empty. “She drank. Nothing so fine as this, of course, but whatever she could get. The earl plunked us in a cottage on his estate. I guess my mum must have thought that meant something good for her, but the bastard only came when he had no other sport.” He shrugged and finished his drink. Stephen gestured with his head toward the bottle.

  “No,” Bailey said, lowering the glass to the table beside him. “I like it too much.” The way his eyes caressed the brandy decanter, Stephen knew the man would have a life-long struggle ahead of him.

  “Lady Trentham saw me one day while she was out riding.” His lips curved into a genuine smile as he looked back on the memory. “I can remember it like it was this morning. It was the first time I’d seen a lady on a horse. Only the earl before then. Of course I thought her nag was a fine one. I learned later she only got his lordship’s dregs no matter that she was a far better rider than he. Or that puling gudgeon who calls himself earl now.” His jaw tightened and Stephen saw the toxic stew of jealousy, envy, and anger. And why not? He was, after all, Edward Atwood’s son, far closer in blood than the old earl’s nephew Charles.

  Bailey’s mouth twisted and he continued. “My mum wasn’t much for fun and games.” He shot Stephen a hard look. “It wasn’t her fault, mind. She’d had a rough life.”

  Stephen nodded.

  “Lady Trentham was half mad for a child—anyone could see it, even me, a lad of barely six.” He shrugged. “She fastened onto me like I was her long-lost son. My mum thought the woman was daft, but she didn’t stop her.” His eyes swept over the brandy. “My bloody father did, though.”

  He swallowed hard, his eyes shifting around the elegantly appointed hotel room, his shoulders tense. “He learned about Lady Trentham’s visits to me.” His jaw worked. “He struck my mother in front of me. When I tried to stop him, he flung me so hard against the wall he broke my collar bone.”

  Stephen could hardly breathe. He could feel the Earl of Trentham’s fists on his face, the knee in his groin, the cold, sickening taste of fear that had woken him up in a sweat for years. Yes, he could see the raging Edward Atwood clearly in his mind’s eye. That was the only way he could see him, in fact.

  Oh, he’d noticed the full-length portrait in the gallery at Blackfriars, of course. But that man had been urbane and handsome. The creature Stephen saw in his nightmares was a visitant from Hell and far larger than the real man.

  “What about Lady Trentham?” he asked hoarsely, pouring himself another two fingers.

  “I don’t know if he said or did anything to her. She stayed away for a month or more and then just showed up again. She always came when my mum was gone.”

  He gave Stephen a wry, tortured smile. “Oh, there’s no use in lying. Mum spent her time at the Crown and Serpent after that beating.” Again his look dared Stephen to pass judgement. “She must have known her ladyship gave me things; the old earl hardly gave her enough for us to live on, yet I always had toys, clothes, books, and other treats. Mum never asked. She didn’t have the nerve to disobey the earl to his face, but he’d not broken her completely.

  “Maybe she stayed away on purpose, knowing Lady Trentham could do more for me. She taught me how to read, how to speak.” He gestured to his truly hideous suit and snorted. “She taught me how to dress, not that you’d know it from looking at me.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it.

  “Mum got really sick in early ’12. The earl hadn’t been back for almost half a year, and Lady Trentham sent food, money, and even that high-in-the-instep maid, Beth MacFarlane, to care for her, but Mum died all the same.” He moved his jaw back and forth. “Lady Trentham took care of that, too. She gave my mum a nice burial and a pretty headstone with angels carved into it. And then he came home.”

  This time it was Stephen who could not abide the long silence. “What happened?”

  “What do you want with her? Why did you make me bring her?” Bailey sounded like a very young, frightened boy. “You’re not going to hurt her, are you?”

  “It’s a bit late to be asking that question, isn’t it?” Stephen bit out, furious with Marcus Bailey for his part in bringing Elinor Trentham here. For his part in her downfall.

  “Christ.” Bailey lowered his head in his hands and his shoulders shook.

  Stephen was not in the mood for crocodile tears.

  “Finish the story,” he ordered.

  For a moment he thought the boy would tell him to go to hell. It’s certainly what he wished for. But Bailey sat up and angrily dashed tears from his cheeks and reddened eyes. Whatever hold Fielding had over Marcus Bailey it was close to strangling him.

  “The bastard had me thrown out of the cottage, so I went to see hi
m. I waited until after dark and slipped in a side door Lady Trentham had once showed me, in case I ever had need of her.” He shook his head at something he saw in the past. “It was almost like the bastard was waiting for me. He couldn’t have been—I didn’t even know I was coming myself until I’d had a few drinks and drummed up the courage. He was smiling, as if he was pleased to see me for a change.

  “I was only fifteen, but we were of a height and I didn’t weigh too much less than him. I was no longer a boy to be buffeted about and I told him so. That made him laugh.”

  His lips twisted. “He put a stack of guineas on his desk and sat back. ‘That’s all you’ll ever get from me, boy. Take it and go. I never want to see your face again.’”

  Bailey paused, his breathing heavy as he relived the confrontation. His eyes flickered to Stephen. “There were five bloody coins in the stack. Five. That’s what his son was worth to him. I picked them up and was about to hurl them at his hateful face when he lifted his hand from beneath the desk—the bastard had a pistol on me!” Bailey laughed, stunned even after all these years.

  “What happened next?” Stephen’s voice was beyond cold to his own ears and the younger man gave him a look of pure venom.

  “You’ll have it all out of me, won’t you?”

  “Two thousand pounds should buy me something.”

  “He had me take off my shirt, stuff it in my mouth, and take hold of his bloody desk. He told me he was going to give me one last lesson before sending me on his way. And then he began to whip me with his quirt.” Bailey stared up at Stephen, his eyes crazed. “Would you care to see the scars?” Angry tears squeezed from his reddened eyes and ran down his face. “I collapsed to my knees, almost choking on my own damned shirt but even then the bastard wouldn’t stop. And the words that came out of him—they were almost worse than the whip.” He gave Stephen a look of horrified wonder. “Such hate and loathing for me. Me! His own bloody son. What had I ever done to deserve such hate other than to be born?”

  He gulped, pulling at his gaudy cravat, as if he couldn’t breathe. “I was half-unconscious when he suddenly stopped—the words and the whip. When I turned, I saw him lying on the floor with Lady Trentham standing above him. She held a poker in her hand. She’d hit him.”

  Stephen was gripping his chair so hard his hands hurt.

  “Lady Trentham checked to see he was still breathing and then began ransacking his desk. She found more money and several other things of value and shoved them at me. She gave me a man’s name and address and told me to take only what I could carry and leave that night. I should catch a mail coach and I was to stay away until I received word from her.”

  He slumped into his chair, his chin almost on his chest. “I learned later that she said it had been a robbery. Lord Trentham had engaged in a struggle, discharged a single shot and missed, and then had been clobbered.” He looked up at Stephen. “He lingered in his bed for six months or more but he was paralyzed, couldn’t speak or move.” A look of self-loathing and hate spread over his face. “Is that enough for you? Will that bloody Fielding let my sisters be now?”

  The boy had lied, Stephen was sure of it, but there was enough truth in his tale for his purposes. He pulled another fat packet of money from one of the drawers and tossed it across the desk.

  “That is enough to live on, to start a new life, if you don’t gamble it away.” The younger man’s startled look told Stephen he’d guessed correctly. “Lady Trentham is in the room at the very end of the hall. I want you to go to her and tell her everything is going along smoothly. I don’t care how you put it; just make sure her mind is at ease. I want you to let her know your business will be finished in three days’ time. Indicate to her it would be best if she remained in London. Do not speak of me or this conversation, or you will not live long enough to regret it. Do you understand?”

  The younger man shot him a look of hatred doused in fear. “I understand.”

  “At the end of three days you will return here to me and I will give you a third payment. Altogether the amount will be five thousand pounds—a fortune. Take your sisters and disappear. Do not go to Trentham, do not stay in London. Never go to Lady Trentham for money again. The money should be enough to keep you until you find a more respectable line of business. If I find out you have disobeyed me in any way it will not go well for you. Do you understand?”

  Bailey nodded.

  “Now go.”

  The boy stood and tucked the heavy pouch into his coat pocket before turning to the door.

  Stephen’s mind was already on his next task and he was surprised when the younger man spoke, his hand on the doorknob.

  “You’re not going to hurt her, are you?”

  Stephen frowned at the man’s impertinence. But he answered the question all the same.

  “I asked her to marry me.”

  Relief spread over the younger man’s handsome features and he nodded, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Stephen didn’t see the point in telling Marcus Bailey that she’d said no.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Blackfriars

  1813

  Elinor stood beside Edward’s bed and listed to his shallow breaths. She’d been doing much the same thing for months. They’d spent more time together in the last few months than they had in over a decade of marriage.

  Edward’s pale blue eyes, once so terrifying, still burned with loathing, but they now did so beneath a dense fog of pain. He’d not been able to speak or move since that night in the library.

  Doctor Venable stood up and replaced the candle he’d been using to examine the earl. “I’m afraid there isn’t much more we can do, Lady Trentham. Have you been giving him the sleeping draught I prescribed?”

  “Three times every day, doctor.”

  And each and every time Edward pulsed with impotent fury as she dribbled the liquid down his throat.

  “Go ahead and increase it to five times daily.” He glanced down at the corpselike body on the bed, frowning, as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t think of how to put it.

  “Would you care for some tea? I was just about to have some myself.” Elinor liked the new doctor for several reasons, not least of which because he knew very little of her history of bruises, cuts, and broken bones. He’d treated her once only, when she’d lost the last child Edward would ever put inside her.

  Elinor knew the Doctor Venable had noticed her scars but hoped he’d not inferred how she’d gotten them. What she did know is the attractive young doctor would not need to treat any new injuries.

  She looked up at him. “Come, doctor, you must be thirsty?”

  He hesitated and then smiled, robbing Elinor of breath.

  Goodness he was a handsome devil!

  “I’d like that, Lady Trentham. I’m afraid I haven’t yet found the time to engage a new housekeeper after my last one got married.”

  A footman stood outside Lord Trentham’s chambers.

  “I would like tea in the smaller drawing room, Thomas.”

  Elinor waited until Doctor Venable was comfortable before asking the question uppermost in her mind. “I believe you wanted to tell me something about my husband but did not wish to do so in front of him. Do you think he can hear and understand?”

  Venable gave her what Elinor thought of as his doctor smile—a restrained, solemn expression—as though he expected somebody to catch him at it and accuse him of excessive jollity.

  “Little is known about a condition such as Lord Trentham’s, my lady. I feel it is always best to err on the side of caution. It would be cruel to do otherwise. As for his condition? Even though you’ve kept his body well-nourished, he seems to be fading.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “I’m afraid there is little hope that he will ever recover from this near-vegetative state.”

  Elinor did not know whether to laugh or weep.

  The door opened and one of the maids entered with a large tray.

  Elinor turn
ed to the doctor after the maid left. “How do you like your tea, doctor?”

  “Strong, please.” A slight flush covered his high, sharp cheekbones.

  He really was a remarkably attractive specimen. He wore spectacles, but they could not dim the brilliance of his heavily lashed soft brown eyes. Elinor poured a cup for herself and left the tea to steep a moment longer while she prepared a generous plate for the too-thin man across from her.

  “I know of a fine cook/housekeeper who is looking for work, Doctor Venable. I could give you her name and direction.” She handed him his plate before turning to fix his tea.

  “I’d be much obliged to you, my lady. I’m afraid my own efforts in the kitchen are limited to cheese toast.” He gave her a shy smile, the rapidly disappearing biscuit he held silent testimony of his hunger.

  “Shall I tell her the situation is dire?” Elinor jested, handing him his tea.

  “It would hardly be a lie.”

  They ate in companionable silence for a moment, the doctor’s face becoming less pale in proportion to the number of cakes and biscuits he consumed.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if your husband had a certain degree of awareness. I believe he knows some of those around him.”

  Elinor thought of the murder she saw in Edward’s eyes at least a dozen times a day.

  “I think you are right, doctor. Sometimes I think he is trying to tell me something.” And she had a pretty good idea what it was.

  The doctor nodded and took a sip of tea to wash down a biscuit before wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I wouldn’t be surprised. I’m glad to see you always keep somebody at his side. It would be a shame if he was able to speak at some point and nobody was there to hear him.”

  Elinor nibbled a corner of cream cake. “Yes, that would be terrible.”

  Which was why either Elinor or Beth was always with the earl, even when his valet and one of the footmen were changing or bathing him.

  “I know this must be very hard for you, Lady Trentham.”