The Footman (The Masqueraders Book 1)

by S. M. LaViolette

  Ronnie shook his head. “We’m bring what we need.”

  They spent another ten minutes discussing dimensions for Daisy’s new house before Mr. Williams began to wake. The two boys promised to return the next day and Elinor collapsed into a chair after they left.

  The past two weeks had heralded a radical change in her status. Most days she woke at dawn and didn’t stop until dark, often going out in the middle of the night when the occasion demanded it. She was bone-tired, but she was not unhappy. Never had she felt so . . . necessary, so important.

  Unfortunately, Beth had every reason to worry—and not just about running out of sheets or bedding. Since moving to Redruth, Elinor had acquired six hens, a piglet, untold baskets of potatoes and other vegetables, and enough dried meat to last them for several years. The actual money she’d made would not be enough to buy another sheet to replace those she’d used up in her small surgery. She needed more money and every day the thought of the money Stephen had put aside for her chewed at her mind like a rat gnawing on a corpse.

  Could she take the money? Should she take the money? After all, he’d set it aside for her. Even if she only took one year’s worth it would be enough for sheets and food and pig housing for the rest of her life.

  She heard the clatter of horse hooves outside her door and opened her eyes, grateful to have something to distract her from the nagging question of the five thousand pounds.

  The door opened and a familiar, handsome face stood in the gap.

  “Why, Jago, whatever are you doing here?” She pushed herself to her feet as he came towards her.

  “You would do better to remain seated, my— Mrs., er, Atwood.”

  Elinor couldn’t help laughing. “Oh no, not you too. One would think my name was Mrs. Myer-Atwood.”

  The doctor gave her one of his rare smiles, his gaze flickering around the small room.

  “What do you think of my surgery, doctor?”

  “I think you’ve done quite nicely. How is business?”

  “Busy.”

  “I hope you are not overtaxing yourself.” His eyes dropped to her midriff and heat surged up her neck.

  “Beth wrote to you,” she said, barely getting the words out between her clenched jaws.

  “Don’t be angry with her; she’s concerned for you.”

  Elinor would deal with her loose-lipped maid later. “Please tell me you have not come haring half-way across the country because I am with child?”

  His smile grew at her waspish tone. “No, I’ve not come for that. Although I would—”

  Elinor held up a hand. “Thank you, Jago, but I must respectfully decline your very kind offer.”

  The sudden slashes of red across his high cheekbones were the only sign she’d guessed correctly.

  “I do appreciate your concern,” she added in a kinder voice.

  He nodded.

  “So, if it isn’t my delicate situation, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

  “It’s about Stephen Worth.”

  ∞∞∞

  The small hatch in the cell door opened. “Another visitor for you, Mr. Worth.”

  Stephen squinted up at the gun slit window. It wasn’t night, but it was close. He shoved himself up against the wall, his hand already seeking the glass that was never far away. He tossed back the dregs and grimaced at the sour, metallic taste it left in his mouth.

  The keys rattled in the lock and he pushed his hair off his forehead but didn’t bother to get up. The jailor growled to somebody and a low rumble answered before the door creaked open.

  John Fielding ducked under the lintel, his shoulders brushing the doorframe.

  He flipped a coin over his shoulder in a manner calculated to show maximum disdain for the jailor, who caught the flickering gold coin handily and left—without closing the door.

  Fielding limped toward him.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Stephen demanded, glaring up at his giant employee.

  Fielding held up one big bandaged paw. “Had a bit of an accident.”

  “Did it prevent you from reading any papers for almost seven damned weeks?”

  “Actually, it did.” He turned his head, allowing Stephen to see the white bandage beneath his coal black hair.

  “Hmmph.”

  “Thank you for your concern.”

  “I pay you to be concerned, not the other way around. Where were you?”

  He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Here and there.”

  Stephen gritted his teeth. There was no point in letting the bastard get under his skin; Fielding enjoyed it too much. “May I ask if you are now back at work?”

  “You may.”

  Stephen stared.

  “I am. In fact,” he dug a big hand into the breast pocket of his ruined coat and extracted a folded piece of paper, “I just got this from your barrister.”

  Stephen snorted. “I’m surprised he’s managed to generate anything; I’ve only paid him more money than he’s made in his entire bloody life.” He snatched the single sheet, unfolded it, and his eyes dropped to the bottom. He looked up to find Fielding staring. “Have you read this?”

  “Aye. You can leave whenever you’re ready.”

  Stephen lifted the letter. “The date on here says three days ago. When, exactly, was that idiot going to bring it to me?” His head was pounding and hot and more than a little muzzy. Three Fieldings stood in front of him instead of one.

  “The barrister was instructed to give you the letter after four days had passed. After I read it, I convinced him to give it to me immediately. I also convinced him to take some personal time—somewhere far, far away from you.”

  Stephen pointed to the wine crate. “Make yourself useful and open a bottle.”

  Fielding cocked an eyebrow at him, sighed, and moved toward the half-full crate. He squinted at the label and his second eyebrow joined the first.

  “This looks quite nice.”

  “It’s too bad you can’t join me. I only have one glass.”

  Fielding snorted, made short work opening the bottle and filled Stephen’s tumbler.

  Stephen grunted, took a gulp, and set the glass down on the grimy flagstone floor so hard he thought it might break. “Hand me my spectacles.”

  The letter was addressed to several officials, as if the sender hadn’t been quite sure who should receive it and wanted to cover all eventualities.

  Dear Sirs:

  I am writing this letter in the presence of three witnesses, one of whom is magistrate for Trevingey—

  Stephen looked up.

  “Cornwall,” Fielding said, tearing his attention away from a particularly realistic carving on the wall that depicted a man hanging by the neck from a gibbet.

  “Cornwall?” Stephen repeated.

  Fielding grunted and turned back to the wall art.

  I am writing this letter in the presence of three witnesses, one of whom is magistrate for Trevingey and can attest to the truth of the matter contained within.

  I, Elinor Elizabeth Mary Constance Trentham do hereby swear the following is a true and accurate description of what happened on the evening of June 22, 1802.

  On that day I was living with my mother and father, Lord and Lady Yarmouth, who hosted a ball to celebrate my betrothal to Edward Atwood, Earl of Trentham.

  Iain Vale was a new footman in my father’s household. That day, June 22, was Mr. Vale’s first day in that capacity.

  I encountered Mr. Vale twice that evening while he was working. Both times I engaged in inappropriate and purposely inflammatory conversation with him. It was during the second instance that I put my hands around his neck and physically surprised him into kissing me. He was trying to put me away from him when my betrothed, Edward Atwood, Earl of Trentham, arrived and placed the most severe interpretation on what he found.

  Utterly unprovoked, Lord Trentham attacked Mr. Vale from behind and knocked him to the ground. In spite of my attempts to convince Lord Trentham oth
erwise, he kicked, beat, and abused Mr. Vale until he lost consciousness. My father arrived and believed Lord Trentham’s rendition of events, rather than mine.

  Mr. Vale was taken away by the local constable and never, within my knowledge, offered an opportunity to give his version of events. Neither was I.

  Realizing an innocent man was incarcerated on charges that could result in transportation if not death, I conspired to gain his release from Coldbath Fields Prison. I provided the money and hired a man whose name I cannot recall to implement the escape plan.

  In sum, Iain Vale was the victim of a sixteen-year-old girl’s capricious and thoughtless act. Mr. Vale’s suffering was compounded by fifteen years of silence on my part.

  I take full responsibility for my actions, including, but not limited to, bribing an official of Her Majesty’s government. I have tendered my confession to Magistrate David Philips of Trevingey and he has ordered me to present myself to the proper authority in London and await His Majesty’s pleasure.

  Sworn and signed,

  Elinor Trentham

  Stephen re-read the letter before looking up. “Did you see her?”

  “No, she went to a special session before the magistrates and left not long after.”

  Stephen wasn’t surprised the authorities had ignored the opportunity to charge a countess with a crime.

  “When did you get here?”

  “A few hours ago.” Fielding made a vague gesture with his chin. “I’ve got the coach waiting outside.” He glanced around at the crates of spirits, stacks of books, and wheels of cheese, his eyes lingering on a large wooden cask of olives. “That is, if you still want to leave.”

  Stephen ignored his servant’s sarcastic comment and looked down at the letter he held crushed in his hand.

  He should be feeling elated. He was a free man. He could be Iain Vale again. He could remain Stephen Worth. He was not only personally wealthy; he was in sole control of a financial juggernaut. He could do anything, go anywhere.

  But it turned out that the one thing he wanted—the brief happiness he’d shared with Elinor—he’d utterly destroyed.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Blackfriars

  1817

  Stephen woke up in the Blackfriars library. For some reason, he was wedged between the dark green leather sofa and an end table. His hand was still wrapped around a bottle, but it was empty.

  He groaned and let his head fall back on the oak floor, and then groaned again. He had no idea what day it was—or what time it was. For a moment, just the merest of seconds, he wondered why he’d gotten drunk last night.

  And then it hit him, the reason he got drunk every night: Elinor.

  “God.” His voice was gravelly from lack of use or too much alcohol, or both. Every day he hoped the pain he felt at the thought of her would go away. And every day it was worse.

  You’re pathetic, his faithful inner critic offered. You paid her back; it’s what you wanted for years. Quit sniveling.

  Stephen knew the voice was right. He’d wanted revenge, and he’d gotten it.

  Repent.

  Stephen blinked at the voice, not the usual snide, cruel mental companion. It was Jeremiah’s voice. He closed his eyes and willed the old man to come back—to tell him what to do. But all he heard was the gurgling of his own stomach.

  He released the empty bottle and pushed up onto his hands and knees. Lurching to his feet turned out to a horrible idea.

  He’d just finished vomiting in a coal scuttle that sat, inexplicably, in the center of the threadbare Aubusson carpet when somebody knocked on the door.

  “What?” he yelled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before flopping back onto the settee.

  Fielding’s head appeared in the crack. “Somebody here to see you, Mr. Worth.”

  Stephen snorted and held out his arms. “Do I look like I want to see anybody?” He glanced down at his body. He’d lost his waistcoat and coat somewhere and his once-white shirt was wrinkled, stained, and stank of sweat. His gray trousers had an eight-inch rent over one knee and his feet were bare. He had no recollection of dressing himself. Or undressing himself.

  And every last drop of moisture had gone from his body. He needed a drink.

  “Sir?”

  Stephen looked up and saw Fielding still waiting for him.

  “Go away. And have somebody send in a fresh bottle.”

  “Do you want to receive your visitor in here?”

  “What did I just say, Fielding?”

  “You’re going to want to see this person, Mr. Worth.”

  Bloody stubborn irritating interfering bastard. “Tell me something, John.”

  “Sir?”

  “Are you going to bother me until I do what you want?”

  A long pause followed and then, “Yes, sir.”

  Stephen gave a loud bark of laughter that made his pounding, desiccated skull throb.

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Send whoever the hell it is in. And then send in another bottle.”

  Fielding’s black eyes moved up and down Stephen’s body in a manner that spoke volumes. “You don’t wish to—”

  “No, dammit! I don’t wish you to do or say another fucking word. I want you to show whoever it is into this room and bring me a damned bottle of brandy.”

  Fielding didn’t answer but the door swung wider.

  Three identical gray-haired men in ill-fitting suits entered. All three had removed their hats and were holding them in big, work-worn hands.

  Stephen squinted until he saw only one man.

  “Well?” he demanded when the man remained silent. “Who the hell are you and what the hell do you want?”

  “Iain?”

  Stephen peered harder and his heart jerked like a rabbit in a snare. “Uncle Lonnie?” he gasped.

  The face shifted into a smile—a very familiar smile. It was true there was more gray than brown and there were more wrinkles than a decade and a half ago, but it was unmistakably his uncle. He eyed Stephen from his head to his feet, and then back to his head.

  “Iain, just look at you.”

  Stephen gawked, too stunned to speak. He pushed off the divan so quickly he tripped and would have sprawled flat on his face if the other man hadn’t sprung forward to catch him.

  “Easy, lad,” his uncle soothed, using the same voice Stephen had heard him employ with skittish horses hundreds of times.

  “Uncle Lonnie,” he repeated dumbly, placing his feet shoulder-width apart to remain standing.

  “Aye, lad.” He squeezed Stephen’s shoulder and leaned closer to look at his face. “What’s wrong with ye, boy?”

  Even Stephen’s drink-addled brain could hear the disapproval in his uncle’s voice.

  He bristled and pulled away. “There nothing wrong with me.” Stephen glared at the older man’s judgmental expression; this was hardly the heart-warming reunion he’d envisioned for fifteen years. But then again, what part of his carefully conceived plan had lived up to his expectations thus far?

  Lonnie Clark’s eyebrows lowered and a vertical line formed between his hazel eyes.

  “You’d better sit, my boy. You look as if you might fall down.” He gestured to the sofa and then lowered himself onto a smaller divan across from it.

  Stephen tamped down his irritation at his condescending tone. “You look well, Uncle.”

  “Aye, I am well.”

  “What—?” Stephen coughed and tried again. “What happened?” He didn’t need to explain what he meant.

  The library door opened before his uncle could answer. Fielding entered holding a silver tray with a bottle and two glasses.

  Stephen scowled as the huge man lowered the tray onto the table with a rough clunk.

  “What the devil happened to my butler?” Stephen demanded.

  “You threw a bottle at him the last time he came into the room.” Fielding poured two glasses and offered one to Stephen.

  He waved it away. For the first ti
me in weeks, he had no desire for a drink.

  Fielding’s black brows arched but he remained silent and gave the glass to the older man.

  “Much obliged,” Lonnie said, not wasting any time before taking a healthy swig. He grinned. “Ah, now that’s fine. I suppose you drink this well all the time?”

  Stephen ignored the question. “You can leave now,” he said to Fielding. He turned to his uncle after the door closed. “I thought you were dead.”

  His uncle’s eyes widened. “Why’d you think that?”

  “Because I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

  “Why’d you even try? What did I tell you about coming back?”

  Stephen struggled to suppress the irritation that simmered in his empty, churning gut and threatened to explode.

  “Where were you?” he asked coldly.

  His uncle’s eyes narrowed. “You may be a big man with buckets o’ money, but you don’t talk to me that way, boy.”

  Stephen closed his eyes and counted as high as it took to stop the vein from pulsing in his temple. When he opened them again it was to find his uncle sipping his drink with the expression of man determined to enjoy a rare luxury.

  Memories of his uncle’s monumental stubbornness drifted through his mind and came floating back to him. Stephen recalled how his uncle could make a mule appear reasonable. He exhaled gustily, crossed his arms, and made himself more comfortable.

  Lonnie made him wait a few moments more before speaking. “I left that same night, right after dropping you at the docks. Lady Elinor set up everything. She gave me some jewels, all her pin money, and a letter.”

  Even though Stephen knew it had been Elinor who’d paid for his escape he still found it difficult to breathe, as if something large had just landed on his chest. His vision rippled with waves of heat and his head blazed like a furnace. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  His uncle shrugged, his hazel eyes flickering from the worn carpet to the dusty, ragged drapes, to the half-filled bookshelves.

  “Looks like you need to hire a better housekeeper, son.”

  Stephen’s hands clenched so tight his bones hurt. It took every ounce of strength he had not to yell. “Why didn’t you tell me all this that night?”