The Footman (The Masqueraders Book 1)

by S. M. LaViolette

  “So, what are your plans, John?”

  “Well, Stephen,” he said, using his Christian name for the first time, a habitual sneer twisting his lips. “I reckon I’ll go and take care of my own business now.”

  Stephen opened his mouth and then hesitated.

  “Save your breath to cool your porridge,” Fielding advised.

  Stephen shrugged. “Fair enough. I was only going to tell you to consider my own experience before you do anything . . . irrevocable.”

  Fielding gestured to the decanter on his desk.

  “You could give me a drink along with my lecture.”

  “An excellent idea.” Stephen poured them both a glass.

  Fielding took the cut crystal glass in his six-fingered hand. “My situation is not the same as yours, Worth.”

  “Revenge is revenge, John.” He raised his glass and touched it against Fielding’s. “Here is to letting bygones be bygones.”

  The other man’s hideously scarred face twisted into something that made Stephen’s blood turn cold.

  “And here’s to taking back what is yours.”

  They drank.

  Fielding drained his glass in one long swallow and set it down with a thump. He smirked. “Good luck with the new leaf you’re turning over. If you find yourself tempted to give away all your possessions and go live the life of a holy man, let me know. I’ll be glad to take your traveling chaise, those chestnuts, and Blackfriars off your hands.”

  Stephen laughed and stood. “You will be the first person I think of.” He extended his hand and they shook, as equals, for the first time since the day they’d met six years earlier, when Stephen had freed him from the brutal penal colony. “Don’t be a complete stranger, John.”

  Fielding rolled his eyes and strode to the door, slamming it behind him without another word.

  He let out a heavy sigh and sat back in his chair. Fielding was right about one thing: Stephen would miss the inscrutable, willful, annoying, rude, disobedient man.

  He would also hope the other man’s long banked rage didn’t flame, burn out of control, and almost ruin his life—and the one he loved—as Stephen’s had.

  “But people don’t listen to advice, do they, Jeremiah?” He smiled across at the portrait of the old man he’d had shipped from Boston once he knew he was going to remain in England.

  The painter had captured Jeremiah Siddons’s most riveting feature: the lively, intelligent twinkle in his blue eyes.

  Stephen lifted his glass in a gesture that was half toast and half prayer for the friend who’d just left.

  “Be wiser than me, John, and maybe you’ll also be happier.”

  ∞∞∞

  John Fielding tucked the money into the inner pocket of his coat and ignored the slightly whiney inner voice that told him he should stay and forget about Falkirk and vengeance.

  But it wasn’t a matter of making a choice: he had to finish the matter before he could move on with his life.

  He liked Stephen Worth well enough; Lord knew the man paid better than any other employer on either this miserable little island or in the entire state of Massachusetts. But John didn’t need money. He’d already earned a packet in his years with Worth. A man would have to be an imbecile not to. It had been very simple, actually. Every pay period he’d asked Worth to invest half his pay for him. At first the other man had wanted to explain finances and investments. John had finally told him, as bluntly as he could, that he didn’t give a damn about the how of making money, he just wanted enough to do the things he needed to do. To pay back the man who’d tossed him like garbage into the gutter: his father, the Duke of Falkirk.

  Just thinking the name lit a fire beneath the cauldron of anger that always simmered in his gut. He felt his face twist into what must surely be a hideous expression as he jogged down the immense, curved staircase, ignoring the frightened gasp of a maid as he passed.

  John wasn’t a religious man, but he believed in at least one part of the Bible, and he had no intention of letting bygones be bygones. He’d already tried that. He’d also tried fighting—letting men beat on him until the pain was almost enough to make him forget the tight, burning ball of hatred that had taken up permanent residence in his belly.

  When pain hadn’t worked, he’d tried drinking to drown the nagging, clawing, soul-destroying obsession. But hate, it seemed, could float to the surface, as vile things often were wont to do.

  No, he would have no rest, no peace, no life until he’d visited the iniquity of the fathers on the children, to the third and the fourth generation if necessary.

  John didn’t think he was God, of course, but if it was good enough for the Lord, it was good enough for John Fielding.

  He’d left his soft leather bag—his only luggage—packed and waiting in the foyer. He ignored the nervous glances of the footmen and snatched up the bag on his way out the door and headed for the stables.

  John always saddled his own horse since the damned beast had bitten and kicked every other person who’d ever touched him. As he trod the buckled cobbles around the side of the manor, he absently observed the army of workmen busy transforming the grounds and structure back to its former glory. Oakland couldn’t hold a candle to Blackfriars, but Worth had still managed to work his magic on the place and bring out its ancient, quiet dignity. Or, at least, Worth’s gobs of money had.

  Fielding had enjoyed watching the old place shed years of waste and neglect and become something worth having. It had made him think he might like a place of his own. Not yet, of course—not until he finished his business—but one day.

  The jovial Cornish lad, Jory, had the massive stable door on two sawhorses and was affixing wide metal straps around its ancient timbers. He paused in his hammering and gave John a pleasant smile. Unlike most people, the boy always looked John in the eyes.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Fielding.”

  John grunted and ducked under the low lintel into the cool, dimness of the stables. The entire building was old, but the worn oak planking was truly ancient and grooves ran down the middle of the broad aisle where thousands of men must have walked over the years. They would’ve all believed their lives were important and somehow more vivid than those who’d come before them. And yet they were dead now and none of their dreams, desires, or petty differences signified a good goddamn anymore.

  John knew he was no different than any other man—alive or long dead. Did his wants and needs and plans even matter in the long, long scheme of life? Was Worth right? Was John pursuing a hollow victory—just as Stephen Worth had done? John didn’t think so. His employer’s situation had differed from his in a key way. Worth should have realized he loved Lady Trentham long before he hurt her. He also should have recognized that she was not the villain of the piece, but just another victim who—

  “There now, that’s a good fellow. You’re just misunderstood, aren’t you? Aww, there’s a gentle, good boy.” The voice was a soft, low crooning and it came from the stall where John kept his horse. The stall he’d forbidden anyone to enter except himself. He froze and listened.

  “Do you want another, hmm?” A low chuckle. “Well, just one more. We don’t want you getting a sour stomach right before your trip, do we?”

  John recognized the voice: it was one of Worth’s postilions—the newest one, a tall, thin blond lad named Ben Piddock. John had hired Ben when Worth’s other postilion suddenly left. Piddock had been loitering around one of the bigger posting houses on the North Road on their last trip to London. There was something odd about the boy, something—

  Piddock came out of the stall and careened right into him.

  “Ooof!” His slight body flew backwards and he bounced off the wall, staggering to catch his balance.

  John automatically reached out to help and his hands twitched as his brain tried to identify what it was he’d just felt.

  “Oh! Mr. Fielding, sir. I’m very sorry.” Piddock’s blue eyes were as large as proverbial saucers.


  “You’re not supposed to go in there.”

  Ben cleared his throat. “I just had a few apples I brought for the horses and he’d not had one, so, er—” He petered out under John’s gaze.

  John kept the boy pinned with a glare as he considered pursuing the issue. He finally shrugged. What did it matter that Piddock had disobeyed? John was leaving anyhow. He shouldered past the boy and went into the stall. His horse was waiting for him, his ears flat back, as always.

  “Fetch my tack,” he threw over his shoulder. If the boy wanted to linger around John’s possessions, at least he could make himself useful.

  “Aye, sir.”

  Fetching tack was a stable boy’s job and most postilions would have rebelled at such an order. Ben obviously knew better. John bent down and began checking his horse’s hooves. It was a job he never delegated to others. Never entrust your safety to anyone but yourself; he’d learned that the hard way.

  The sound of raised voices jolted John from his thoughts and made the horse nervously shift its weight and nicker. He was still holding the rear hoof and the sudden weight shift almost knocked him over.

  “Damnit,” he muttered, dropping the hoof and staggering backward.

  “Mr. Fielding! Mr. Fielding!” It was Ben’s voice, but oddly shrill.

  “What the devil is it?” John snapped, pushing himself off the splintered stall wall and straightening slowly, his knees cracking like pistols.

  “A cave in at Redruth!” The words reached the stall just as Ben skidded to a halt, his mouth open as he gasped for breath.

  John grimaced. It seemed he wouldn’t be leaving today, after all. “Take the fastest horse in the stables and go to Lenshurst Park. Get the earl and tell him to bring his doctor bag and come immediately to the mine.”

  Ben nodded, turned, and sprinted deeper into the stables to fetch a horse.

  John picked up his saddle, which the boy had dropped in his excitement. As he did so, his brain made the connection it had been unconsciously struggling with since colliding with young Piddock earlier. Breasts. That was what he’d felt when the boy ran into him: Breasts.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Redruth, Cornwall

  1817

  Elinor was enjoying a rare moment of privacy, reading up on splinting broken bones in the medical text Jago had given her, when the door to her sanctum flew open.

  Beth stood in the open doorway, her face like parchment. “There’s been an accident at the mine.”

  Elinor didn’t need to ask which mine and was on her feet at the word accident. “I’ll get my bag. Gather up all that bedding you were making into bandages. We’ll take the gig in case we need to move anyone.” She pressed her knuckles to her temple and stared at the doorframe as she composed a mental list. “And somebody needs to get a message to—”

  A hand touched her shoulder and she looked up. “Yes?”

  “It was Doctor Venable, er, Lord Trebolton who sent the message, my lady. And he didn’t send it from the mine—he sent it from Oakland.”

  Elinor blinked. “Oakland? But I thought you said—”

  “Mr. Worth has been hurt, my lady.”

  Beth was making no sense.

  “Stephen was hurt at Oakland?”

  “No, at the mine.”

  Elinor felt like she was taking part in a poorly written farce. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  Beth took her arm. “His lordship sent a carriage for you. I’ll fetch everything you need and grab your hat and cloak.”

  “And my bag,” Elinor added absently as she hurried toward the front door. Stephen was hurt.

  “And your bag,” Beth echoed.

  Elinor recognized the tall, blond postilion who’d been eating an apple and sharing it with the horses. He stood beside the lead horse, scratching its ears. A footman waited beside the carriage door and moved to open it when he saw her.

  She ignored the open carriage. “Tell me what happened,” she demanded in a voice that didn’t sound like it belonged to her.

  The footman and postilion exchanged glances and, to Elinor’s surprise, it was the postilion who spoke.

  “One part of the stull collapsed while the men were reinforcing it. It was lucky Mr. Worth had stopped operations and there were only the six men.” The boy paused and drew a shaky breath. His cheeks were as smooth as a girls’ and his voice was at that fluty phase right before it changed. “Mr. Worth and Mr. Fielding went down to the area where the men were trapped. They made a sort of lever and were able to lift a corner. Mr. Worth was helping the last man from the wreckage when one of the pitch pine timbers snapped and fell on him.”

  Elinor felt as though she’d just been pushed off a cliff. “Is he—”

  “He’s alive, ma’am. Doctor Venable, that is, er, Lord Trebolton,” the boy corrected, his cheeks reddening, “is with him. He sent me to fetch you, ma’am.”

  Beth bustled up beside her. “Come, my lady,” she said, adjusting Elinor’s cloak and lowering her hat onto her head. Dressing her, as if she were a child. The realization shook Elinor from her daze.

  “Thank you, Beth.” She tied the ribbon closed herself and glanced at the postilion. “What is your name?”

  “Ben Piddock, ma’am.” The boy pulled his forelock and cast his eyes downward.

  What long lashes he has!

  Elinor blinked at the foolish thought and nodded to the two servants.

  “Let us make haste.”

  ∞∞∞

  Oakland was barely a shadow by the time the carriage rolled to an abrupt stop in front of its entrance. The sky had been clear when they’d begun their journey but clouds obscured the moon midway and the postilion and footman had stopped to light the running lanterns for the second half of the journey.

  The darkness fit Elinor’s mood, which was gloomy and oddly . . . guilty.

  Ridiculous! I had nothing to do with the mine accident.

  No, but he would not be doing all of this if not to curry favor with you, her chastising conscience pointed out.

  Elinor gave a snort of angry disbelief.

  Beth leaned toward her, her eyes narrow with concern. “Is aught amiss, my lady?”

  “It’s nothing, Beth.”

  Nothing but a guilty conscience.

  ∞∞∞

  The front door swung open before Elinor had even reached the top step. A tall, bone-thin man dressed in the conservative black suit of an upper servant stood in the opening.

  “Welcome, Mrs. Atwood. I am Palfrey, Mr. Worth’s butler.” He took her hat and cloak, surveying her from slitted gray eyes, his beaky nose tilted up like a hound sniffing the air. “If you will please follow me.”

  “Well!” Beth hissed in Elinor’s ear as they followed the stiff-backed man up a flight of stairs. “He’s right proud of himself, isn’t he?”

  Elinor couldn’t help smiling. Beth still wasn’t accustomed to her drop in status. As the maid of the Countess of Trentham she’d wielded respect—probably more than Elinor herself. As the maid of an eccentric woman who played at being a doctor? Well . . .

  The house was a lovely example of neo-Palladian architecture that must have been built early in the prior century. It was a tasteful size for a country house and Elinor could see as the butler led them down the second story hallway that the wood paneling had been waxed and buffed to a shine and the coved ceiling was freshly painted. The dark wood floor was almost black with age and the carpet runner was ancient, the threadbare sections outnumbering those with any pile. Elinor found the worn carpet somehow endearing and found herself mourning its inevitable removal.

  She shook her head at the foolish thought. This was probably the first and last time she would ever be in this house. What did she care if the new owner stripped the grand dame of a house down to her knickers and dressed her in newer, richer clothing?

  The butler stopped at the second-to-last door and opened it.

  Elinor hesitated as she approached the open doorway, an almost overw
helming sense of doom making her motions jerky and slow.

  Please, God, let him be all right.

  ∞∞∞

  Stephen was Iain again. Or Iain was Stephen. Either way, he was back to being just the one person and it was a relief. He was ill, in bed, and didn’t have to do his morning chores.

  His mother bustled around him like a fussy hen and he basked in her attention.

  Her hand on his forehead was cool and soothing.

  “Has he regained consciousness?” Her voice was muted and odd sounding.

  Iain tried to tell her he was awake, but his mouth wouldn’t open. That was strange.

  Another voice—one Iain didn’t recognize—answered. “He’s been unconscious since I set his arm. He refused to take laudanum—at first. We managed to get it down him once he began to fade.”

  “Any other injuries?”

  “—to the head.” The voice faded in and out and in and out. “—give him laudanum, but the—I felt it worth the risk.”

  “—think it is serious?” Iain’s mam asked.

  Ahhh, Mam, how he’d missed her! A voice cut through the warm blanket of love that had wrapped around him.

  “—observation—needn’t stay, Elinor—just wanted—appraised of the situation.”

  Elinor?

  A sharp female laugh cut the heavy air. “Who else can nurse him? Fielding?” The voice was tart and had no Scottish brogue. If not his mother, then who? Who?

  Again he tried to open his mouth, or at least his eyes, but he was so tired it was all he could do to think. He was tired, he needed—

  “He’s shivering, Jago.”

  “—the drug—unpredictable and hallucinate—healing sleep—side effects.”

  Gentle hands drew a blanket up to his shoulders and tucked it in.

  “—stay—Beth holds—esteem.”

  A low chuckle—male this time—and a cool hand on his forehead.

  Somebody moaned.

  “Hesveryhot.”

  Iain squinted and concentrated to stop the words, but they wanted to slam into each other.