by Gaelen Foley
He was wrong.
Trumbull drew himself up at this request, becoming a good inch taller, and marched off on his lofty mission to fetch tea for the future Duchess of Amberley.
When he’d gone, Maggie sent Connor a quick, knowing wink; he hid his grin in answer. Penelope stood at attention nearby until Trumbull returned, then Her Ladyship dismissed her. The elegant maid curtsied and withdrew, and this, too, seemed to please the old man.
This was the world he knew, a blessed return to the world that made sense to him, Connor supposed. Here was a lady who knew how to go about, and that, Trumbull could appreciate.
He stood at attention before her while Connor leaned against the softly timeworn mantel.
“The tea is delicious,” Maggie told him.
He bowed. But then, seeing her warm, winning smile, he admitted, “I could make it with my eyes closed, ma’am.”
She chuckled. “I am sure you could. Oh, please, Mr. Trumbull, do sit. This is your home, after all. And may I say, it is charming.”
As are you, Connor thought, watching her in action.
Trumbull considered this, then remembered he was host this time, not employee, and sat, looking rather pleased with himself for the distinction he’d been shown. “How may I be of assistance, Lady Margaret?”
No doubt he was wondering what the devil they were doing there.
She took a dainty sip of tea, nodding at the question, and then began, in her diplomatic way. “First of all, I understand things went somewhat awry leading up to your departure from Amberley House.”
Connor managed not to snort. That was putting it mildly.
“And I want you to know,” she continued, “there is no suspicion upon you of any kind. In fact, we would be most honored if you would consider returning to your post at some point in the future.”
Trumbull looked so astonished that he set the teapot down abruptly, having just begun to pour himself a cup, since Her Ladyship had made it clear that, at the moment, they were dispensing with the formalities. Perhaps he feared that his bony, wrinkled hand might shake at such an offer.
“You needn’t answer just now if you don’t wish to,” she said, “but will you kindly consider it?”
“I-I will. Thank you, my lady.” He glanced dazedly at Connor. “I thank you both.”
Connor gave him a nod of acknowledgment.
“It is the least that you deserve,” Maggie said. “But there is another reason for our visit.”
Trumbull cocked his bald head. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Well.” Maggie glanced down at her lap, fretting into her teacup. “The authorities still have reached no satisfactory conclusion to that whole troubling business at Twelfth Night.”
Trumbull frowned.
“His Grace worries that if someone means him harm, then I may be at risk, too.”
Connor had not seen her this adorably demure since that first night when she’d come knocking on his door, begging him to spare her stupid beau.
She was irresistible in this mode, in his experience.
She shook her head, topped with a rose-pink bonnet to match her gown.
“And so, you see, we cannot marry until the threat is resolved. We are obviously eager to start our new lives together,” she said with a darling blush as she glanced over at Connor by the fireplace.
He nodded in agreement, but kept his mouth shut. He had already botched things enough with the old high stickler.
“Any details you remember from around Twelfth Night might at least help us glean a sense of what we are truly dealing with. So if there is anything at all that you might be able to tell us…?”
Trumbull frowned. “I am sorry, my lady. I have no further information beyond what I’ve thrice now told the Bow Street officers.”
“Hmm.” Maggie nodded. “It must have been distressing for you when suspicion slanted toward someone on the staff.”
“I never believed that,” he said emphatically, still looking routed by the mystery.
“So, you noticed no irregularities amongst the servants?”
“No, nor even the delivery personnel. The coalman, the milkman, the fishmonger’s boy. Everything was in order from all that I could see.”
“Well, who do you think poisoned His Grace?”
“Lady Margaret, if I may be frank, I am not convinced there was poison involved.” He shook his head, staring at her. “It…seems impossible.”
“So, what do you believe happened?”
“I personally believe that, er, Sergeant McFeatheridge either took ill with a stomach flu, as is common in wintertime or—more likely—sickened himself with too. Much. Drink.” Trumbull very determinedly ignored Connor at this moment. “The gentlemen were very merry, my lady.” Disapproval sharpened his clipped, terse voice to fine-edged precision. “Very merry indeed.”
Maggie pressed her lips together and dropped her gaze, somehow stifling the humor that Connor could feel bubbling beneath her polite surface.
He cleared his throat. “We did become rather rowdy now and then.”
Not that he was sorry. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die. The soldier’s creed.
“But suppose for argument’s sake that someone did put poison in the food,” Maggie continued. “Perhaps not to kill the duke, but merely intending to drug him for some reason. Whom would you suspect?”
“None of our people, my lady.” Trumbull fell silent for a moment, clearly wanting to please her by giving some sort of answer. “I suppose, in hindsight, it might have been possible for some intruder to have stolen in secretly and done it. With so many of His Grace’s regimentals coming and going, the doors were scarcely ever locked.”
“Was anyone hanging about who didn’t belong at Amberley House?”
“Other than His Grace’s twenty-three guests?” he asked pointedly.
Connor was well aware that Trumbull approved neither of him nor his Army mates.
Maggie nodded encouragingly. “Yes. Someone who might’ve known the staff’s comings and goings, and perhaps had access to the kitchens?”
“Well,” Trumbull said in an offhand way, shrugging, “there was one person allegedly hanging about, though I myself never saw him. If I had, believe you me…”
Connor suddenly came to attention, though he remained motionless.
“Who was that?” Maggie asked.
Trumbull sighed. “Ah, one day, I overheard three of our chambermaids gossiping about the scullery girl, Saphronia Diggs. Begging your pardon, ma’am, it is a bit improper, what I overheard.”
“It’s all right.”
“They claimed that Simple Saffie, as they called her, was holding trysts in the coach house with a soldier—not one of His Grace’s guests.”
“Certainly not,” Connor murmured. Even the rowdiest of his mates would have known that he would never tolerate them harassing his servant girls. Such behavior would have resulted in immediate ejection from the party.
“Naturally,” Trumbull continued, “upon overhearing their maids’ gossip, I revealed my presence and demanded explanations, but the gels were much abashed, confessed it was just idle talk, and quickly apologized for their impertinence. Even so, I called Saffie into my office and questioned her, for this would be an offense that warrants a maid’s instant dismissal, as I’m sure Your Ladyship would well agree.”
“Oh yes,” Maggie said gravely. “Do go on.”
“Saffie vehemently denied the accusation and, indeed, burst into tears, telling me over and over again that she was a good girl.” Trumbull paused with a look of grandfatherly concern. “’Twas quite affecting. Perhaps I erred on the side of compassion. But Saffie is…different, you see.”
“Different how, Trumbull?”
“A bit feeble-minded. For any other maid in the household, I assure you, the accusation alone would have been enough for me to send her off without a reference. I will not tolerate such nonsense in His Grace’s house. But with Saffie being simple as she is, I…felt
she deserved another chance. After all, it’s only the scullery.”
“Simple?” Maggie asked.
“Yes,” Trumbull said regretfully. “She’s quite a pretty girl, but she’s not…all there. Has the mind of a child.”
“I see.”
“She means well; she is sincere enough. But if I had shown her the door, only the good Lord above knows how the poor creature would have fared out in the world. Unfortunately, His Grace dismissed her anyway, along with the rest of us. I don’t suppose the master realized he was throwing an innocent to the wolves.”
Connor’s heart sank possibly through the floor, hearing this. Trumbull would not even look at him.
“Do you know what ever became of her?” Maggie asked gently.
The aged butler shook his head. “I should hope her family took her in.”
Maggie looked relieved. “At least she does have family, then?”
Trumbull could not hide his disdain. “Yes. They live not far from here, in fact. I know of an elder brother, works in the mill next to Sadler’s Wells. I must say, I got the impression that Saffie was rather afraid of him. From what I understand, Mr. Diggs is a low, rough sort, given to drink and brawling.”
“I see,” Maggie said faintly.
Trumbull paused and gave them both a measured glance. “Normally, I would never consider a girl with such unsavory connections for employment in the ducal mansion, but given Miss Diggs’ especially dismal prospects in life, Christian charity compelled me to offer her a chance—with Cook’s approval, of course.
“In the end,” Trumbull continued, “we were quite pleased with how Saffie turned out. She was always a hard worker, and obedient. Whatever her limitations, she is perfectly capable of strenuous physical labor.”
Maggie sent Connor a worried glance; he was busy wallowing in guilt.
“It was good of you to give her a place in life,” she said, turning back to the butler.
Trumbull tilted his head. “Be that as it may, it was not always easy for her at Amberley House.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“That day I came upon the chambermaids tearing her down behind her back, well… The truth is, this was not an infrequent occurrence.” Trumbull shook his head, lowering his gaze. “I regret to say that Saffie was often the target of teasing by some of the other servants. I suppose she made easy prey, simple as she is. It’s not the girl’s fault she was born slightly lacking in wits,” he said indignantly. “At least the Lord gave her a pretty face—to make up for it, I should think—but that only brought her more hostility from some of the other maids.”
The old man sighed. “Poor Saffie. She is quite innocent, and altogether well-meaning. She cannot help what she is. Nor can we all. The point is, if she lied to me when I confronted her about this ugly rumor, which I seriously doubt—I can tell when they are lying—if she was indeed letting some ruffian take advantage of her in the coach house, then I would venture to say there is…a remote possibility that he might’ve gained access to the mansion somehow, through her. But the whole thing is absurd.”
“Why?” Maggie asked. “How are you so sure?”
“Because the chambermaids were saying that this lover of hers was an officer of the dragoons, no less! Honestly.” Trumbull shook his head, while Connor and she exchanged a grim look of shock, having found a highly incriminating button. “The dragoons are among the elite troops of England, ma’am, our modern-day knights, gentlemen of birth and breeding, sworn to chivalry—the heroes of Waterloo! For one of them to use a girl like Saffie in such an unspeakable fashion would be, why, ’twould be the very nadir of dishonor. Who could believe such a thing?”
Connor could not believe the old man’s naiveté.
There were, of course, those patriotic souls who tended to worship the flag and the military, especially in wartime. But they were usually not “wise old men” who understood the carnage, but impressionable young girls who thought the lads looked dashing in their uniforms.
Like a young scullery maid would have done.
God, if some cocksure dragoon had come stalking this servant girl to get to Connor, she wouldn’t have had a chance. Connor’s jaw was clenched and his stomach turned with the sickening realizations spinning through his mind.
Unwanted by her family, ill-equipped to face life, bullied by the other maids, she’d have been desperately vulnerable to a man’s smooth lies. Especially a dragoon, those arrogant bastards. Toy soldiers on their shiny horses, all glory, no brains, infantrymen liked to say of them.
Connor supposed he should be happy that at least it hadn’t been Cousin Richard romping in the carriage house with one of them, but he could not muster the sentiment, awash in self-recrimination for having tossed the girl right into this scoundrel’s arms.
To be sure, he felt the sting of Trumbull’s veiled reproach aimed at him—an infantry officer—by pointedly heaping praise upon those swaggering cavalry dunderheads, but Connor didn’t care.
The old man had more cause to be angry at him than Connor had previously realized.
It seemed he had allowed his Irish temper to run away with him where the servants were concerned. He knew why he had done it, of course. He had been out of his element as a newly minted duke, taken off guard, and outraged to be offered such a welcome to his new London home: a plate of poisoned food.
His first thought, his knee-jerk reaction, had been to assume that the English staff were slyly taking a go at him because he was Irish-born and they thought him unworthy. Well, he’d been fighting that battle all his life. And before he had realized the seriousness of the situation, some part of him must have also equated the poisoning with the same sort of unpleasant initiation rituals that new recruits faced when they arrived at their regiments.
The veterans enjoyed subjecting the cherries to all manner of pranks and pummeling to test them, a rough way of preparing them to face their first battle.
Moreover, Connor’s deep sense of loyalty had added fire to his outrage, to think that it should have been his best mate Rory to bear the brunt of what had been intended for him.
But this visit to Mr. Trumbull’s cottage clearly showed Connor the error of his ways. He had acted out of anger, and prejudice, with undue haste.
Maggie was right. The staff had not deserved to be sacked. And, apparently, for some of them, his lashing out like that may have led to disaster.
He had to repair this. Now. And so, in the silence that hung on the air after Trumbull’s revelations, he swallowed his pride, cleared his throat, and lifted his chin.
He tried in that moment to look as much the part of a proper duke as a bloodstained barbarian could manage. Somehow it was easier to play the role with Maggie by his side, for it was plain that she, at least, had been born to maneuver her way smoothly around the polite world.
“I say, Mr. Trumbull.” He moved away from the mantel, his posture stiffening. “It is not often that I find myself in the position of having to ask for another man’s forgiveness. But I fear I acted in haste in the matter of your dismissal.”
The old butler’s eyes became as round as the saucers on which he had served the tea.
If hearing Lady Margaret address him a few times with the honorific “mister” had startled him, a personal apology from the fourth Duke of Amberley rendered him speechless.
Connor hoped he did not stop the old man’s heart with his next words.
“I, er, I should be personally grateful if you would consider returning to my employ—with a raise in pay for your trouble, of course.” Connor cleared his throat awkwardly and awaited Trumbull’s reply.
Maggie turned, however, and sent him a tender glance, erasing any doubt that he’d done the right thing.
Trumbull was still trying to gather his wits. Connor really did not know how the ex-butler would answer. Old as he was, perhaps he was enjoying the leisure of his retirement.
Then his future duchess chimed in with her usual delicacy. “I second that offer,
Trumbull, although, of course, I wouldn’t want you to feel compelled, if you do not wish to return. But it would be a great relief to me as a new bride to know that a man of such experience as yourself—and expertise—was at the helm of my new household. It is, after all, a great responsibility.”
Finally, Trumbull found his tongue. He rose to his feet. “Your Grace and Lady Margaret are both entirely generous,” he declared, slightly abashed. Perhaps no one of such high birth had ever spoken to him in such respectful terms before. “I hardly know what to say…”
“Will you at least think on it?” Maggie asked sweetly.
He nodded. “Yes, my lady. And Your Grace need not apologize.” Trumbull hesitated, though it was clear he had felt differently about this when they’d arrived. “That is to say, I cannot blame you for being angry, sir. It was a most distressing experience for us all. I only wish I knew how the blasted thing happened in the first place.”
Trumbull sighed, lowering his gaze. Stiff-spined as he was, his shoulders slumped, and Connor realized that though the old fellow still didn’t believe it was attempted murder, he truly did blame himself for the inexplicable lapse.
“Whoever has done this, we will find them,” Connor assured him. “This will not stand. I can promise you that.”
“You see, Trumbull,” Maggie said, “you may not be aware that His Grace now believes it was not just he, himself, who was targeted, but that there is some nefarious plot afoot against the entire House of Amberley.”
Trumbull’s white eyebrows shot upward as he turned to Connor. “Do you mean to say you believe the other deaths in the family are suspicious, Your Grace?”
“’Tis possible.” Connor nodded.
“Nothing is certain yet,” said Maggie.
“Good heavens…” Trumbull looked stricken. “Your Grace, I served under all three past dukes. It seems ages ago that I was a young footman serving under the First Duke, even in his bachelor days, when he was still marquess. I remember when he used to go out riding ’round the countryside with King George himself…
“And dear Reverend Lord Rupert. That’s what we all called him for so many years before he became the second duke…” Trumbull’s eyes turned steely. “Sir! If someone harmed either brother or young Richard, I hardly know what to say. Do you suspect that even Duke Richard was murdered?”