by Amy Corwin
While it sounded easy enough to discover who harbored a secret desire to see the earl dead, Hugh found that a house steward had more to do than discover innocuous ways to question the staff. Mr. Symes seemed determined to make sure neither Hugh nor Ned Brown was idle. He’d given Ned the task of trimming all the lamps used below stairs and cleaning all the servants’ boots and shoes. Ned had not been as pleased as Hugh was to see him thus occupied.
As for Hugh, although he managed to sneak out of the house to speak to Mr. Gaunt, when he returned, he spent most of his time engaged in discussions with the housekeeper on the best markets to use and going over the nature and quality of the household provisions. Since Hugh could honestly say he didn’t have the slightest interest in which markets the servants chose to patronize, this tried his patience to the breaking point.
“What are those?” he asked, his voice thick with disgust as Mrs. Adams, the housekeeper, handed him a sheaf of papers.
“They are the receipts, Mr. Caswell, for you to enter in the books. Several of them are due.” She spoke the last words with so much satisfaction that she actually smacked her lips.
Suppressing the urge to curse, he nodded, not trusting his control over his vocal chords.
“When will you make your recommendation about the market cart, Mr. Caswell?”
“Market cart?”
She sniffed and stared at him down the considerable length of her nose. “The market cart broke the axle, wheel and bed two weeks ago, carrying provisions for his lordship’s ball. It must either be mended or replaced.”
“Then do it,” he replied in a deliberate voice. When she eyed him, a touch of contempt sparkled in her dark eyes. “Is it repairable?” he asked.
“That is for you to judge, Mr. Caswell. Is there anything else?”
He placed the pile of receipts on his desk, thinking about long, tedious hours entering numbers in the leather-bound account book. “Yes, there is. I would like to speak to the earl. When is he expected to return?”
“The earl does not make his plans a matter for the housekeeper.”
“Then you don’t know where he is?”
“He is aboard his boat.” Her tone indicated that she did not approve of gossip.
Hugh continued, “How long is he usually gone? I want to go over the accounts with him to know precisely where we stand. That is the only way I can determine which course to take — whether to acquire a new cart or mend the old one.”
This logic seemed to appeal to Mrs. Adams’ practical nature. She smiled slightly and nodded, her brown eyes warming a fraction. “He is normally gone only a few days. We’ve been quite worried about him for he’s as regular as the sun.”
“Oh, he is, is he? Sounds boring, if you ask me.”
“There is nothing wrong with being regular. And you’d best take a leaf from his lordship’s book if you’re to remain a house steward at Ormsby.”
Hugh held up a hand and laughed. “No criticism intended, Mrs. Adams. I can certainly appreciate a man with good, tidy habits. You must forgive me, but I’ve yet to find my way. It’s easy to take the wrong step on an unknown path.” When she nodded, he glanced down at the papers and nudged them with a careless finger. “You are worried, then, about the earl?”
“Yes,” she admitted, although she sounded reluctant. “He’s been gone an awful long time. And there’s been a visitor, a black-coated man, to see Miss Leigh. His lordship’s younger brother is missing, too, and so soon after the ball.” To Hugh’s discomfort, her lips trembled. She bit them, sniffing loudly. “We’re afraid. We’re all afraid below stairs. You see, we thought he was to be married to Miss Peyton. But they say she ran off with that nasty Lord Greeley the night of the ball, and the earl hasn’t been seen since.” She stared at Hugh, her brown eyes dark with worry. “What if that Lord Greeley did something to him?”
“To him? To the earl?”
“Yes! He has a terrible reputation. What if they fought a duel over Miss Peyton? What would happen if the earl lost? What then?”
Startled silence stretched between them until Hugh recovered enough to smile. “Nonsense. If they had fought a duel and the earl lost, there would have been a doctor in attendance. The household would have known immediately.”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t know then,” Mrs. Adams said stiffly, as if regretting her outburst.
“Perfectly understandable. It is a puzzle to us all. I can only hope the earl comes walking through the front door soon so I, at least, may settle these accounts.” On some other poor soul, he thought.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Hers will be the care of her lady’s wardrobe ….” —The Complete Servant
Helen escaped from Miss Leigh after tucking her into bed that night. She could not avoid it any longer. She had to set about her mission of finding the necklace. Somehow she managed to find her way to the ballroom without being caught, but before she could begin a search, she heard someone coming. Thick draperies hid the windows. She ran to the nearest curtain and slipped behind it.
The footsteps neared, hesitated, and then faded as someone walked away.
“Ah-choo! Ah-choo!” Helen sneezed twice, then three more times as she stepped away from the heavy curtains, brushing her skirts and glancing around. Silver light washed over the bare floor in long streaks.
She felt enveloped in a miasma of old cigar smoke and stale perfume. The smell brought back memories of the ball, feelings of rushed discomfort after arriving late and of being out of step with the rest of the whirling, laughing guests.
There had been so many guests that the room had felt overheated and crowded, thrumming with laughter and the ever-increasing volume of conversations competing to be heard above the small string quartet hired to provide music. She could again feel the press of bodies swirling round her, the brush of silken skirts and sudden sharp wisps of perfume caught as a couple danced by. They had jarred her or pushed her back with their elbows, before tossing apologies over their shoulders as they twirled away.
There had been no room for the lonely.
Discomforted by all this, Helen had found a protected corner between two French doors. Now, as she stood in the pre-dawn darkness, she once more glided cautiously toward that spot. The fastener on the necklace had always been weak. The foolish jeweler had used too much gold, making the catch bend easily under the heavy weight of the emeralds.
In all likelihood, it had slipped from around her neck when she had been jostled. But now that the room had been cleaned …. She couldn’t bear to think about it.
All she could do was search — and long for a simple, quiet life where she could be admired and loved for herself instead of her appearance, her fashionable clothes, chic furbelows and ribbons. Her feelings were irrelevant.
Sometimes she wanted to wear something awful just to shock them. With a sudden jolt, she wondered if that was why Miss Leigh dressed as she did, so people would see her instead of her clothing. Unfortunately, it had just the opposite effect; instead of focusing attention on Miss Leigh’s inner spirit, it made her look ugly and foolish.
So perhaps dressing unfashionably was not the answer. And Helen had to admit that she liked nice clothes and ribbons. She had also enjoyed fashioning Miss Leigh’s dresses to look more flattering on her. And much as it embarrassed her to admit it, Helen enjoyed shopping, too. She loved the feel of silk ribbons slipping between her fingers and the array of colors — brilliant scarlet, pale straw yellow, deep, rich blue. She could not resist the sheen of silk glowing in a shop window.
She signed and then sneezed again. Delaying served no purpose. When she had found the necklace and returned home, she would speak to her parents. She would inform them that she wished to retreat from the social whirl, at least for a time. The missing necklace and the circumstances under which she’d lost it, including her social gaffe of neglecting to greet her host, convinced her that this was necessary. She had lost the necklace because she had needed to retire. It was a sign she intende
d to heed.
However, she had to find the necklace, first. With the smooth, polished floor in front of her, she knew she only needed to search the corner where she had stood. The corner itself did not seem particularly promising, but there was also the retiring room on the second floor. Those were the only two rooms she had visited during her ill-fated time there.
Resuming her search, Helen moved the chairs and got down on her hands and knees to feel along the skirting boards and in the corner. Although the deep blue damask curtains with their heavy gold trim and lining were magnificent, she started to hate them as she searched. They kept brushing over her, enveloping her head and shoulders in suffocating, heavy fabric, as she attempted to search.
Growing more and more frustrated, she elbowed the folds aside. She ran her fingers along the floor into the corner, feeling the soft grit of dust trapped by the folds of the curtain. Nothing. She sat back on her heels, biting her lip.
If the necklace was not here, it had to be in the retiring room. Or gone. Smoothing the curtains back into place, she stood up. Something caught at the pins holding her hair. Twisting round and feeling with her fingers, she found a loose loop of gold braid trim trapping a tooth of the tortoiseshell comb holding the curls at the nape of her neck.
She stepped backwards to give herself space to loosen the gold trim. As she did so, the heavy folds of the curtains hit her back, releasing another puff of stale air. Her eyes watered from the dust. Finally, she released her comb and reseated it.
She absently ran her hands down the trim, pushing the curtain back where it belonged, as she tried to remember when she had last felt the weight of the Peckham necklace around her throat.
Then the weight of the curtain itself made her stop.
Was it not oddly heavy?
She ran her hands down the damask. Nothing. And yet the folds moved as if weighted. She felt the edge of the lining. A cold, hard lump swung from the gold braid.
Praying it was not just a bit of lead fastened to the curtains to keep them from blowing into the room when the windows were opened, she fumbled at it. Her breath came in short, shallow puffs as her fingers explored the ornate trim. She could not pry it loose.
The lump might be lead. Her heart thudded as her fingers ran along the object. A series of lumps, like a necklace. She had to remain calm. She could be wrong, although it certainly felt like a chain and stones, with a large stone in the center. However, it could simply be a dull lump of lead weighting the curtain. Worse, if it were a necklace, it could belong to another woman.
It could be anything, or nothing.
Her fingers worked it, but it refused to come free, and there was not enough moonlight from the window at her back to let her see what she was doing. She finally tugged at the largest lump. A ripping sound seemed to echo through the empty room as the object tore free from the curtains.
“Oh, dear.” A foot-long length of gold trim slapped her cheek. She’d have to fix the loose braid. Nonetheless, she had the necklace — or whatever it was.
She turned to face the window, holding the object up to the moonlight. Hardly daring to peer down at what she clutched in her hand, Helen squeezed her eyes shut, mumbled a quick prayer, and then looked. Her breath fluttered. The Peckham necklace rested in her hand. She slumped in relief.
Now, she could leave Ormsby and forget this dreadful adventure. If she never experienced such excitement again, she’d be forever grateful.
Her gaze drifted through the window. A faint line of rose light stretched over the trees standing sentinel at the edge of the formal gardens. She had wasted all night in her search.
Miss Leigh would be up soon.
As the light improved, she fumbled over the clasp. “Ouch!” Sharp metal cut her finger.
She had bent the clasp when she had pulled it loose. One golden wire had come loose, its point darkened with a drop of blood. She would get it repaired and return it to Oriana before anyone was the wiser.
And at least one mystery was solved. She had not dropped it. The necklace had apparently become caught on the edge of the curtains and slipped from her neck during the ball.
Turning to go, she was startled to find Mrs. Adams striding over to her. In her relief at her discovery, Helen had not heard the housekeeper’s stout shoes clomping across the bare floor.
“What are you doing here?” Mrs. Adams asked, her voice sharp with suspicion.
Helen dropped her hands, holding the necklace in the folds of her gown to hide it. “N-nothing. I, um, I thought I heard a noise ….”
“A noise?” The housekeeper flicked a quick look over Helen’s shoulder. The patio and lawn beyond the French doors glowed with pearly white patches of early morning mist, undisturbed. Mrs. Adams continued, “I also thought I heard something earlier.”
“Mice, perhaps?” Helen suggested. “Perhaps a cat —”
“Cat? Miss Leigh doesn’t approve of animals.” Her brown eyes studied Helen. “What are you holding?”
Helen stiffened. “I don’t —”
“Show me.” Mrs. Adams held out her hand.
Feeling like a recalcitrant child, Helen considering denying that she held anything. However, her inconvenient conscience would not allow her to speak the words. She stared at Mrs. Adams. Why had she not remained in bed just one minute longer?
“Well?” Mrs. Adams lifted her hand a fraction, palm up.
“I, um, found this on the floor ….” She dropped the necklace into Mrs. Adams hand, watching with resignation as the housekeeper snatched it back, staring round-eyed at the rainbow glitter of emeralds, fire opals, diamonds and gold.
“Where did you find this?” The housekeeper’s disbelieving tone almost made Helen step back.
She should have run away through the French doors, never to return. Instead, she had stood like a startled rabbit, waiting for the hawk to grab her.
And the hawk had accepted the invitation.
“As I said, I heard a noise,” Helen stated, searching for a reasonable answer. “When I came down to investigate, something glittered on the floor near the French doors.” Undoubtedly, every word she uttered was true. Or almost.
The necklace had not exactly glittered in the dark.
“I see,” Mrs. Adams replied in a dry tone. “And what were you going to do with it?”
“I was going to take it to Miss Leigh, of course.”
“Of course.” If anything, Mrs. Adam’s tone was even dryer.
This time, Helen held out her hand, palm up. “So if you will return it to me, I shall do that.” Her chest felt so tight she had to make herself breathe after she spoke.
Mrs. Adams smiled a tight little smile. “We shall go up together.”
For a supposedly adult woman, Helen felt remarkably like a child in leading strings being paraded down to her mother for punishment. Her hands tingled with ice. She crossed her arms at her waist and pressed her palms against the warmth of her body. Head down and silent, she followed the housekeeper.
Mrs. Adams knocked on Miss Leigh’s door, ignoring Helen. She stood dutifully behind her, shoulders slumped, wondering if she had enough nerve to hit Mrs. Adams over the head, steal the necklace and run away.
Too late.
“What is it?” Miss Leigh called, clearly annoyed.
“It’s Mrs. Adams, Miss Leigh.”
“Well, come in!”
Pushing Helen along in front of her, Mrs. Adams followed with the necklace dangling from her hand.
“Where have you been, Helen?” Miss Leigh rubbed her face. “I have been up for at least thirty minutes and wished to dress.” She sat stiffly in a chair by her window, a rough gray wool shawl draped round her shoulders. “What are you doing here, Mrs. Adams? Has something happened?”
“No,” Helen answered hastily. She moved forward and tried not to wring her hands. “I heard a noise and went downstairs to investigate. And I, um, I found something.” She turned and glanced at Mrs. Adams. “We thought we should bring it to your attention.
”
“An intruder?” Miss Leigh stood abruptly, pulling her shawl more tightly over her thin shoulders and crossing the ends over her chest. “Did you get the footmen after him? Has anything been stolen?”
Mrs. Adams shouldered past Helen and held up the necklace. “She says she found this.”
“What is that?” Miss Leigh took the necklace and studied it before giving Helen a sharp glance. “You found this?”
“Yes, in the ballroom — near the French doors.”
“I made sure she brought it to you. It may belong to one of the guests from his lordship’s ball,” Mrs. Adams said, her tone rich with virtue. She crossed her hands over her stomach, holding her wrists before flashing a condescending glance at Helen.
“You may be right,” Miss Leigh replied. “Thank you, Mrs. Adams. You may leave now.”
After another triumphant glance at Helen, Mrs. Adams left, closing the door behind her.
“Shall I put that away for you?” Helen asked, still hoping she could somehow regain custody of the necklace.
A crafty look narrowed Miss Leigh’s eyes. “I would like hot chocolate and a roll before I dress.”
“The maid —”
“You will fetch it for me.”
Despite the sun shining through the window behind Miss Leigh, the morning suddenly turned dreary. Helen trudged downstairs. She had to get the necklace back. There had to be a way. Things were not going at all as she had hoped. It had seemed so simple in London. It had been so simple until Mrs. Adams had walked into the ballroom.
Why had it all gone so horribly wrong?
Chapter Twenty-Two
“There is seldom a lad of this description kept ….” —The Complete Servant
Edward stared at the row of boots on the table in front of him. His arms ached from rubbing blacking on the shoes, and he’d only gone through half of them. Eyeing the small pile on his left, he felt tears of frustration burn his eyes. Less than half, really. That meant Mrs. Adams kept coming in to check on his progress.