by Amy Corwin
He was never going to finish, and Mrs. Adams was never going to let him go.
This was not at all what he had had in mind when he ran away from his aunts, although from what the old witches had said, this was probably preferable to what he would have suffered at the hands of the earl, if they’d had their say in the matter.
He giggled and spat on the worn pair of shoes which belonged to Mr. Symes. He rubbed them with his cloth and whistled — or tried to. A secret, thrilling feeling of satisfaction quivered through him. The aunts would never think of looking for him, here. Never. They had intended to send him here and here he was, and yet they knew nothing about it. Not even the earl, who supposedly knew everything, had the least notion that Edward was here. He grinned, bending over his work. The earl would never realize that his missing nephew was actually at Ormsby, right under his nose, living in the lion’s den.
No tutors, no Latin, no mathematics and no canings. It would have been perfect except for the blasted — no, bloody — shoes cluttering the low table in front of him.
He did not much care for being a servant and worse, he had not seen Miss Archer since they arrived. He had not seen much of the inquiry agent, Mr. Caswell, either, even though they shared the same bedroom. Mr. Caswell seemed to stay up all night, or at least he went to bed long after Edward. And he got up well before Edward did, too. So he left the boy to be ordered about by Mrs. Adams, who seemed to hate young men in general and Edward in particular.
She delighted in giving him the most stupid and dullest jobs, such as cleaning these nasty-smelling shoes. As if he could make them look new again. He spat on a dry spot of leather and dipped his rag in a tin of blacking, rubbing it into Mr. Symes’ left shoe.
Why did the butler not just buy new ones? These would never look good again, no matter how much Edward polished them. The heels were worn down, and he could rub till his fingers fell off and still not completely cover the worn spots on the sides and toe. They were just plain worn out.
Throwing the completed shoe into the pile on his left, he studied the ones still awaiting his attention, absently picking at the black under his nails.
It would serve them all right if his fingers rotted and fell off completely. Maybe that was why they had given him this task: the last boy’s hands had been eaten away by the blacking, and now he had to beg for a living, hoping someone would take pity on a boy with stumps instead of hands.
He was probably starving, too.
That was not going to happen to Edward. He was not going to remain here as their servant. Oh no, not him. It had been disconcerting, certainly, to be dragged away from London just when he had got so tantalizingly close to his goal of paying his respects to Admiral Nelson’s grave and then joining the Navy. But he could not seem to figure his way out of the coil. Now, he was miles further away than before.
However, he knew Ormsby was not that far from several ports. They were not as popular as London’s busy river, and he might not be able to sign on as a cabin boy with the Navy as soon as he intended, but he could certainly find some likely merchant coming into the Bristol Channel.
Any captain would be bound to need a handy lad like Edward.
Once he went to sea, he knew he could eventually join the Navy. They would be eager to have him and experience on a merchant vessel might even help.
So as soon as he could slip away, he would make his way to Newport or Cardiff. From there, the rest of the world awaited him. The Far East, Spain, Africa ….
What was it that his aunts had said about the earl? Oh, yes, the world was his oyster. Well, the world was Edward’s oyster now. He just had to get away from the women who kept trying to hold him back.
Grabbing a woman’s shoe, he thought wistfully about Miss Archer. She had such nice, sparkly eyes. He certainly loved to hear her laugh. Maybe not all women were so bad, after all. And when he got older, he would be like the other sailors and have one in each port; blonde ladies with a laugh and blue eyes just like hers. They would be breathless to see him swagger in with a fistful of Far Eastern pearls dribbling from his fingers and telling stories about sea monsters and the wild ocean.
That was the life for him ….
“Well, Ned, have you finished those shoes?” Mrs. Adams asked. “It’s nearly time for dinner.”
He glanced up to see her frowning, the skin stretched so tightly over her face that it looked like a linen mask. “I’ve done nearly half —”
“Half! That’s all? You will have to do better than that, young man. Well, when you finish — if you finish in time — you may come down to the servants’ hall for your dinner.”
“Yes, Mrs. Adams.”
Her sharp brown eyes roamed over the pile of polished shoes and his stained fingers. “I’ll bring you a bun and cup of milk in the meantime.”
Mouth hanging open, he stared at her, but before he could say a word, she turned on her heel and marched out. He could have sworn there was a smile on her face.
No, he must have been mistaken.
He had a great deal of experience with ladies like her. Those experiences had not led him to expect smiles. She was only teasing him, reminding him of food so that his stomach would growl and he would be as uncomfortable as possible, knowing that others ate while he sat here starving, with shoe-blacking eating his fingers off.
Well, they would be sorry. He would run away again. It wasn’t so hard. He had done it once, already. And this time, he would watch out for the pretty ladies.
Then, when he was a famous Admiral, they would be really sorry.
Very, very sorry, indeed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Judge of your employers from your own observation ….” —The Complete Servant
The following day, Hugh met Gaunt in the garden as was their arrangement. Their charades were already wearing thin. Hugh wanted it to end, but more than that, he wanted to know who had wanted him dead.
“I’m sorry, Lord Castle,” Gaunt said. “Your brother’s body was discovered this morning on the beach, along with more wreckage from the Twilight —”
“There is no doubt? It is Lionel?” Hugh interrupted, his voice harsh. His hand twitched, again feeling the pull of Lionel’s weight under the crushing waves and the shameful relief when he had lost his grip and buoyed to the surface, gasping for air.
Had he been dead or just unconscious? If I had not let go ….
“No, I’m sorry. They were able to identify Lionel from a pocket watch inscribed to him.”
Hugh nodded once. He had given it to him on his twenty-first birthday.
“There was enough debris from your boat to identify it; the men who found it knew it was your vessel. I have had the wreckage locked away,” Gaunt continued. “You were right, there was definite evidence of tampering. Part of the mast appears to have been partially sawn through. The clean edge was visible. And they found the rudder where you indicated. It showed the same evidence.”
“Did the men who found the wreckage realize what had happened?”
“Yes. The men along the coast are seasoned sailors. They know the difference between a broken mast and deliberate sabotage. I should warn you, some spoke of deliberate scuttling.”
“What? Why would I do such a thing?”
“Debts …?” Gaunt shrugged. “But they were in the minority and no one took the suggestion seriously. How do you wish to proceed?”
“We will have to acknowledge my brother’s death and arrange for his funeral.” Hugh scratched his chin. The bristles itched, and he wished he could shave and get his life back in order. But it was too late for that now. His life would never be the same without Lionel.
“Whoever did this may become agitated when he learns about your brother. Be on your guard.”
“I will. But for now, I would like to continue and at least pretend we believe it was a tragic accident.”
“And you? What about your fate? There’s bound to be speculation.”
“I’m still missing. Presume
d dead in the same accident.”
Gaunt studied him for a moment and then glanced intently down at one hand as if suddenly noticing a hangnail. “I apologize for bringing this up, but we do need to discuss possible reasons for this. Have you discovered anything?”
“Who hates me? Certainly the person who tried to kill me.”
“Have you angered anyone?”
“My butler insinuated that I do not listen as well as I ought to — if that is of any use to you.”
Gaunt studied him and then asked, “Your cousins, Lord Ashley and his wife, are still in residence at Ormsby, are they not?”
“Yes. What of it? They came for the ball. I find it hard to believe Richard would be dabbling in murder and certainly not by sabotaging the Twilight. He’s not much of a sailor.”
“He wouldn’t have to be. And he would benefit from your death.”
“Only if — well, yes. He would only benefit if both Lionel and I died.”
“Which could have happened.”
“He could not have known that Lionel was with me. Richard has no expectations of inheriting the earldom, not with both Lionel and me in the way. In fact, he had every expectation that I would announce my engagement at the ball.”
“Perhaps when that engagement did not materialize, he seized the opportunity to ensure you did not find another bride and produce an heir.”
“No.” Hugh laughed. The thought was absurd. “Richard is too ….” Complacent? Was that the best description? Perhaps lacking in any ambition except the pursuit of his own comfort was the most accurate, but he could hardly say that. “No. He just wouldn’t.”
Despite his belief in his cousin, Gaunt’s words made Hugh feel cold and tired. He was making no headway, except perhaps in organizing the household accounts and paying a few tradesmen who had been waiting, not so patiently, for reimbursement.
“Then who would? Someone attempted it.”
“You don’t have to remind me. Do you have any other news? Information?”
“Yes. A stranger in a blue coat was seen at the docks, the night before you took the Twilight out. He was near your boat. It is possible that this man tampered with it.”
“Who was he?”
“No one recognized him. Is there anyone who might have had a reason to check on your boat?”
“No.” A man in a blue coat? It could be anyone, even an innocent fisherman on his way home. Hugh scratched his chin again, his muscles aching with tiredness.
“Are you sure? Who else was at the ball?”
“Hundreds — I gave you the list the last time you came.”
“Who remained at Ormsby?” Gaunt glanced away, his face impassive. Hugh was beginning to realize that his emotionless expression meant the inquiry agent was aware he had asked an uncomfortable question.
He obviously thought the murderer would remain to be sure of his handiwork.
He had to be wrong.
“My cousin, Mr. Stonebridge, Lord and Lady Hereford, Lady Warder and her daughter … a few others.”
“Did you argue with any of them?”
“Not that I recall. If you think someone tried to kill me because of an argument, then it could be anyone on the guest list — or living in the neighborhood for that matter.”
“Do you make it a habit to argue with everyone?”
“No.” Hugh chuckled, though not with amusement. “But I’ve been told I have an odd sense of humor. Who knows what someone may have taken the wrong way?”
“I see.” Gaunt’s face became even more unreadable. “What about your ex-fiancée?”
“What about her?”
“It’s possible …?”
“Why would Miss Peyton, or her lover, Lord Greeley, try to kill me? They certainly cannot claim I stood in their way. If anything, I should have killed them, but frankly, it was a relief to see the last of them.”
“And maybe that is at the root of it, my lord.”
“No one has ever been murdered for being a bloody bore. You’ll have to find another reason, Mr. Gaunt. Keep looking.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Endeavour to serve with such good will ….” —The Complete Servant
Getting up before the sun rose, Helen dressed hurriedly in the light from a sputtering, rank-smelling tallow candle. She cast worried glances into Miss Leigh’s room, hoping the older lady would keep to the schedule she had set over the last few days. She rose precisely at seven and kept Helen busy for the rest of the day.
Now was her only chance.
It was difficult to judge time in the dark closet where she slept, but these days she rested so poorly that it was not much of a challenge to rise well before the sun.
The mice scrabbling beneath the floorboards made more noise than Helen as she crept through the door, holding her hand in front of the guttering flame. The smell of the cheap candle followed her. Miss Leigh snorted in her sleep. Her thin nose twitched. Poised on tiptoe, Helen stopped, her gaze flicking between Miss Leigh and the chest of drawers where she suspected her employer had hidden the necklace. She held her breath, trying to keep the candle from shaking in her hand.
Miss Leigh rolled over and went back to sleep with a heavy sigh.
This adventure was not turning out at all well. Helen put down the candle and absently touched her bruised cheek with one cool hand before she quietly opened the top drawer. Despite her tension, her thoughts wandered, filling with doubts.
Could she truly bring this adventure to a successful conclusion? It took élan and boldness, two qualities she knew she lacked.
However, something in Mr. Caswell’s eyes had encouraged her to try and so here she was, hoping she wouldn’t disappoint him. Not that she was concerned about disappointing him, she hurriedly corrected herself.
She sagged against the chest and pushed a few handkerchiefs around. What was wrong with her? She had been completely resistant to – if not completely repelled by — the few peers who had glanced her way. But her family counted on her to marry well. At least they had, before Oriana had married Lord Dacy. That happy occurrence did not free Helen, however, to marry someone beneath her, and there was no doubt that an inquiry agent was very much beneath her.
Not that she was considering anything of the sort, even if he were to ask her, which he undoubtedly would not.
The bed creaked.
“Helen?” Miss Leigh sat up. “What are you doing?”
Helen turned, leaning back against the open drawer to shut it with her back. “I was off to fetch your hot chocolate, Miss Leigh.” Then she noticed a length of lace had caught on one of her jagged nails. She hastily balled it in her fist.
“What do you have there? Is that not my lace?”
“Well, yes,” Helen said, feeling exhausted. “I was just going to wash it — after I get your chocolate.” Or toss it in the midden pile. Miss Eloise would be much better off if all her lace were burned.
“I don’t care for chocolate this morning. It is too early.” Miss Leigh pulled the covers over her shoulders. “Wash my lace. I will expect it to be ready when I wish to dress.”
“Yes, Miss Leigh.” Under no circumstances would Helen allow Miss Leigh to wear those pathetic scraps of lace.
Some women looked better in plain, well-cut clothing and Eloise Leigh was one of them.
No matter. Helen was determined to refurbish her employer’s wardrobe. Then maybe she would see the glances Mr. Symes cast toward her when he thought she was not looking.
But that would never work. Miss Eloise Leigh was related to an Earl. She was far above Mr. Symes, just as Helen was above Mr. Caswell. One could not marry outside one’s class without a great deal of weeping, wailing and disinheriting.
Where would England be if everyone just married higgledy-piggledy without thought to class and background?
But would it not be nice if one could forget appearances and class distinctions? If Helen’s admittedly poor hairstyle and even worse clothing did not matter? If Mr. Caswell would see
her inner worth — if she had any — instead of her plain, insipid exterior?
Of course, he might consider her interior just as insipid as her exterior, considering the mess she was making of things.
She re-opened the drawer and dutifully collected the pile of dingy, stained lace as well as a few of Miss Leigh's dirty handkerchiefs. She made her way down to the small room off the kitchen, sure she would be the only one awake. The servants used the room for various cleaning tasks and the long, rough wooden table would serve her well. She could spread out the delicate lace to dry and mend any tears. Perhaps she could salvage some to appease Miss Leigh.
On her way through the kitchen, she was surprised to find the cook already at work. Helen grabbed a porcelain basin, a small ball of blueing, a chunk of soap and a bucket to fetch water from the well.
“Your brother's in there, peeling potatoes,” the cook commented, not even looking up as she prodded a few sausages crackling in a pan on the stove.
Helen smiled. “You are keeping him busy, then?”
“He finished up them shoes yesterday. This morning, it was a choice between the stables and peeling.” The cook laughed sharply. “Wise lad.”
“Ned was always bright. Thank you for keeping him from idleness.”
“No trouble.”
After a quick trip to the well, Helen returned to the work room to find Ned scowling at a tub of potatoes. At the sound of her footstep, he stood up, sending a shower of peelings onto the wooden floor.
“Miss — uh, Helen, what are you doing here?” He darted over and took the bucket of water out of her hand as if he thought it was too heavy. A wave of cold water splashed over the edge, drenching her skirt. “Oh, I'm sorry, Miss — that is, Helen.” He glanced over her shoulder at the door, for fear someone may have heard him stumbling over her name.
Helen laughed and pulled her skirt away from her leg, giving it a small shake. “I'm doing a bit of fine laundry,” she replied gaily, showing him her bundle. “And I hope you are almost finished with those potatoes. Cook is sure to have a pot boiling in anticipation.”