She squinted up at the early-morning sun. It shone bright and clear, promising a hot August day. If her garden continued to be blessed with the same happy combination of sun and rain that it had received for the past four weeks, there would be mature plants in no time. Heaven knew she could use the ingredients; the kitchen garden was as sparse and carelessly tended as much else at Baniard Hall seemed to be. Nothing was done with any pride in the work: only those rooms that were likely to catch Lord Ridley’s eye were properly cleaned, and the cook made do with the same tiresome cuts of meat and limited herbs night after night. The kitchen chimney smoked, and the footmen fell asleep at their posts. But why should anyone care, when the master went around with a bottle of gin in his hand and cruel insults on his lips? Mrs. Rutledge was content to sit in her office and indulge her taste for sweetmeats; the rest of the servants followed her lead in sloth and indifference.
Only Jonathan Briggs seemed to perform his duties with any sense of obligation. But since he kept all the accounts and oversaw the entire estate outside of the house servants—the tenant farms, the vast park and gardens, the stables with their dozens of horses and carriages—he was sorely pressed to ensure that Mrs. Rutledge ran the Hall with any degree of efficiency. Moreover, to add to his burdens, Ridley expected him to fill the position of personal secretary as well.
Allegra shook her head, thinking of Grey Ridley. She didn’t envy Briggs. In the month or so since she had arrived at the Hall, she had begun to wonder if there wasn’t a kind of war going on between the two men. At least on Ridley’s part. The kinder and more considerate became Briggs’s behavior toward his master, the more he was rewarded with cruel and mocking words. They were usually followed by a purse of gold, which probably was—for a man of Briggs’s honor—more insulting than the words themselves. Allegra sighed. Welladay, there was nothing she could do about it, however much it pained her to see a decent man affronted.
She was grateful, at least, that Ridley’s romantic overtures toward her had ceased after that day in the stillroom, though she still took pains to lock her room every night. With nothing but her instincts to guide her, she felt in some odd way that Ridley had come to fear her—or at least to fear giving in to his strong emotions, as he had that day. She had begun to suspect that his shallow, careless demeanor was a pose. Or perhaps a shield. Sometimes it made her curious to find the true man behind that pose.
Every night, at his bidding, she attended him in his rooms, offering the day’s distillation—one night a spicy cinnamon water, the next a mint-and-wormwood cordial or a beaker of Barbados water, rich with orange and lemon peel. He drank them in silence, ignoring her until he was ready to wave her away with a bored flick of his hand. If he liked the cordial she had prepared, he would send a penny to her the following day; if not, a farthing. She would copy the favored recipes into a little book and retire the others.
Most of Ridley’s days were spent wandering around the Hall in a haze of gin, or riding in the park if he wasn’t too unsteady to sit a horse. There had been no repetition of the wild, drunken scene that had so frightened Allegra on her first night at the Hall; for that, she was grateful. There had been no more visits from the local whores, either, which caused much comment in the servants’ hall.
During the past month, Ridley had made two more of his mysterious trips to Ludlow. Mysterious because he always returned sober, which elicited even more comment. No one, not even Verity or Barbara with their noses for gossip, seemed to know precisely where he went on those trips. Not to his usual haunts, it was agreed—the taverns, the brothels, the swordsmith, for the repair of one of his ornate blades or knives. But Ludlow was a large town, the largest in Shropshire, outside of Shrewsbury. It would be simple enough for a man to get lost there, if he chose.
“Allegra!”
At the sound of her name, uttered in a biting tone, Allegra turned. Mrs. Rutledge stood frowning at the edge of the garden, arms across her chest. Allegra curtsied uneasily. “Ma’am?”
“Do you think, because you have insinuated yourself into His Lordship’s favor and wheedled Mr. Briggs into giving you the stillroom, that you can do as you wish, Miss Malapert? Do you fancy yourself behind my desk one of these days?”
“Have I done something wrong, ma’am?” asked Allegra, bewildered by the woman’s unprovoked attack. She certainly had no wish to become housekeeper here. “Has His Lordship complained about the cordial waters?”
“Why should he?” was the sneering reply. “You tarry in his rooms every night; we have all marked it. I have no doubt you give him a little ‘sweetening’ along with his drink.”
“That’s not so!” Allegra bit back sharper words. With Ridley’s reputation, who would believe her denials?
“Spare me your protests. Your traffic with His Lordship matters not to me. You’re not the first petticoat to turn his head, nor scarcely the last, I warrant. My quarrel is with you, miss.”
“Have I been remiss in my duties, ma’am?” Surely the woman couldn’t complain of her complexion; she had scrubbed it diligently for weeks. And though by nature she would never be pale, the deep rosiness of her skin—absent its dark tan—was now softly feminine. “How have I displeased you, ma’am?” she asked.
“You went to the apothecary and the lace seller in Newton on Friday last. Did you not?”
Allegra nodded, mystified. She had made several trips to Newton, seeking supplies for her stillroom; it seemed only decent to offer to run Mrs. Rutledge’s errand this last time. The bills would have arrived from the tradesmen by now. But she had scarcely been extravagant in her purchases, buying only those rare and exotic ingredients that she couldn’t produce herself. “I thought you were pleased with the lace I bought for His Lordship’s shirts. Was it the wrong kind?”
“I most emphatically directed you to Mr. Buel’s shop, in the High Street.”
“But…if you examine the bill, ma’am, you will see that Mrs. Simpson gave me a better price. And the quality of her lace was much finer.”
The housekeeper’s eyes glowed with anger. “You were to go to Mr. Buel!”
Why was the woman making such a fuss? “To spend His Lordship’s money foolishly?” she asked with indignation. “I’m sure that wouldn’t please Mr. Briggs, who is the soul of prudence.”
The expression on Mrs. Rutledge’s face changed, the scowl giving way to a sly smile that reminded Allegra of a cat who had just crept out of a birdcage, licking its whiskers. She patted Allegra on the hand. “Come, come, girl. You’re not a fool. No need to go to Mr. Briggs. He will pay whatever the bill says. He has no wish to quarrel over pennies or disturb the master with unnecessary details. And the right tradespeople can be quite grateful for His Lordship’s custom. Merely because Mr. Briggs is too proud to ‘shoe the mule’ from time to time, it doesn’t mean that we must do without a little extra, and to spare. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Allegra felt like an innocent, blindly ignoring what any idiot would have understood. Since mules were not regularly shod, a charge for “mule shoes” was likely to be false. No doubt there was a great deal of “shoeing the mule” that went on at Baniard Hall, from Mrs. Rutledge to the cook and down to the lowliest servant sent on a purchase. But of course it was far easier to cheat in a large household than in a small one. It would have been impossible in Charles Town, even if it had occurred to Mama. Squire Pringle had doled out every shilling as though the coins were stuck to his fat fingers.
Mrs. Rutledge smiled, one conspirator to another. “Next time, see that you shop where I send you, and you’ll find a copper or two under your pillow at the end of the week.” Verity had told Allegra that the housekeeper was the first servant Ridley had hired after he had bought the Hall a year ago; Mr. Briggs had taken his position some months later. Allegra had often wondered what kept the woman servile in the face of Ridley’s insults. Willing to keep her post no matter what she endured. She certainly wasn’t cut from the same noble cloth as Mr. Briggs. Now it was coming
clear: Mrs. Rutledge intended to depart the Hall a rich woman, and not a moment before.
Well, why should she care? Allegra thought. It was Ridley’s problem, if he chose to concern himself with it. Not likely, of course. Didn’t he himself already use his money in a vile way—to buy loyalty? If he lost more through the sharp practices of his scheming servants, what was it to her? She nodded to Mrs. Rutledge. “Certainly, ma’am. As you wish.”
Mrs. Rutledge preened as she led the way back to the kitchen entrance. “With my training, I think you will serve very well. If you don’t try to rise above your station,” she added. There was a sharp edge of jealousy in her voice. “Now,” she went on more kindly, “His Lordship’s guests have been at pains to inform me of their pleasure at your skills. Lady Dorothy swears she has never tasted finer marzipan, and Lord Halford is convinced that the imperial water you gave him on Friday after his ride in the rain prevented the ague.”
“I’m pleased to serve them,” Allegra murmured. Someone had to make them feel welcome. In the two weeks since Richard Halford and his sister had been at the Hall, Lord Ridley’s behavior had become more loathsome than ever. He tormented Briggs with cruel words, and castigated the man for being unable to prevent the visit. He ignored his guests, leaving them to amuse themselves, and spent his days in his rooms, drinking and breaking into bawdy song whenever Lady Dorothy ventured past his door. He played unwilling host to his friends only at the evening meal, then invited them into his drawing room or closet for cards and insults.
Allegra felt her face growing warm with shame. It didn’t seem right that she should be a party to it—forced to be a witness to the humiliation of Ridley’s guests. But each night, after she had presented him with his cordial, she had been obliged to stand in attendance during the whole long evening. To listen in pained silence while Ridley mocked his friends, and watch him drink until he could scarcely utter a clear word.
And when they played cards, he defeated them without mercy, then jeered at them for their clumsy play. It bewildered her that they should even desire to befriend such a monster. “Lord Halford and his sister are charming people,” she said with some heat. “Why shouldn’t we treat them with honor?”
“Why not, indeed?” purred Mrs. Rutledge. “If you continue to please them as you have, the gratuities they bestow at their leaving will be the larger. For all of us.” She seemed almost to be licking her chops in anticipation of the windfall, then she sniffed in disgust. “There are precious few vails for people in service when the master is too indisposed to invite guests to call.” She waved Allegra toward the stillroom. “Well, go on with your duties. It will be warm today. I trust the cordial you plan to bring His Lordship tonight will serve to refresh him, and keep his mood civil.”
The day proved to be sweltering, the air close and humid. All afternoon the clouds had rumbled and darkened, promising a storm. By the time Allegra knocked softly at the door of Ridley’s closet that evening, she was drained and exhausted from the heat.
It seemed to have affected the guests as well. Lady Dorothy Mortimer, a pretty, willowy creature with soft brown hair and blue eyes, wandered aimlessly about the small room as though she were a helpless animal in a cage. Several times she frowned at Lord Ridley, seeming about to speak, then turned and resumed her pacing.
Her brother, Lord Richard Halford, sat across from Ridley at a small card table set in the center of the room. With each play, he slapped the cards to the table and muttered darkly. “Damme, if I have any luck tonight,” he said at last.
Ridley grinned—a sardonic smile—and helped himself to the gin at his elbow. “Richard, you could hang a dozen hare’s feet on your waistcoat and still play a vile game of all-fours.” He looked up and acknowledged Allegra with a careless nod. “But here is our fair stillroom maid with her nightly elixir. Perhaps she can improve your luck. With a smile if not with her brew. Come, fair Allegra. Smile for our guest.”
Halford fiddled with the stack of coins before him and cleared his throat. “For God’s sake, Grey, don’t behave like a drunken ass,” he muttered.
Grey roared with laughter. “Have I struck a nerve? Girl, I order you to stand very close to me tonight, so that Richard may watch you as we play. You’ll either bring him luck, or distract him to such a degree that I’ll drub him even worse than usual.”
Allegra clenched her teeth to keep from speaking out of turn. Whether or not Lord Halford had taken notice of her was no cause for Ridley to bait him. “Shall I pour the cordials all around, milord?” she asked tightly.
She served the drinks at his bidding, then stood beside him as he directed. Halford scowled and shuffled the cards furiously, taking care to avoid looking at Allegra. The game resumed; Lady Dorothy continued her pacing, stopping occasionally to pick up a carved statue of an elephant or a tiger and turn it idly in her fingers. Allegra swayed on her feet, feeling suffocated by the heat and the heavy scent of incense that lingered in the room and clung to the silken hangings. Would this dreadful evening never end?
“God’s teeth, Dolly,” growled her brother, “stop pacing. Join us for a hand.”
Lady Dorothy shook her head. “No. Forgive me, Dick. I’m too restless tonight.” Her voice was sweet and soft. She reached above the mantel and took down a knife from Ridley’s collection. It was a finely carved blade, its hilt studded with jewels. “1 remember when you came by this one in Calcutta, Grey. A gift from the Nawab of Behar, wasn’t it? But I didn’t know you had taken a fancy to collecting knives.” She indicated the wall with a graceful sweep of pale white fingers.
He stared at her, one eyebrow arching sharply into the smoothness of his broad forehead. “’Tis a new amusement of mine. In the event I should want to use one of them on myself someday.”
Brother and sister exchanged worried glances. Halford threw down his cards. “Enough of this pretense! For God’s sake, Grey, how much longer are we to act as though nothing is different? Come back to London, I pray you. Open Morgan House again. I still remember the happy times we had there. Before you and Ruth…” He stopped abruptly when his sister put a silencing finger to her lips.
Ridley reached for his glass of gin and drained it at a gulp. When he spoke at last, his voice was filled with dark pain. “That was a long time ago. In another life.” He forced a laugh and shrugged. “Besides, I like Baniard Hall. The solitude. ’Tis why I bought it.”
“Is it solitude you seek? Or escape?”
Lady Dorothy clasped her hands in supplication. “Tell us what happened, Grey. It can’t be true, what they’re saying in London.”
Grey’s eyes were half closed in seeming boredom. “Why not?” He shook his head. “Poor Dolly. You always try to see the best in everyone. I remember that Peter used to tease his soft-hearted wife. And I would defend you. But he was right, I think.”
Lady Dorothy buried her face in her hands. “Far better that he died of the fever last year. It would break his heart to see you today.”
Grey sighed in disgust. “Christ’s blood. Don’t weep for me, Dolly. You’re not a fifteen-year-old anymore, smitten with a brash soldier of twenty-three.”
She looked up, her face streaming with tears. “I thought of you as my dear, brave brother.”
“Then you were a fool,” he sneered.
Dolly paled at his cruel words. She gulped, brushed at her tears and took a steadying breath. “I’m very tired. If you will excuse me. Grey…Dick…” She turned and fled the room.
Halford jumped to his feet, smashed his glass to the floor and glared at Ridley. “Damn it, what the devil happened to you, Grey? Your drinking, your insults…Don’t you know this is killing Dolly?”
Grey stretched and eased himself lazily from his chair. He ambled to the window, opened the sandalwood shutter, and stared out at the dark night. Thunder rumbled in the distance. “Are you unhappy here, Dick? Then go. Take Dolly and go. You aren’t here at my bidding, God knows. I could understand it, when you came in March. You were on your way home
from India. It was only civil of you to stop on your way.”
“Civil?” Halford’s voice was heavy with reproach. “We came to offer our sympathy. Because of Ruth.”
“And now? Is there more to add?” Ridley drawled. Even with his back to them, Allegra could imagine the cold gleam of his amber eyes.
Halford moved toward Grey and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “The stories we heard in London, Grey…”
Ridley shook off his hand and turned, snarling. “They are none of your affair! Go home to Coventry and enjoy your country house. And leave me in peace!”
Halford’s face twisted in despair. “Grey, I beg you. Speak to me. We were friends for years. You and I and Peter Mortimer. How can you cast aside those years?”
Allegra struggled to draw a breath, her head spinning. She was beginning to feel faint. She didn’t know whether it was from the oppressive heat, or from standing motionless for so long, or from the anguish of being privy to a discourse she had no right to hear. “Please, milord,” she whispered, “may I go?” She took a step toward the door, faltered, and would have fallen. But Halford reached her and supported her within the circle of his arms.
“Thank you, milord,” she said, struggling to regain her balance. She stared into his face. His eyes were as blue as his sister’s, and soft with concern. He seemed unwilling to release her.
Behind them, Grey laughed. “So that’s how it is? I warn you, Richard. If you want her, you had best take care. The wench is a tartar.”
At the mocking words, Halford stepped back from Allegra and drew himself up, all aristocratic pride. “Go to your room, girl,” he said gently. “’Tis late. You must be tired. As for you, Grey…” he bowed stiffly in Ridley’s direction, “I leave you to your gin, since you’ve become so fond of it. I shall seek my own bed, and pray not to dream of a past that is dead.”
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