“Indeed, Anton,” Eglantyne said, equally shocked. “Tomorrow will be soon enough to discuss, er, business.”
The color that had slowly been ebbing from Anton’s puckish face returned with renewed vibrancy. “Of course! Inexcusable of me. Merry!” he shouted before remembering Merry’s problem with titled persons. “Drat! Grace!”
Within seconds a tall, buxom, middle-aged woman with suspiciously black hair appeared in the doorway wiping big, square hands on an apron tied about her narrow waist. “Aye?”
“This is our housekeeper and cook, Grace Poole.”
Grace bobbed a quick curtsy. “Pleased I am to meet you, Lady Agatha.”
“Where’s Cabot?” Anton asked.
Grace’s expression soured. “Labeling the bottles in the wine cellar, sir.” She turned to Letty. “I suspect you wants to know what’s been done in preparation. Well, your man from London’s been up last week, mum, and between us and the instructions you give, we managed to make a neat bit of work.”
Letty’s face froze. Lady Agatha had a man who worked for her here? Damn. She barely kept herself from looking around. She had to get out of here before this bloke appeared.
“Grace, please,” Anton said severely. “Lady Agatha is exhausted from her trip. Kindly show her to her rooms.”
“Of course. If you’ll follow me, Lady Agatha?”
“Yes, thank you,” murmured Letty. “I am fatigued.”
“Of course,” Eglantyne said, smiling. “We won’t expect you this evening. We’ll have a tray sent up and see you in the morning.”
Not if she was hotfooting it to the coast they wouldn’t. “First thing,” she promised brightly and turned to the housekeeper. “If we might?”
Grace led the way out of the room, Letty falling into step behind the housekeeper. Her glance kept snapping to and fro, fully expecting Lady Agatha’s man to appear at any moment and denounce her.
The saints deliver her, she could get caught.
The frisson of fear that had been born with the revelation of Sir Elliot’s position as magistrate grew. If she was lucky, her rooms would be on the first floor and she could duck out of a window as soon as it was dark. But then, hard on the heels of fear, came an imp of devilment. If she had to, how long could she avoid Lady Agatha’s man? She bet she could…
That, m’girl, she told herself curtly, will be your downfall, this notion that life is all a grand game pitting you against your “betters.”
One of the reasons she’d become involved in Nick’s swindles had been because, besides feathering her rather underdressed little nest, it gave her a chance to thumb her nose at Polite Society. She’d never wasted her sympathy on Nick’s gulls. She’d seen where they spent their money. They didn’t have enough ways to waste it. Horses, fighting cocks, the dog pits, opium, women…the list didn’t have an end as far as Letty could see.
Nah, a few bob donated to the Letty Potts fund didn’t hurt them any. But then Nick had grown greedy and cruel and the word “gull” had been replaced in Letty’s mind with the word “victim.” There was some that might say that Letty Potts was hard-hearted, and some who’d say she was an opportunist, and maybe both would be right, but she had standards. And while she was a right good confidence trickster, and a more than fair music hall performer, she wasn’t a common criminal. There was no sport in taking from those that couldn’t afford it.
Like these Bigglesworths. Oh, they may well be able to financially afford a run-in with Letty Potts, but they’d still be hurt. They didn’t know any better; they’d stumbled into her life just as she’d stumbled into theirs. It wasn’t their fault. And that’s what made the difference.
Or seemed to, Letty cautioned herself. But then, Lady Fallontrue could seem every bit as kindly and ingenuous, if you didn’t happen to be living in her house and your mother didn’t happen to be blackmailing her into letting you sit in on the lessons the governess gave the Fallontrue daughters. With that grim reminder, Letty pulled her thoughts away from the moral implications of what she did to more practical matters.
As bad luck would have it, Grace led Letty up a curved flight of stairs and down a long hallway. So much for her window escape…unless there was a tree. She’d worked a tightrope act one season, been good at it, too, until the upper part of her anatomy had gotten more interesting than her act and her stepdad, Alf, had retired her from the routine.
Midway down the corridor, Grace Poole opened a door. Fagin casually pushed by them and sauntered into the room. He took one look at the four-poster bed piled with pristine white linen and launched himself into the center of it, where he promptly flopped down and began snoring. Apparently, Fagin, son of the bards that he was, was intent on immersing himself in the role of “Lambikins,” pampered lapdog par excellence.
Letty looked about. The room was huge and airy, the walls painted white, the upholstered furniture butter-yellow. A huge wardrobe stood against one wall, while on the opposite wall a pair of primrose yellow-and-blue-striped chairs flanked a marble fireplace. Tall windows overlooked the back vista, an elegant dressing table between them. And even with all this furniture there was still room for a divan, a piecrust table, and all that luggage.
There were at least three trunks and half a dozen sizeable pieces of leather luggage standing in a regimental line along the wall. With an effort, Letty kept her eyes carefully averted. She might start drooling.
“The bathroom’s through that door. There’s towels hanging inside.” Grace pushed a little button on the wall. The chandelier overhead burst into light. Letty blinked in the sudden brilliance.
“Mr. Bigglesworth is most progressive. We got electrical from our own generator and have had for ten years now,” Grace said proudly. “And, of course, there’s hot and cold running water. Though why I should say ‘of course’ is a mystery. Not every fine house in Little Bidewell can boast that.”
Grace liked to talk. God bless her. Now for a bit of fact-gathering.
Letty turned, her smile in place. As much as she wanted to tear into that luggage, she couldn’t let such an opportunity pass. Information was always valuable, especially in her present circumstances. “And are there so many fine houses in Little Bidewell?”
Grace nodded. “Oh, a few. There’s Professor March’s house what is all modernized, and Lord Paul’s, too. The Grange is lovely from the outside, but a bit shabby inside, to my mind. And Squire Himplerump’s next door is rather grand. Though no electrical. I’ll warrant the marquis’ house ain’t any better lit.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Letty said, unbuttoning her lavender-dyed kid gloves. “You must be very excited about the wedding.”
“Oh, yes,” breathed Grace. “It’s like something in fairy tales now, isn’t it?”
“Is it? How so?” Letty asked invitingly.
“Well,” the housekeeper said, settling her arms comfortably across her middle, “last year Miss Angela is invited by one of her former school chums—she went to a very fine finishing school, you know—to go on vacation with her and her family to one of those lakeside hotels in Cumbria. The second morning there she goes down to the pier to fish, and while she’s there a very nice-looking young bloke joins her.
“However, it soon becomes clear that he don’t know one end of the hook from another, and Miss Angela, who is the soul of kindness, offers to bait his hook for him. He accepts and introduces himself as plain old Hugh Sheffield—never mentioning as how he is a marquis.
“As will happen, one thing leads to another and the young people get to know each other and gets fond of each other,” Grace’s dark eyes glanced up quickly, “in a purely innocent sort of way.”
Where a healthy boy and girl are concerned, innocence seldom enters the picture, let alone pure innocence, Letty thought, but only said, “How romantic!”
“It gets even better,” Grace replied. “At the end of the month the marquis—who Miss Angela still don’t know is a marquis—leaves, and Miss Angela comes home and mopes aroun
d until another friend of hers from school—a friend what’s family is well up in Society—invites her to London for the Season.
“And Miss Eglantyne, thinking that a spot of gaiety might be just the thing to lift Miss Angela out of the doldrums, packs her off. And guess what?”
“She meets Prince Charming again? Or rather Marquis Marvelous,” Letty said.
Grace nodded vigorously. “Yes, and he tells her that he’s been looking for her all about town and had begun to think that she was just like Cinderella, and that some wicked stepmother was keeping her in the scullery, washing vegetable marrows, and that he was going to search for her door to door only he hadn’t even the clue of a glass slipper to guide him by. Ain’t that just lovely?” Grace sighed.
“Couldn’t he have contacted the hotel and asked for her address?” Letty asked. “Hotels always ask for forwarding addresses in case something gets left behind. A marquis certainly would know that.”
Grace scowled, opened her mouth, shut it, scowled harder. “I suspect he wasn’t thinking very clearly, bein’ so madly in love and all,” she said in a hard, brook-no-argument voice.
Oops, Letty thought. Now she’d done it. Romantics hated being hit square between the eyes with logic.
“Undoubtedly you are right,” she said soothingly. The deep furrows between Grace’s brows relaxed. “And that is a pretty story. I suppose it was only a matter of weeks after their meeting in London that the marquis revealed himself as the heir to a wondrous fortune and begged Miss Angela to be his bride.”
“That’s right!” Grace said, delighted.
“And I imagine Miss Angela at first said, ‘No!’ thinking herself by far his social inferior?”
“Why, yes!” Grace intoned, clearly impressed.
“But he squelched her fears, finally convincing her that he would never be complete without her!” she finished dramatically.
“Exactly!” Grace said wonderingly. “How’d you know?”
Because three quarters of London’s Gaiety Theatre operettas were fashioned on those exact same lines, and she’d seen every one. Even been in the chorus of a couple.
She smiled wisely for Grace’s benefit, but inside she couldn’t help but feel a bit gratified that real life actually sometimes worked out like that. It gave her a bit of hope.
Of course, if any bloke with a title and pockets full of gold asked for her hand, he wouldn’t need to be asking twice. She wasn’t a fool.
“I’ve seen much in my career,” she said enigmatically and let it go at that as she began unpinning her hat.
“I heard how you haven’t got a maid,” Grace said. “So, I’ll just send a girl up to help you—”
“No!” Letty swept her hat from her head and tossed it next to Fagin. Which one of these pieces of luggage contained Lady Agatha’s clothing? “I’m not exactly sure what’s where. That’s one of the reasons I gave my maid the sack—I mean, terminated her employment. She didn’t keep things straight.”
“Oh.”
“I daresay I’ll deal well enough on my own this once. You mentioned the man I sent?” Letty hurriedly tried to channel the conversation to safer ground.
“The caterer? Nice enough fer a foreigner. Seemed to know his business and all. Left a lot of notes for you.”
“Left? You mean he’s not here?”
“Mr. Beauford went back to London three days ago,” Grace said in puzzlement. “You didn’t know, mum? Well, that’s help for you.”
Gratitude nearly brought Letty to her knees. Mr. Beauford was a caterer! Then, her relief fading, she said, “I suppose he’ll be back soon?”
“Three days before the wedding to prepare the food and his staff. Just like usual, he said.”
“And so it is,” Letty said happily, patting the older woman’s arm. She was safe for the time being. No need to hurry off. She could have a tray of food, sleep on a feather mattress, and tomorrow she could search through Lady Agatha’s trunks.
A clean escape depended on the Bigglesworths thinking that Lady Agatha had run out on them, taking some of her things with her. She had to be careful that even after she left, they still thought she was Lady Agatha. She disliked the idea of Sir Elliot on her trail even more than Nick Sparkle.
“Grace,” she said, “as you are the most senior member of the staff here at The Hollies—”
“Not me, mum. That’d be Cabot.”
“Cabot?”
“The butler. Miss Eglantyne imported him from London as soon as Miss Angela got herself engaged last year. Give the family panache, she said.”
“Oh. How nice.”
“Some say,” the housekeeper returned primly. “But I thinks a true gentleman don’t need panache. Like Sir Elliot. You won’t see him bringing in some hoity-toity butler to tell him how to dress or what wine to drink.”
Letty, in the act of wandering about the room tallying the net worth of various bits of expensive bric-a-brac, stopped like a hound on point. “Sir Elliot.”
Grace nodded. “A true gentleman.”
“Indeed.” She affected nonchalance, sauntering over to the bed and picking up her hat. She fussed with a spray of lilacs. It only made sense to learn what she could about the local magistrate. “Sir Elliot does, indeed, seem most agreeable.”
“Oh, he is that,” Grace answered enthusiastically. “Lest you stand before him in court. I hear he can flay a man to honesty using just his words and his wit.”
And where had he sharpened those wits? Letty thought sardonically. By trading barbs with the local poacher? “He’s most agreeable to look at, too.”
“Oh, my, yes! And even more so now than when he was young.” Grace leaned forward and whispered, “He’s grown into it.”
“Into it?”
“The nose.”
“Ah! I see. Yes, I suspect so grand a feature would overwhelm a young, callow face, though Sir Elliot hardly seems the sort to have ever been callow.” She let her words trail off into a question.
“Never,” Grace said. “Always been the first to answer duty’s call. Never seen him shirk a responsibility, nor shun an issue what needs addressing.”
“Damn.”
“Mum?”
“Damp.” Letty said, lifting up one of Fagin’s limp forelegs. “His paws are damp. I’m afraid he’s marked up the coverlet. Now what were we talking about? Ah, yes. Sir Elliot March. I confess,” her eyes grew innocently round, “I find it amazing that such a paragon has escaped the matrimonial nets that must be cast his way.”
“That’s a fact. The ladies do go on somethin’ about Sir Elliot. Not that any stands a chance of, er, nettin’ him.”
“No?”
Grace pulled a long face and shook her head.
“And why is that?”
“It’s his heart, mum,” the housekeeper sighed. “It’s been broken lo these many years and ain’t no one been able to mend it.”
“Who broke it?” Letty asked.
“Catherine Bunting.”
“That charming blond bloke’s pasty-skinned wife?”
Grace choked and Letty clapped her on the back. After a minute she regained her breath and continued. “That’s the one, mum. Before Sir Elliot went off to foreign parts to fight fer Her Majesty, he and Mrs. Bunting, what was then Miss Catherine Meadows, had a sort of understanding.”
“They were engaged?”
Grace shifted uneasily on her feet. “Well, practically. At least everyone expected them to get married, but then Sir Elliot come back from those heathen climes as thin as a reed and white as chalk. That’s where his limp comes from, you know. War wound.”
What limp?
“But then, afore we know it, Catherine Meadows is engaged to Sir Elliot’s best friend, Lord Paul, and Sir Elliot is standing up for him at the wedding. But he’d changed, you see. He went off a lighthearted rascal and come back a harder man.” She sniffed, glanced sidelong at Letty, and said, “Not to say a word against Catherine Bunting.”
Letty could have fo
und plenty to say, but managed to hold her tongue. Poor Sir Elliot. How must he have felt, a war hero returned to find his sweetheart had left him for his best friend? Though how any woman could prefer Paul Bunting to Sir Elliot March was a mystery.
“A regular saint, she is,” Grace’s voice cut across Letty’s thoughts. “Tends to the poor, visits the sick, organizes the annual church bazaar, and provides the altar flowers. If only she’d see straight on women’s suffrage…” Grace shrugged.
“Hm,” Letty said noncommittally.
A few minutes later Grace left and Letty, feeling vaguely dissatisfied and unable to pinpoint the reason why, decided to have a look-see around the outside of the house. It always paid to know the quickest way out of a place and, as the Bigglesworths would be dining, now was as good a time as any.
She opened the door and peered outside. Seeing no one about, she slipped into the hall and retraced her earlier steps. Someone, she thought, should teach Sir Elliot a fundamental rule of the heart; there was no sense in crying over spilt milk. Especially since once spilt it spoiled.
She stopped. Why was she thinking about him? She should be applauding herself on her impersonation of Lady Agatha, or thinking about the best way to go once she left Little Bidewell, not imagining ways to rekindle passion in the man most dangerous to her. A man who would have her in jail if he even suspected what she was about to do.
She started walking again.
But, try as she might, her imagination would not shut up.
Chapter 5
An enigmatic smile is worth ten pages of dialogue.
“Guess where I been?” Grace collapsed against the door in the servant’s hall, her hands clasped over her heart.
“Where?” asked Merry, pausing with her tea half raised to her lips. The other servants seated about the table waited.
“I been bein’ chatted up by none other than Lady Agatha Whyte herself, that’s where I been.”
“Never!”
“True.” Grace pointed to the steaming pot of tea. Immediately Merry poured her out a cup and set it at the housekeeper’s place at the head of the table. At the other end of the table Cabot, the butler, attempted to look uninterested. Grace wasn’t having any of it.
The Bridal Season Page 4