The Viscount's Vendetta

by Kathy L Wheeler

  Her tiny arms crossed her chest and her chin jutted out. “I ain’t takin’ no bath. That’s dangrous.”

  Maeve smiled. “Did you mean dangerous?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I suppose you don’t have to take a bath. It will certainly save me the cost of a new dress.”

  “New dress?”

  Maeve stood up. “It’s nothing, dear. You would like something to eat though?”

  Her nod was slower. “New dress?”

  Maeve bit back her smile. “I’m afraid you will have to be clean to receive a new dress. But we shan’t worry about a frock at this time.”

  “But…”

  “Yes?”

  “Can I gets a pink ’un?”

  “A pink what, dear?”

  “Dress. I wants a pink ‘un.”

  “We shall see what we can do. Now. Come along. We don’t wish to see Mr. Jervis return, do we?” Maeve held out her gloved hand. Where one tiny, grimy hand latched on.

  Blast. She’d sent the carriage away. She glanced about for a hack, and her eyes settled on Lorelei’s carriage. Her footman, Andrews, was watching her. Good heavens, he’d witnessed the entire exchange. The news was sure to get back to Harlowe.

  Andrews hopped down from the box and held the door. “I’ll run you home, Lady Alymer. When I return, I’ll apprise Ladies Kimpton and Brockway of your need to deal with an unexpected matter.”

  “That sounds an ideal solution, Andrews. My thanks.”

  He held out his gloved hand to Penny. Eyes wide, she took it and let him assist her up the steps, but she was so tiny, he finally lifted her from the waist and set her inside. Maeve followed and drew the curtains, in the event Mr. Jervis was watching.

  There were no further incidents on their ride to Cavendish Square. Maeve and Penny descended from Lorelei’s carriage. She turned back to Andrews. “Please inform Lady Brockway I have need for a pink frock close to that of Lady Cecilia’s size”—she frowned—“perhaps a tad smaller, Andrews. And… thank you.”

  He inclined his head and climbed up onto the box.

  Once she and Penny reached the portico and McCaskle opened the door, Andrews lifted a hand and set off.

  “Lady Alymer?” Her new Scottish butler looked surprised to see her. As he should.

  Maeve and Penny stepped over the threshold. “Have Agnes draw a bath in my sitting room. We have a guest. Penny, this is McCaskle.” Maeve gave a snooty sniff. “He’s new. Come along, dear.” She and Penny started up the stairs, but Maeve stopped. “McCaskle, send up some hot meat pies and a biscuit or two.” She went up another few steps. “Oh, and a glass of milk.”

  “Will do, madam.”

  She’d reached the balcony when the unfamiliar, feminine voice reached her. Maeve looked over the rail. A large woman with frayed, graying hair stood wiping her hands on her bright, starched apron. Unease curled through Maeve. “Who are you?”

  “Ina, milady.”

  “I see. And just what is your position in my household, Ina?”

  “The housekeeper, milady.”

  Another round of outrage simmered, but with Penny clutching her hand, Maeve tamped it back. “Send tea as well,” she snapped. “With brandy.”

  Steven and Mary and Niall trudged in carrying buckets of steaming water. Niall poured them in the copper tub. There was something different about Mary and Steven. Maeve stared at them as they moved to the door—

  She took up the bottle of rose scent and poured a few droplets in the water. The room bloomed with the scent when the difference hit her. “You’ve new clothes,” she blurted out.

  “They came a few days ago,” Mary said, beaming.

  Another Harlowe deed. One she had no intention of berating him over. “Come here,” she said. “Turn around. Slowly, now. I wish a thorough inspection,” she said with mock sternness. “Why, they are fine. Just fine.” She waved out her hand. “Run along. Oh, Mary, I am expecting a box from Lady Brockway. Please bring it up immediately when it arrives.”

  Grinning, she dipped an imperfect curtsey. “Yes, milady.” And with the exuberance of her age, dashed out.

  Agnes, in the meantime, was behind a screen, stripping the rags from one squawking five-year-old. A few minutes later, Agnes stepped around the screen with a firm grip on her charge.

  “All right, Penny. In you go. I put some of my best smelling oil in the water. I probably won’t be able to get you out.”

  Her lips took on a mulish pout. “Where’s me new dress?”

  “As soon as it arrives, Mary will bring it up.”

  “There’s a smock to cover yer dress, milady,” Agnes said.

  “Thank you. Let Agnes soap your hair, Penny.” Maeve turned to Agnes. “Be careful getting water in her face.” She went behind the screen. “Penny,” she called out. “I wish to talk to you about your sister.”

  “’ey. Wotch it.”

  Maeve slipped the smock over her dress, kicked off her shoes, and hurried back around.

  Clean skin streaked with dirt marked Penny’s elfin face.

  Maeve could hardly wait to see what the girl looked like beneath all the grime. “Tell me more about Belinda.” She took up a cloth and dipped it in the water and gently began wiping her face.

  “It’s Mlinda. Like wot?”

  Maeve shook her head, confused. “Are you saying Belinda or Melinda?”

  “Mlinda.” Apparently the ‘m’ came out as a ‘b’ when her nose was clogged with dirt.

  “Do you know how old Melinda is?”

  Maeve’s question distracted Agnes from taking the soap to Penny’s hair. “I don’ know.”

  “Is she as big as Agnes?”

  She shook her head.

  “What about Mary? Did you see Mary? She helped bring in the water.”

  “I din’t see ’er, ma’am.”

  “All right.” Maeve couldn’t think what else to ask her. Irene had the personality of a seasoned countess, and Cecilia was, well… Cecilia. “What can you tell me about Mr. Jervis?”

  Agnes jerked and soapy water escaped onto Penny’s forehead.

  “Hold still, darling.” Maeve caught the stray suds before they reached Penny’s eyes, averting disaster. She cut her gaze to Agnes. “Do you know something, Agnes?”

  Her lips firmed.

  “Agnes, if you know something of this Mr. Jervis, I’m afraid I must insist you share what you know.”

  “He’s been around fer years, ma’am.”

  “What are you not saying?”

  “Mary and Stephen.”

  Maeve fell back on her heels. “How long ago?”

  “Three years or so. They was in bad shape when I found ’em.” She concentrated on rinsing the soap from Penny’s hair.

  There was more, Maeve was certain of it, and she waited her out. She couldn’t stand it any longer. “Go on.”

  “Miss Hollerfield let me keep ’em. The previous housekeeper din’t like it none, but Miss Hollerfield put her foot down none too gently and they got to stay.”

  “And you’ve been looking after them ever since?”

  “Yes, milady.”

  The door crashed back, and Mary rushed in holding a box. “It’s here, milady.”

  “Thank you, Mary. Set it on the settee. You may open it.”

  “I-I can?”

  “Please. Miss Penny is most anxious to see her new frock. As am I.”

  Twenty-One

  M

  aeve tapped the feather of her quill against her chin, studying the woman across from her. Threads of faded red interspersed the gray of her hair. “So, you’re my new housekeeper…” Maeve drew her words out.

  “Aye, milady.”

  “And your name is…”

  “Ina.”

  “That’s right. Ina. What is your surname, Ina?”

  “McCaskle.”

  Maeve glanced down at the foolscap and read the list of her supposed qua
lifications. “I see. And Mr. McCaskle?”

  “He be me husband, milady. Going on twenty some odd years now.”

  “Your qualifications appear outstanding,” Maeve grudgingly admitted.

  “That they are, milady.”

  Maeve had been in desperate need of a housekeeper. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t hesitate to tear a strip of hide off Harlowe at her first opportunity. “All right,” she relented on a sigh. “You may stay.”

  Maeve dismissed her new housekeeper as in ‘allowed her” to take up her new duties.

  She rose from behind the escritoire in the smaller parlor and settled in one of the winged back chairs near the fire and pinched the bridge of her nose. She should be furious with Harlowe’s high-handedness, but in truth, he’d saved her the tremendous headache of filling two of the key positions of her new household. There were several more needed for a house this size. Scullery maids, a groundskeeper, a cook. The list was endless.

  The long clock in the hall chimed. Nine o’clock. She was exhausted. She worried for Penny, but she was ensconced in the same room with Mary, so if she woke there would be someone nearby to sooth her terror.

  Maeve had been able to get a little more out of Penny regarding her sister. For one thing, she’d misunderstood her name. It was Melinda. After the grime from Penny’s nose had been cleared the matter of her name had been rectified. So instead of “Blinda,” Penny now said “Mlinda” which eventually became Mellie.

  “Would you care for tea, Lady Alymer?” Agnes’s soft voice sounded from the arch of the small elaborate drawing room.

  “That would be wonderful, thank you.” Maeve smiled as she brought in a tray already prepared.

  “Shall we visit, Agnes?”

  “Visit? Oh, milady, I couldn’t possibly.”

  “I know it’s unusual, Agnes. But I wish to talk to someone, and there doesn’t appear to be anyone else about.” Not to mention the questions Maeve had regarding her previous employer.

  “So ye’ll be akeepin’ Mrs. and Mr. McCaskle then?”

  “Yes. But Lord Harlowe has most definitely overstepped his bounds, and I intend to tell him so at the first opportunity.”

  A fleeting smile touched her lips as she lowered slowly across from Maeve, sitting on the edge of the settee, prepared to flee if need be.

  Maeve filled a cup of tea for her and added a generous amount of sugar and cream. She had every reason to believe Agnes would never allow herself such a liberty. She handed over the cup.

  Agnes accepted the offer with trembling hands.

  “How old are you, my dear?”

  “Twenty, milady.” There was nothing defiant about this young woman. She knew her place and was careful not to appear she was above it. She was slight in build, her dark hair pulled away from a sylphlike face, white mob cap atop. Large gray eyes studied Maeve.

  “Can you read?”

  Her eyes dropped to the contents of her cup. “No, ma’am.”

  “I think we should do something about that,” Maeve said.

  Her shocked gaze flew to Maeve.

  Maeve smiled. “I must say, Agnes, it’s quite the feat you managed, handling the household affairs as you did for as long as you did. How on earth did you do it?”

  “I didn’t steal nothin’, yer ladyhip.”

  Maeve pulled up. “Oh, dear. You misunderstand me, Agnes. I truly am in awe. I’m not going to sack you. I’m beside myself with admiration.”

  “Y-you are?” she whispered.

  “I certainly wouldn’t have fired my maid if I hadn’t been.” Maeve sipped at her own tea. “How do you feel about stepping in as my lady’s maid? As you are currently aware, I’m in desperate need.”

  Agnes still held her cup, not drinking. She gaped. “But… you’re a… lady.”

  Maeve stifled her sigh. “Yes, and I require a lady’s maid if you recall.”

  Her eyes fluttered with a suspicious glistening. “Are ye sure, yer ladyship?”

  “Did you assist Miss Hollerfield and Lady Harlowe with their toilets? With their dress? With their hair?”

  She nodded, apparently unable to speak.

  “From my understanding, Miss Rowena Hollerfield had been turned out in the first stare of fashion. I take it you had a hand in that?”

  She nodded again.

  “I knew Corinne. She was a beautiful young woman.” If melancholic. “And you assisted her as well, correct?”

  “Yes, milady.” Agnes’s voice did not rise above a whisper.

  Maeve took another sip of her tea. “Then the matter is settled. You are hereby hired, with a pay raise, as my personal lady’s maid.” Maeve hid a smile behind her cup and spoke with a blandness that would never fool another soul. Then she frowned. “Of course, I would appreciate any help with Penny and the others. I’m not completely convinced of the McCaskles at this juncture. Has there, um, been any incidents of which I should be made aware?”

  Her nose wrinkled. “No. She is much better than Miss Rowena’s old housekee—” she stopped, her cheeks red with embarrassment.

  “Agnes.” Maeve reached over and patted her knee. “Please don’t feel as if you cannot speak of Miss Rowena. She was your previous employer. While I was not forced to provide for myself and others as she was forced to do, it would be remiss of me to not acknowledge how similar in temperament we might be. She did what she had to do to survive.”

  Agnes stared at her in awed shock. It was almost… flattering.

  “I cannot fault her for taking care of her staff so diligently. And Miss Corinne. I admire you greatly, Agnes. You ran this house without a mistress for over a year, my dear. You’ve looked out for Mary and Stephen as well.” She shook her head. “If anyone I know deserves praise, it’s you.”

  There was an audible swallow. “Thank you, milady.”

  “There is still the small matter of filling the other household positions.” She flung out her hand. “Upstairs maids, a cook, a gardener, and the like.” Again, Maeve found herself stunned at how this uneducated young woman managed Cavendish Square with no one the wiser. It boggled the mind. “I’m most curious, dear, to know how you kept the house running on your own with only Mary and Stephen.”

  Breath held, Maeve waited as a range of emotions flashed across Agnes’s face, her struggle evident. But there was something there. How did a servant keep a house afloat for over a year without funds, without vagrants storming the place? Maeve leaned in and put a lemon square and a biscuit on a small plate and handed it to Agnes.

  Agnes downed her tea and accepted the plate. “I should love to learn to read. Mary and Stephen could use some learnin’ too, milady.”

  It took a moment for Maeve to readjust her thoughts. Agnes was answering the other question Maeve had forgotten she’d asked. “Excellent,” she murmured. “We shall put together a schedule. There’s certainly plenty of room on the third level for a school room.

  Agnes nibbled at one of the biscuits, watching Maeve from the corner of her eye, still looking uncomfortable.

  Maeve waited.

  Agnes seemed to steel herself then set her plate aside coming to some conclusion of her internal debate. There was a stiffening of her spine, a raising of her chin, before her eyes lifted to Maeve’s. “Come with me… yer ladyship. Er, if’n you don’ mind. We shall have to be very quiet, mind, with the McCaskles now installed.”

  Maeve nodded and followed Agnes below stairs, past a number of bedchambers, almost all of them empty. Agnes paused only once, to grab a candle from the kitchen and light it, then led Maeve down another flight of stairs into an elaborate wine cellar.

  “Close the door, ma’am,” she whispered.

  The hair on Maeve’s neck raised, though she did as Agnes asked, even going a step further, and turned the lock.

  Full wine racks of dusty bottles lined two of the three walls. Maeve had no doubt they were worth hundreds of pounds. Along a third wall, another case of shelves tha
t was only half the length, held various other liquors: whiskey and rum. Brandy, she guessed, smuggled during the war. These bottles alone would have kept the house in riches for the next twenty years. Beside that shelf was a tasting table of scarred wood with two stools.

  Agnes shot a fear-filled look over her shoulder.

  Maeve gave her an encouraging nod.

  Resignation tinged with bleakness emanated from the younger woman. She turned away and went to the tasting table. Agnes removed the two stools then, despite her slight build, shoved aside the table, went down on her knees, and tugged at a considerable piece of the wall at its base. She tugged out a velvet bag the size of a thick book.

  Trepidation sent Maeve’s insides into a chaos that rivaled a storming of the house guards. Agnes stood and set the bag on the table and Maeve’s hands grew clammy. Instead of opening the bag, Agnes stood back and clasped her hands in front of her and, in a silent plea, left Maeve to the task.

  Maeve approached the table and ran her fingers over the luxurious texture of the fabric. She untied the strings and opened the bag. Inside she found bank notes and a smaller, leather purse full coins. Nothing Maeve could blame the girl for using. She glanced over at Agnes whose arms wrapped her stomach, a stance much too fearful for mere coin. Maeve took the edges of the bag from the bottom and upended it, spilling the entire contents on the table.

  Her breath caught.

  Jewels—diamonds, emeralds, sapphires in a variety of settings: ear bobs, bracelets, necklaces, pins—of the likes Maeve had never seen. She picked up a ring with a large square cut ruby. She recognized this particular piece of jewelry. It was the ring Corinne had worn in the painting Brandon was brooding over when Maeve had returned from Oxford’s ball. She set it down with the other pieces and went through the other treasures. A book. She picked it up and flipped it open. “Rowena’s memoirs.” One or two pages in she said, “Begins in 1798”—she paged to the back—“through 1818, or thereabouts.”

  “I saw her writin’ in it all the time, ma’am. I-I thought it might be important like.” Agnes’s hands entwined, her features twisted in anguish. “It’s all there, milady. I never used any of the jewels. As you can see there were plenty of blunt. I was real careful. Using just what we needed…” her voice trailed off in a tremor of despair.