Her Beguiling Butler

by Cerise DeLand

  Finnley dropped a kiss to her forehead and stroked her hair down her back. “Parliament will keep him in check. Not to worry.”

  “There will be services of remembrance for old George, don’t you think? We must go in the morning.”

  He hated to refuse her but she must realize he had to demur.

  “Come with me tomorrow, Finnley. We’ll go to services where no one knows us. I want to go with you.”

  “Alicia, please.” Here was another indicator that he had to find the culprit in this house soon so that he could reveal exactly who he was and love this woman as he should.

  She frowned. “I’ll go to a church in the Seven Dials if I must.”

  He barked in laughter. “Darling, I doubt there is one in that part of town.”

  She scoffed. “Thieves and cutthroats need to go to church. There should be one there.”

  “I will tell Connor to take you. You can go with your Aunt Hortense.”

  She pouted. “You are a stubborn man not to come with me.”

  “Where you are concerned in this matter, yes. I’ll have no one speak against you.”

  She fiddled with the tassel on his robe. “Soon everyone will know I keep company with my butler.”

  He sighed. If they don’t already. Gordon suspected. Sweeting knew. He was very certain Grimes knew. At the least.

  She cupped his cheek, a plea in her purple eyes. “You do want me, don’t you, Finnley? For longer than a fleeting affair?”

  Aching with want, he clamped his arms around her. “I want more than this, Alicia. More than the two of us hiding from the world. You deserve more. You deserve a man who can claim you as his own in name and deed.”

  “Are you not that man?” she asked, her words forlorn.

  “I am.” Just not yet.

  “Then why not come with me tomorrow? Begin the revelation of what we are to each other? Are you not eager to begin our happiness?”

  “I am.” Happiness with a woman I love is a rare prize I never thought to gain.

  “Prove it to me.” She was in earnest.

  He froze in fear. “How can I do that?”

  “Monday morning, let us acquire a license to be married.”

  Shock ran through him. This one more visceral than losing his old and infirm king. That was politic. This was personal. And he had no solutions to the mysteries here. “I—I cannot do that.”

  She stepped backward from his arms. “Why not?”

  “Because I—“ I am not who I say I am. Any license I took would bear a false name. “I would not—“

  “Continue.”

  “I would not have money for a license.”

  She eyed him. The look chilled him as no other. “Won’t you allow me to pay for it?”

  “No.”

  She considered her hands. “I see.”

  “Alicia, darling, if you’ll give me time—“

  “Will time bring you money? Money that is not mine? Money you will freely use for a marriage license?”

  Foiled. “Yes.”

  She pursed her lips. A ray of skepticism shone in her eyes. “How will you acquire this money which will save your pride?”

  I will give up my position with the Home Office and the Marine force. Resume my rightful station and my title and estates. Much as I hated the very idea, the prospect with you by my side seems…positive. Possible for one who shirked his duty for years.

  She snorted, looked away and squeezed her eyes shut. “I understand your inability to answer.”

  “You can’t.”

  She faced him. “How much time do you need?”

  He was losing her. She seemed to drift from him, as if she became a ghost of herself.

  He stepped forward. Despair ruled him, made him rash. “A few days.”

  “Wednesday, then?” Her tone was a taunt.

  He took her cold hands. He was desperate, irrational. “Yes, Wednesday.”

  “I don’t believe you.” She slipped away.

  “Wednesday. That is a promise.”

  She arched a brow. “And tomorrow morning?”

  “What about it?”

  “You’ll come with me to church?”

  He stared at her. He wouldn’t ruin her. “No. I want to save you embarrassment.” Give me time and I’ll give you happiness.

  “I can bear the social censure. Why can’t you?”

  “Because you needn’t be censured.”

  She narrowed her gaze on him. “Because you will not get a license or marry me or keep me.”

  “No!”

  “I think you must leave.” She walked to the far window, her lips set in harsh lines.

  “Alicia, please. Give me until Wednesday.”

  The chimes on his pocket watch rang the midnight hour. Afraid Grimes was too interested in it, afraid he’d steal it from him, Finnley had slipped it into his robe pocket.

  Alicia stood, elegant, serene and cold. “It seems your time is up, Mr. Finnley. Midnight. The witching hour. You may leave. Be certain the front door is locked before you go to your rooms.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Alicia climbed up into her town coach the next morning at ten. She’d not taken Finnley’s hand to help her step up but chosen Connor’s instead. Shocked by that, her coachman had shot a glance at Finnley but closed the door on her with speed.

  So much for Finnley’s duties. She would cut them. She would dismiss him.

  Her lips quivered and she pressed two gloved fingers to her mouth. She would not cry. Would not show any emotion.

  He was leaving her. She’d make certain of it before she made a greater fool of herself.

  She stared out the window as Connor made his way to her aunt’s house in Portman Square. Despite the freezing weather, many walked out in the paths. Most men wore black armbands and women wore their black weeds. Alicia had ordered Preston to bring out her widow’s woolens, heavy cape and cottage bonnet to match. She hated them all, but donned them as her duty.

  My duty.

  She shook her head. So much of her life had been devoted to duty. At the ripe age of twenty-four, she had honored her father by marrying according to his wishes. She had tolerated the man who was her spouse, unfaithful as he was, profligate as he had been.

  Now?

  With or without the new barony, she would do for herself. She would keep this promise to herself. Retire to the Ranford country house, cottage as it was. She‘d open it and take Sweeting, Mabel, Preston and Grimes. Those were all she needed. Perhaps Connor if she chose to have horses.

  Henceforth, I wish to be my own person, not prized for my title or wealth or my face or figure.

  I thought I’d found a man who could appreciate that…but I was wrong. And if I am granted this barony of Bentham, I will simply keep it for myself. Unto myself.

  “Oh, my dear, you are so disheartened.” Hortense took a look at Alicia’s face and put a hand to hers after she’d settled into Alicia’s carriage. “The king suffered too much. We must not mourn excessively. He had a good life. A good wife. And far, far too many children.”

  That brought a smile to Alicia’s lips. “I quite agree, aunt.”

  “Still.” Aunt Hortense smoothed her black skirts. “That’s not what bothers you, is it?”

  Alicia shook her head. “You know me well.”

  “Wish to discuss the matter?”

  “I will dismiss him.”

  Her aunt inhaled mightily. “I will not pretend I am not pleased. Such focus on an unsuitable person is foolhardy. But that’s what lu— “

  She turned her face toward her aunt. “That’s what love does to a woman?”

  “Ah, well. Love was not the word I had intended.”

  Alicia nodded. “No, of course not.”

  “He was no match for you, my dear girl.”

  She gazed at the bright sun reflected off the sheets of brilliant snow. “You’re right. I thought he was more. My
instincts about men have always served me well. But not in this case.”

  “I will be honest and tell you I am relieved. To encourage him to have a liaison with you would have been disastrous for you.”

  It is.

  “Come out with me into Society, Alicia. Limited as it will be with this court mourning for old George, we will have no engagements of any note for months. But when we do, you must appear and begin to enjoy yourself. Find a man worthy of you. A man who will help you run your estates, your wealth and make you proud.”

  “I will. But know this, Aunt, I seek no man. I will rule my own estates, make my own money, take care of my own tenants. I will have my own house, decorate it as I choose with silks from China and rugs from the Ottomans, and paintings.” She giggled. “Decadent paintings of ladies of the night.”

  “Alicia!” Her aunt fanned herself.

  “Fragonard nudes and delicious oddities.”

  “Be serious!” her aunt insisted, calling her bluff. “What do you know of such paintings?”

  She patted her aunt’s hand. “Aside from the books you loaned me?”

  “Please forget that, Alicia.”

  “I can’t. Rest easy, my dear. The art is one thing of little importance. But the house I will have. A shell to do with as I wish. My own house. My home. And I will dedicate myself to my tenants. I am educated. Smart. I can add, subtract and count my own money. I’ll find a good estate man, an honest one and march onward.”

  Hortense pursed her lips. “To run farms and mills is a task that requires strength of will. You are forthright, dear. But let’s be honest. You may find people do not take kindly to a woman ordering them about.”

  “If I am fair and honest, why would they condemn me for my sex?”

  “Be prudent, Alicia. Be wise to the world.”

  “I am. More than you know.” She patted her aunt’s hand. “I have a lifetime to learn how to be a good manager of my estate. There are so many titled dandies who fail daily and no one runs them off their lands.”

  The coach idled in front of the church door.

  “Never fear, Aunt Hortense. No one will run me from my land. They will applaud me for my excellent service to them.”

  * * *

  “Welcome, Mr. Finnley.” Camden, the Stanleys’ butler, invited him to sit in their servants’ parlor. “Shall I have our cook make us tea?”

  “Yes, thank you. I would enjoy that.” No chance he’d be poisoned here, was there?

  “I’m glad you’ve come. Been wanting to make your acquaintance and ensure the safety of those in our midst.”

  Finnley unbuttoned his waistcoat and relaxed in the comfortable stuffed chair by the fire. It was customary that neighborhood staff got on together. All in the name of security for their masters and mistresses, but more for the social aspects of what was otherwise a rather lonely and constrained life. “I quite agree.”

  “Most dreadful news about our late king,” Camden said, digging out an ochre meerschaum pipe from his pocket. His tin of tobacco on the side table was close to hand and he reached for it without looking. Oddly, his white hair stood on end much the same as at midnight last.

  “I hope he went peacefully. His fits sounded unnerving.”

  Camden struck a match off the sole of his shoe. “Our household has gone to services. Yours, too?”

  “Yes, Lady Ranford went round to collect her aunt.”

  “Dug out her widow’s weeds, did she?”

  “Sadly, yes. She was not happy to use them, I will say.”

  “Don’t blame her. Our lady’s youngest sister lost her husband two years ago. Even we were not pleased to dig our black from the closet. But there you have it.”

  “Has your staff gone to church as well?” Finnley saw the cook from the corner of his eye. Stout like Mrs. Sweeting, she bustled around her stove and worktable.

  “The upstairs maids, yes. One of our footmen.”

  “I understand you have a maid who is friends with Grimes, our footman.”

  “That’s so.” Camden puffed on his pipe. “Do you approve?”

  “I don’t see the harm unless you have an objection?”

  “None. They behave prudently, I do expect.”

  “One can hope. Have you met our Grimes then, Mr. Camden?”

  “I have. He seems a restrained young man. From Kent, isn’t he?”

  Finnley suppressed his alarm. According to Lord Winston, Grimes was employed through the Mayfair Registry Office. Grimes himself said he came from Maidenhead west of London. “Kent?”

  “That’s what he told our girl.” Camden took the pipe from his mouth and stared at Finnley. “Is he not?”

  “I’m most certain he claimed he was from Maidenhead. I will check.” Was Grimes hiding a past as a thief? And was he implying to Finnley he’d left it behind?

  “Do. I don’t want no troubles with my girls, I’ll tell you straight, Mr. Finnley.”

  “I understand. Nor me with Grimes.” He leaned forward. “I have another question for you. Do you or any staff tend the green plot behind the house?”

  “Our cook grows herbs. Carrots, too.”

  “Does she tend it well? Keep the weeds out?”

  “Let’s ask her.” He rose from his chair and went in to bring the cook close behind him. “Mrs. Harding, we need to know if you are a good gardener.”

  “Sir?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “I wonder if you could tell me if you have trouble with weeds in your plot?”

  “No, sir. No more than normal. I ‘ave more sass from rabbits, though God ‘imself only knows where they come from.”

  “No poisonous plants, Mrs. Harding?” Finnley asked.

  “No, sir. If I did, I’d rip them out straight away.”

  “Why do you ask, Mr. Finnley?”

  “We had a few plants of nightshade, I’m told. But our footman Grimes ripped them out.”

  Camden, the cook and Finnley proclaimed their appreciation of that.

  “Did you know the previous butler, Mr. Camden?”

  “Yes, sir. Liked him quite a bit. Why?” the man cast beady eyes at Finnley. “Does anyone speak ill of him?”

  “No, sir. They do not.” Finnley heard the defense in Camden’s words. “Were you surprised at his passing?”

  “I was. He was healthy. He should not have died in that way. Slipping? No, no. He was sure-footed.”

  “Did Norden seem to be frail of mind? Repeating odd phrases?”

  “Going a bit barmy, you mean, Mr. Finnley?”

  Finnley nodded.

  “No, sir. Straight as a pin, he was.”

  Finnley sat forward. And the cook had disappeared so he thought it private enough to share confidences. “Did Mr. Norden share any suspicions with you of, shall we say, odd instances in the house?”

  Camden stared into his eyes. “He was distraught that his master had died. He liked Lord Ranford, even if his lordship was a wild one in many ways. He thought that his master had come down with some malady of headaches and such, but he never spoke of odd doings. Do you have fears of that?”

  “Well,” said Finnley, “I myself now have headaches.”

  Camden paused, his pipe in the air. “Had them before coming here?”

  “No.”

  Camden pointed the end of the pipe at him. “I’d say you watch what you eat, sir. And drink.”

  “Would you have heard of any odd doings among our old staff?” Finnley put up a hand. “In confidence I ask this now.”

  “I understand, sir. And my answer is no. Only that bit from Norden that he didn’t like that his master had died.”

  Finnley sighed, and in a few minutes rose and said his thanks.

  As he stepped into the chilling air, he heard the Number Ten kitchen door slam. He paused at the sound of running footsteps, cracking ice on the paths.

  Had someone followed him to the Stanleys’ residence?

&n
bsp; In the entrance to Number Ten, he noted that the floorboards were wet. Clumps of snow lay melting there and the footprints outlined were women’s shoes.

  “Who came in a minute ago, Mrs. Sweeting?” he asked the cook.

  “I don’t know, sir. I didn’t look.”

  To look was not difficult. She could have seen who it was in her peripheral vision. But she might not have been interested…or she might have been more interested in covering someone’s tracks. Literally.

  Just then Preston came running down the back stairs.

  “Mr. Finnley, our lady is home. The coach has arrived.”

  He headed for the stairs—and halted. Preston had left footprints on the wood. They appeared to be the same size and shape as those at the servants’ entrance. Well, then. Preston had been spying on him next door.

  He paused, listening to Preston speak to Mrs. Sweeting.

  “After I polish milady’s shoes, I’ll be going out in a few minutes. My usual Sunday stroll.”

  “You’ll be home by dark?” the cook asked her.

  “I will.”

  Where did Preston go on Sundays? He’d turn the tables on her and follow her today.

  He took the stairs two at a time, gained the foyer and opened the front door just in time to have Alicia sail through.

  She picked at her gloves and shrugged out of her coat without so much as a glance at him.

  “Alicia,” he whispered though no one was about. He had to tell her what he knew, what he suspected. Perhaps she had a viewpoint or knowledge he had not considered. “I must talk with you.”

  “Not now, Mr. Finnley.” She turned for the front drawing room, her black wool gown marring her beauty, causing him to frown.

  Finnley hated to see her in her black again. She’d begun to blossom in the purples and lately in the lighter lavenders. Complementing her eyes, those colors set her off as the beauty she was. If he were her husband, he’d tell her not to wear the black, propriety be damned. But you’re not her husband…now not even her lover.

  He followed her.

  Closed the doors behind him with a snap of the locks.

  She whirled to face him, fury snapping in her eyes. “Open them, Finnley.”

  He walked forward. “No.”