At least she wouldn't have to worry about hiring and training a new staff, she thought, making her way to the small study that had been set aside for her use. Although nothing had been said, she assumed the duke's staff would stay on during their brief occupancy. From her previous experience in such matters, she knew the servants would doubtlessly resent her authority, and that she would have to utilize every bit of diplomacy she possessed to keep the house running on a smooth course. It would be difficult, she admitted, but not impossible, and at least there wasn't the barrier of language to overcome. With that thought firmly in mind, she settled behind her desk, dipping her quill in the silver inkwell as she drew up a list of all the things that remained to be done.
"No, no, no, the polish must be rubbed gently into the silver, not applied slap-dash as if one were painting a stable!" Halvey, the Duke of Marchfield's butler for the past twenty years scolded, snatching away the polishing cloth from Drew with obvious exasperation. "This fork has been in His Grace's family for fifteen years, and he would not thank you for ruining it. Now again, how do you prepare the mixture for cleaning silver?"
"By mixing Spanish white chalk with ammonia, Mr. Halvey," Drew replied dutifully, wiping a tired hand across his sweaty brow. He and the elderly butler had been locked in the small, airless pantry for what seemed hours, and he was as exhausted as if he'd spent the entire day in the saddle. It was barely seven in the evening, and he had been up since before dawn. How he longed for a respite from the endless training.
"And?" One of Halvey's bushy white eyebrows raised itself haughtily as he glared at Drew.
"And then the silver is rubbed with this." Drew held up a worn leather cloth that had been dipped in rouge.
"Very good." The butler acknowledged Drew's correct answer with a cool nod of his head. "I may also remind you that the silver must be rubbed with a woolen brush before it is repacked, otherwise the patina will be dulled."
"Yes, Mr. Halvey," Drew said, thinking that the formidable butler had missed his calling. He would have made an excellent top sergeant.
"I am sure Captain Merrick will remember your careful instructions, Halvey." A soft voice sounded from the doorway and both men turned to stare at the dark-haired woman who stood there, her dark hazel eyes shining with obvious amusement as she studied them.
"As you say, your grace," Halvey answered, giving the Duchess of Marchfield a stiff bow. "But one can never be too careful. His Grace and Sir did say the captain was to be properly trained, and train him I shall."
"Oh, I have every confidence in you, Halvey," the duchess assured him, casting Drew a teasing wink. "But in the meanwhile, Captain Merrick's presence is requested in the drawing room. You will excuse us, I am sure."
"Of course, Your Grace," the butler said, his gray eyes flicking toward Drew as he rose from his bow. "But see that you are back within the hour, Captain," he instructed in frosty tones. "We will be reviewing the proper manner for discouraging unwanted callers. I fear your air of consequence will require some polishing if you are to be taken for a London butler."
"My congratulations for not laughing, Captain," Jacinda said as they made their way from the servants' hall to the front drawing room. "Not that you would have dared, I suppose. Halvey's air of consequence has never required polishing."
"He is rather overwhelming," Drew agreed, straightening his collar as they walked. "He is even more pompous than one of the royal dukes, and I must admit I am in awe of him."
"So was I when I first came here," Jacinda laughed, recalling her first encounter with the haughty butler. "But Anthony assures me he is the veriest lamb, and I must say he is a major domo par excellence. Prinny has tried hiring him away any number of times, but Halvey will have none of it."
"Loyal to Marchfield, is he?" Drew asked, momentarily diverted at the image of the exceedingly English butler moving stately through the Persian Halls of Brighton.
"Oh, exceedingly, but truth to tell, I suspect Halvey considers the prince beneath his notice. He is an ogre of propriety, you know."
"You must be speaking of Halvey, my love," the Duke of Marchfield drawled, his soft gray eyes resting on Jacinda as they approached the doorway. "You have never forgiven him for criticizing your last novel."
"Well, he called my hero, Lord Stiffback, a fop," Jacinda answered, shooting her handsome husband an impish smile. "But he changed his tune fast enough when I told him you were my inspiration for the character."
"Hussy, and after you promised you'd never tell anyone." Ignoring the presence of the other two men, Lord Marchfield bent to deposit a warm kiss on his wife's pert mouth. They had been married for less than a year, and it was obvious to Drew that they were very much in love.
"How is the training progressing?" Sir asked Drew as the Marchfields settled on the settee. "Do you think you will be ready in time?"
"If I don't expire from exhaustion first," Drew replied, easing his muscular frame onto one of the overstuffed chairs set before the fire. "I vow, I had no idea a butler's job could be so demanding. However much you pay Halvey, Your Grace, it cannot possibly be enough."
"That's because you don't know how much I pay him," Anthony remarked, draping his arm possessively about his wife's shoulders. "And I told you, I prefer to be called Anthony, or Marchfield, if you wish to be formal."
"Anthony," Drew said agreeably, thinking the other man was nothing like he had thought he would be. Rumor had it that prior to his marriage the duke was as cold as a marble statue, but wedded life seemed to have softened him. The handsome man with dark hair and ice-colored eyes sitting opposite him was the epitome of the gracious host, but beneath that surface charm was the core of pure steel that was evident in all of Sir's operatives. Drew could well believe he would make the deadliest of opponents.
"My contacts tell me Terrington and his daughter will be in London by the middle of next week," Sir informed them, his blue eyes watching the flickering dance of the flames. "Will that give you and Jacinda enough time to arrange everything?"
"More than enough time," Jacinda answered calmly. "We have already put it about that we plan to spend the season and most of the summer rusticating at Anthony's country seat."
"Do you think anyone will be suspicious?" Sir fingered the fob hanging from his waistcoat. "This is your first season as the Duchess of Marchfield, and people may wonder at your absence."
"Oh, I am sure my 'explanation' will be accepted quickly enough," she murmured, a warm glow making the green in her eyes more prominent. "A lady who is increasing is usually not expected to participate in the social round, you know."
Sir sat up in shock. "Increasing?" he echoed, his eyes going to Jacinda's stomach. "Do you mean you are . . ." His voice trailed off in embarrassment, sending her into a fit of amused laughter.
"Ah, these confirmed bachelors," she said, resting her head on her husband's shoulder. "They are every bit as missish as maiden aunts when it comes to such things. But in answer to your question, Sir, I can promise you that my story can be easily confirmed in about five months should anyone take the trouble to investigate."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Sir demanded, shooting Anthony an indignant look. "I'd never have sent you on that last mission if I'd known!"
"I only learned of it myself," Anthony drawled, placing a protective hand over his wife's abdomen. "The minx refused to tell me sooner because she didn't want me worrying about her and the babe while I was away."
"Well, thank God for that," Sir muttered feelingly, relaxing against his chair. "A distracted agent is worse than useless, and I would never have forgiven myself if anything had happened." There was a brief silence as the three men considered the dangers of their chosen profession.
"The viscount informs me that Terrington has accepted my offer," Anthony said after a few moments. "Apparently he seems to find nothing unusual in my offering my home to a complete stranger. Although I suppose we ought to be grateful; it would have been damned awkward had he refused."
"
There was never a chance of that once Castle-reagh made the offer," Drew said knowingly. "Terrington is too wily a diplomat to risk offending his exalted superior. I'm sure he was most grateful that the Foreign Secretary should have gone to such pains on his behalf."
"How far is the Foreign Office willing to go with your plot, Sir?" Jacinda asked, casually taking it for granted that she would be numbered among the conspirators. Even though she was a civilian and a woman, she was well aware of the grim necessity for such scheming. As a loyal subject, she was more than willing to do her part for her country, a fact she had already proven with considerable resourcefulness.
"They are being cooperative . . . for them," Sir answered with his usual caution. "Although I think they seem overly eager to place a noose about Terrington's neck."
"That means nothing," Drew said, recalling the Corps's fanatical obsession with secrecy. "The slightest hint of anything untoward is enough to send them scrambling for someone on whom they can lay the blame. I'm only surprised it is the earl they are accusing, and not his assistant. It has always been my experience that the higher rank one holds, the less his chances of being accused. The nobility does tend to protect its own when it comes to a scandal."
"An interesting point," Sir agreed, rising to his feet, and crossed the room to the cellarette. "I raised much the same question, and was quickly assured that young Mr. Barrymore was, and I quote, 'above reproach.' Whatever the circumstances of his birth, it would appear he is not without friends. This recommendation came from the highest level."
"What are the circumstances of his birth?" Anthony asked, shaking his head when Sir offered him a glass of brandy. "His name is not familiar to me."
"He is the only son of a country parson and his wife." Drew repeated the information he had carefully uncovered. "She is a distant relation to Lord Marlehope, and one can only assume he is responsible for the lad's present position with the earl."
"Isn't Marlehope the underambassador to Spain?" Sir was frowning as he handed Drew a glass of brandy. "The plan to involve Mexico in any potential war with America originated in Madrid."
"I have already checked on that, Sir," Drew answered quickly. "The duke was in Scotland when the plan was first discussed, and there is no way he could have known of it. Besides, I find it doubtful that he should involve himself in anything unsavory. The man is as ambitious as they come."
"Tell me more of this Lady Melanie," Jacinda demanded with a determinedly cheerful smile. "I overheard Lady Jersey talking, and she said the girl is a bluestocking. How I should love to meet her!"
"You would enjoy meeting any female who has the smallest tinge of blue," her husband told her fondly. "If only to make yourself appear less of a periwinkle."
"Beast." A playful tap was administered to his cheek. "You know I am proud of my mind and my ability to use it. I merely meant that I am happy to know that Lady Melanie is no simpering chit. Perhaps she might prove an unexpected ally should you have need of one, Captain." Bright hazel eyes flashed to Drew.
"An interesting thought, Your Grace," he responded with an easy smile. "But you must know that as his daughter, Lady Melanie must automatically be considered a suspect in the earl's treason. She has moved in diplomatic circles for the past five years, after all, and there is no telling what she may or may not know. Also, it is reasonable to assume she would have some access to her father's papers. Her sex cannot eliminate her as a traitor, you know."
Jacinda colored brightly. "Indeed I do," she said, recalling when she had been accused of a similar crime by Anthony because of the saucy journals she had written as Lady X. That was all in the past, but things had been decidedly uncomfortable for a while. Her generous heart went out immediately to the unknown Lady Melanie.
"Well, I think the poor child is the innocent victim of circumstance!" she declared flatly, her small chin coming up in defiance. "If her father is a traitor, then her life will be ruined. Unless you mean to offer the earl one of your infamous 'choices'?" She shot Sir an accusing look.
"The decision is not mine." He answered her question with all due seriousness. "But whatever the outcome, we must be very sure of ourselves before making any accusations. That is why you must be constantly vigilant, Merrick. No one in the house must be considered above suspicion. Not even the servants."
"I have already been looking into that, Sir," Drew was happy to inform him, "but so far I have been unable to uncover anything unusual. The earl's valet is a possible suspect; he has been with Terrington for the past ten years, and has accompanied him all over the world. Lady Melanie's companion is another possibility, although I think we can safely rule her out. She is the daughter of an army major, and my investigation shows she has been with her ladyship for only the past year. It seems her father died unexpectedly, and the woman, a Miss Evingale, was left stranded in America without funds. Lady Melanie somehow heard of her plight and hired her as her companion. I should think it unlikely she would betray her employer."
"I agree," Anthony said, rubbing a thoughtful finger across his bottom lip. Although he was only nominally involved in the mission, he was still eager to offer what help he could. "But what about the other servants? I know diplomatic personnel often employ local domestics when abroad, and given some of Terrington's last postings, it might be prudent to look into their backgrounds."
"I have already done so," Sir told him. "Nothing."
"Then we will have to go on the assumption that the traitor is either Terrington, his assistant, or his daughter," Drew concluded, his lips thinning. "The problem is, how do we prove it?"
"I have some ideas along that line," Sir said enigmatically. "But it may take some time, and time is the one commodity we have precious little of. The Americans are holding debating sessions even as we speak, and a declaration of war is considered imminent. Although the earl has been isolated from any sensitive material, we still have no way of knowing what may have already been passed on."
"You may depend on me, Sir," Drew said fiercely, his hazel eyes flashing with determination. "If the earl or a member of his household has sold us to the French, I will find him out."
"I'm sure you shall, Merrick, I'm sure you shall." A rare smile softened Sir's hard features. "Halvey has assured me you have all the makings of an excellent butler, and as I have already learned to my discomfort, it is almost impossible to keep secrets from one's butler. They are worse than wives when it comes to ferreting out the truth. Just be the best major domo you know how to be, Merrick, and we shall have our answers before the season is half over."
Chapter Two
It was early the following Tuesday before Melanie and her father set out for London. The earl received several urgent missives from Whitehall as they were leaving, and it was decided that he and Mr. Barrymore would travel down in the carriage while Melanie and her companion, Miss Edwina Evingale, followed in the closed barouche. At least, that was the explanation Lord Terrington offered. Privately Melanie thought he had chosen the separate traveling arrangements so that he could avoid Miss Evingale's incessant chatter.
"Are we there yet?" Miss Evingale moaned as the ancient carriage rounded a corner. "I vow my poor nerves cannot take another moment of this dreadful jostling!"
"We are less than an hour from Mayfair, Edwina," Melanie replied, her voice edged with weariness. They had been on the road all afternoon, and her companion's litany of complaints had long since grown wearisome. First the carriage was too drafty, then it was too warm, and now it was the motion of the carriage which affected her. Melanie considered herself as charitable as the next woman, but five straight hours in Miss Evingale's company was enough to try the patience of a saint.
"Close your eyes and think of something else, Edwina," she advised, shooting her pale companion a look of patent long-suffering. "You didn't eat a thing at that last inn when we stopped; perhaps you are simply hungry."
"Pray, Lady Melanie, do not even mention food," Miss Evingale pleaded, clutching a handkerchief to her lips.
"That awful cook was a murderess, I am sure of it! Just like in The Plight of Lady Prudence, where the villainess was the cook in the castle. You remember, my lady, I read it to you on that dreadful voyage from America."
"I remember." Melanie answered glumly, recalling the days she had preferred the storm-washed deck of the ship to the airless cabin she shared with her companion. Miss Evingale had spent most of the time either suffering in the throes of mal de mer, or reading aloud from one of her beloved Gothics. The woman was positively addicted to the wretched things, and she had the annoying habit of applying the lurid tales to her everyday life. Although how anyone could go about thinking villains and heroes lurked behind every bush, Melanie was sure she did not know.
"Why don't you tell me about the book now?" she suggested, hoping to distract her from her suffering. "However did a murderess obtain a post as a cook?"
"By employing the cleverest of deceptions," Edwina answered, squeezing her pale blue eyes shut as the coach swayed dangerously. "She pretended to be the orphaned daughter of a constable, but she was actually a dreadful hussy who had designs on Lord Tattleburn. Naturally, both Lady Prudence and I tumbled to her evil scheme at once; imagine hiring a cook who doesn't know the first thing about plucking a fowl!"
"That does seem rather odd," Melanie agreed, rubbing her head with a gloved hand. She prayed they would soon reach their destination, as she was not sure her patience could endure much more.
"Indeed," Miss Evingale responded, delighted at having so attentive an audience. "It was obvious Mrs. Crumbly, that was the hussy's name, by the by, was no mere domestic, but some highborn adventuress who was only pretending to be a servant until she could trick the hero into marrying her. But try telling Lord Tattleburn that! Prudence did, and only look where it got her?"
Her Ladyship's Man Page 2