Her Ladyship's Man

by Joan Overfield

  "I can see why she would think that," Melanie replied, giving the yellow and gold room an admiring look. "From the little I have seen, the house is quite lovely. I wonder how they can bear to let strangers stay here, although I am most grateful that they did," she added with a rueful laugh.

  "Oh, but this is the first time, my lady," Mrs. Musgrove told her as they turned to leave. "This house has been the Marchfield home for well on seventy years, and none but a Marchfield has ever had the running of it! Why, you could have tipped me over with a feather when His Grace told me he had given you and your good father permission to stay here. And then Mr. Halvey leaving on top of it . . . well, things were at sixes and sevens, I don't mind telling you!"

  "Mr. Halvey?" Melanie inquired, stopping to admire one of the portraits adorning the downstairs gallery. "Who is he?"

  "Why, he was butler here before Mr. Davies," Mrs. Musgrove said, smugly pleased at how easily she had slipped that bit of information into the conversation. The captain had told them to say he was a recent addition to the staff in the event anyone asked. "Mr. Halvey has been with the duke's family for fifty years, you know, and when he retired, His Grace brought Mr. Davies down from his country house, where he had been the underbutler."

  Melanie paused in her inspection of the curio cabinet, a faint frown puckering her forehead when she thought of the young butler. "Then Mr. Davies is new at his position?" she asked, feeling faintly surprised by the information.

  "That he is." Mrs. Musgrove nodded eagerly. "He's been with us but a fortnight, and I must say he is settling in nicely. Usually a new butler takes some getting used to, but Mr. Davies fits in as if he had been with us all along. Of course, Mr. Halvey did have the training of him, which probably accounts for it. Although, I still think the lad is a wee bit young," she added confidingly.

  "Yes, he is rather young, isn't he?" Melanie said, thinking of Fulford, the butler at Terrington Court. He wasn't a day under seventy, while Davies looked scarce into his thirties. One would think that any servant who had worked his way up to butler would have a few decades on him, she thought, then mentally shrugged her shoulders. So long as he did his job and stayed out of her way, she didn't care if he was still in short pants.

  Once they had explored the main floor they went upstairs to the various bedchambers and other rooms. In addition to the suites she and the others were already occupying, there were four sets of rooms, including the master suite, which Mrs. Musgrove explained nervously was always kept locked during the duke's absence.

  "I understand perfectly, Mrs. Musgrove," Melanie assured the older woman with a kind smile. "His Grace has already been more than generous by allowing us the use of his lovely home. Although I must own I am rather surprised he and his wife won't be spending the season in town. They are recently married, are they not?" she asked, recalling a piece of gossip she had learned from Mr. Barrymore.

  "Not quite a year," Mrs. Musgrove said, looking as pleased as if she had arranged the match herself. "But Her Grace is already increasing, you see, and it wouldn't do for her to stay in the city . . . begging your pardon, my lady."

  "Not at all, Mrs. Musgrove," Melanie replied briskly, mentally shaking her head at the foibles of society which dictated an unmarried girl had to be deaf and dumb about even the most basic facts of life. Eager to acquit the housekeeper of any impropriety, she added, "You forget I have spent the past five years traveling with my father, and there is little I do not know of the world. Once one has seen a beggar woman giving birth in the middle of a crowded bazaar, there isn't much left that can shock one."

  "My patience me, did you really see such a sight?" Mrs. Musgrove gasped, torn between shock and fascination. "A gently bred girl like you? Whatever could those heathen devils be thinking of?"

  "The Egyptians are more matter-of-fact about life and death," Melanie replied, pausing to inspect the hand-painted wallpaper. "And in any case, I don't think the poor woman had much say in the matter. The babe would come regardless of where she was, and there was naught we could do but make her as comfortable as we could."

  "You helped her?" Mrs. Musgrove's eyes widened in astonishment.

  "There was no one else," Melanie said simply, sobering as she recalled the pitiful woman's terror. "A Moslem woman would die sooner than allow a strange man to touch her, and as she had no female relations to help her, there was nothing else I could do. I could hardly walk away and leave her to die."

  Mrs. Musgrove shook her head in obvious disapproval, muttering beneath her breath as they continued the tour. They parted company, and Melanie went upstairs to rest until luncheon. As she was going by the study which her father had claimed as his own, she thought she'd stop and wish him good morning. The door was standing slightly open, and without thinking she pushed it open and walked in. Mr. Davies was standing by the desk, and when he sensed her presence he whirled around to face her.

  "Good morning, my lady, was there something you wanted?" Drew asked, silently cursing her untimely arrival. He knew he had taken a risk searching the earl's desk, but it was a chance he had felt compelled to take. If the blasted chit hadn't interrupted him, he might have gotten a peek at the contents of the sealed envelope he had found in the top drawer; now it would have to wait.

  "No, I was just looking for my father," Melanie said, wondering what he was doing in her father's study. At home, Fulford would never have gone into a room unless summoned. Then she remembered that this was the Duke of Marchfield's home, and that as his employee, Davies was well within the bounds of propriety to keep an eye on things.

  "He and Mr. Barrymore are in the library, Lady Melanie," Drew said, skillfully guiding her from the room. "Was there some message you wished to give him? If so, I would be happy to have a footman deliver it for you."

  "No, thank you, Davies," she said, unconsciously noting his height and the breadth of his shoulders as she walked beside him. She wondered suddenly if he had ever served in the army, for there was something in the proud way he carried himself that put her in mind of the soldiers that she had met during her travels.

  "Did you enjoy your tour of the house, my lady? I trust Mrs. Musgrove answered all your questions?" Drew asked, wishing Halvey had spent more time instructing him in the correct method of discoursing with one's employers. He wasn't even sure if it was proper for him to engage her in conversation, but neither was he certain he could simply walk away without a word.

  "Oh, yes, it is a lovely home. You and the staff are to be commended," Melanie said, not seeming to notice his discomfiture. "And Mrs. Musgrove is an exceptional household manager, although I fear I may have given her sensibilities a bit of a shock."

  This was hardly the sort of conversation he imagined he should be having, but he was at a loss as to what he should do. He tried imagining how Halvey would respond to the little minx's sally, and immediately one of his dark brown eyebrows rose in haughty inquiry. "Indeed?"

  Melanie nodded her head and launched into a quick recitation of what she had already told Mrs. Musgrove. "So you see," she concluded with a laugh, "there was nothing else to be done. The poor woman shrieked at the very notion of a doctor attending her. And once I had actually observed one practicing his art, my sympathies were entirely with her. I know I wouldn't want one of them treating me!"

  "Yes," Drew agreed, momentarily lost in thought, "the hakims are quite useless, and usually so superstitious that the cures they offer are worse than the disease."

  "That is so. I recall once one of our servants was quite ill, and I—" She broke off suddenly, her violet eyes wide as she stared at him. "How did you know that?"

  "Know what, my lady?"

  "That in Egypt physicians are sometimes called hakims," Melanie answered, recalling her earlier speculations about him. She cocked her head to one side, regarding him with interest. "Have you ever been in Egypt, Davies?"

  Drew could cheerfully have bitten off his own tongue, but having spoken the word, he could see no way of recalling it without mak
ing Lady Melanie even more suspicious than she already was. Thinking quickly, he allowed a faintly disappointed look to cross his face. "No, my lady, I have never been out of England, unfortunately. It was my cousin, Richard, who had the honor of visiting that ancient land. He was valet to a Captain Briggs, and he accompanied him there. Richard used to write me on occasion, and I recall him mentioning the doctors. He had a very low opinion of their skills; they all but quacked his poor employer to death."

  "Oh." It seemed a plausible enough explanation, and Melanie let the matter drop. They continued down the hall, parting company at the top of the stairs.

  Thank God he had talked his way out of that trap, Drew thought as he made his way down the stairs. It would seem Lady Melanie was far brighter than he had credited her, and he would have to be very careful to guard his tongue the next time he spoke to her. Not that there would be many such occasions, he reminded himself with relief. As a rule, the lady of the house had very little to do with the butler, a circumstance for which he was highly grateful. It would seem the beauteous Lady Melanie had a decidedly adverse effect upon his mental processes. The less he saw of her, the better.

  Luncheon was a quiet affair, the conversation centering on the many changes in London and expectations for the coming season. Miss Evingale had recovered from the journey, and she was as eager as anyone to begin exploring the metropolis. Lord Terrington was unusually quiet, and noting his preoccupation, Melanie set out to tease him out of the doldrums.

  "Well, you are certainly dressed bang up to the nines, Papa," she said, her amethyst eyes sparkling with laughter. "Might I ask where you're going looking so dashing?"

  "Whitehall," Lord Terrington replied, brightening somewhat at Melanie's words. "Mr. Barrymore and I are hoping to speak to the Foreign Secretary. I still haven't heard about my new post, and I mean to discuss the matter with him personally."

  From his position behind the earl's chair, Drew stiffened with interest at the unexpected turn in the conversation. After spending the last hour listening to the most boring of domestic chatter, he had learned little of value, and he was beginning to wonder if Sir had erred in placing him in the household. Apparently he had been too impatient; Sir was always saying it was one of his few faults as an agent. Keeping his expression carefully blank, he moved closer to the table, not wishing to miss a word of what was being said.

  "I'm sure there must be some explanation, Papa," Melanie soothed, although privately she had to admit she was beginning to have some troubling doubts of her own. Even though her father had been forced to abandon his last mission through no fault of his own, it could still be read in some circles as a failure. The fact he had yet to be assigned a new post boded ill for them, and she prayed the matter would soon be happily resolved.

  "Well, if there is one, I mean to have it," the earl said, his tone grim. "I am not without influence, and I shall use every ounce of it if I must. Even if I cannot see Castlereagh, I am hoping to have a word with Lord Penning, provided he is in," he added, thinking of the many doors which seemed closed to him of late.

  "It is interesting you should mention Lord Penning," Mr. Barrymore said suddenly, turning to face the earl. "I have just received a letter from an old schoolmate of mine, a Mr. Frederick Allen. It seems he has recently become His Grace's clerk, and I was hoping to call upon him while we are in London. With your permission, of course." He gave Lord Terrington a diffident smile.

  The mention of one of the most powerful men in the admiralty made Drew shift uneasily. The Duke of Penning had access to some highly sensitive material, and he didn't care for the fact that the two men involved in this investigation were planning to visit him. Care would have to be taken to isolate both the duke and this Mr. Allen from anything urgent . . . at least for the immediate future. As Sir was fond of saying, one could never be too cautious.

  "Certainly, Mr. Barrymore, if that is your wish." The earl bestirred himself enough to offer his assistant a paternal smile. "You mustn't think you need to live in my pocket merely because we are in London. Visit your friend, by all means. After all, you have been out of the country almost as long as we have, and I am certain you must have a great deal to say to each other."

  "Indeed we do, my lord," Mr. Barrymore said, looking properly grateful for the earl's generosity. "Indeed we do."

  "I'm sorry to be so late, Sir, but I had to wait until the family left for the afternoon before I could slip away." Drew apologized as he joined Sir in his rented rooms. "I hope you haven't been waiting long?"

  "Only for about an hour," Sir answered, lounging against the faded cushions of his chair, his sea-blue eyes bright as they rested on Drew's face. "And you needn't apologize, Merrick. I know a servant's hours aren't his own."

  "That is so," Drew said with a heartfelt sigh, propping his feet on an ancient hassock. "I have been up since dawn, and it may well be after midnight before I see my bed, especially if the earl should dine out."

  "Is that a possibility?"

  "Perhaps. He and Barrymore are going to Whitehall this afternoon to seek an appointment with the Foreign Secretary. I gather the earl is getting nervous about Castlereagh's refusal to give him a new post."

  "I'll speak to the viscount," Sir said decisively. "We can't afford to arouse Terrington's suspicions, so for the moment we shall have to do our best to keep him happy. What else have you learned?"

  "Barrymore has an old friend clerking in Lord Penning's office," Drew replied, pulling a sheet of paper from the pocket of his black serge jacket and handing it to Sir. "Mr. Frederick Allen. Do you recognize the name?"

  "No, but I will look into it," Sir promised, pocketing the paper. "We'll send Penning up to his country house in the Cotswold until the matter is resolved, just to be certain. One can never be too—"

  "Cautious," Drew finished for him, a faint smile touching his mouth. "That is what I thought you would say. I suppose I should also add that Terrington was planning on calling upon His Grace. Apparently he thinks the duke can intercede with Castlereagh on his behalf. Is there some connection between the two we don't know of?"

  "They were neighbors at one time," Sir answered, searching his prodigious memory for the information. "And as is usually the case with the gentry, they are very distantly related. Fifth cousins, if I am not mistaken. But Terrington is deluding himself if he thinks Penning will be of any assistance to him. The Foreign Office and the Admiralty have been at daggers drawn over the Orders in Council for the past five months. Have you anything else to report?"

  "Not as much as I would like," Drew admitted, rising to his feet to pace the small drawing room. Like the rest of the suite, the room was poorly furnished in ancient furniture that looked as if it had been salvaged from someone's attic. The humble lodgings befitted Sir's public image as a rake down on his luck, and Drew often wondered how Sir could bear such depressing surroundings.

  "The earl guards his dispatch box like an old maid guards her virtue," he expanded, crossing the room to stand before the fire smoking sullenly in the sooty fireplace. "Which means those dispatches couldn't have been taken without his knowledge. Also, while I was supervising the unpacking of his belongings, I noted Barrymore has a wardrobe that would make the prince swoon with envy. Unless the earl pays him a salary that is generous beyond belief, it would seem our young assistant has a private income we haven't uncovered."

  "I shouldn't think that possible," Sir said, frowning over the information. "Your investigation was quite thorough, and there was no hint of any money at that time. His wardrobe is extensive, you say?"

  "And far above the touch of most assistants," Drew replied, recalling the costly garments that had been placed in the cedar wardrobe. "Coats by Weston, silk pantaloons, and brocade waistcoats in every color imaginable. The fellow is quite the beau. I didn't see any jewelry, but I shouldn't be surprised if he doesn't have a diamond or two tucked away."

  "Most interesting, and something well worth further investigation," Sir praised, pouring Drew a cu
p of coffee from a tarnished but still functional silver pot. "Good work, Captain."

  "Thank you, Sir." Drew accepted the chipped china cup, faintly flattered by his commander's words. "Shall I search his rooms once he is settled?"

  "Only if you can do so without risk to yourself. Butlers aren't usually found abovestairs, and it might prove awkward for you to be found where you should not be."

  "That has already happened," Drew said with a rueful shake of his head, telling Sir how Lady Melanie discovered him in her father's study. "And then to make matters worse, I slipped and used the word hakim in her presence. The next thing I knew she was asking me if I had ever been in Egypt."

  "What did you tell her?"

  "I spun her some Banbury tale about my cousin Richard serving as a valet to a captain, and how I had learned the word from him."

  "Do you think she believed you?" Sir demanded, some of the tenseness leaving his hard face.

  "I think so." Drew shrugged his shoulders uncertainly. "She didn't pursue the matter, at least, and from what I observed of her, had she suspected anything untoward, she would have plagued me to death before letting me go."

  "Ah, yes, I recall you mentioning she had a sharp tongue. You also said she was most comely."

  "Yes, she is quite lovely," Drew admitted, a vision of Melanie in the lovely gown she had worn at luncheon tugging at his mind. The color had brought out the deep violet of her eyes, and made her skin glow with the richness of cream. He had thought she had looked like an angel or a fairy sprite, and it had taken all of his considerable training as a soldier to keep from staring at her in appreciation.

  "Are you attracted to her?" Sir asked in his usual blunt manner.

  "Sir!"

  "I must know, Merrick." Sir's voice was firm. "Our very lives and the safety of our nation rest upon your carrying out this mission in a successful manner. If there is a chance of your becoming attached to Lady Melanie or of that attachment somehow coloring your judgment, it is important that you tell me now."