Her Ladyship's Man

by Joan Overfield

  In the most hidden recesses of her heart Lady Cassiopia knew she had no other choice. Her murdered brother's spirit called out to her from the nether world demanding revenge upon the archvillain who had taken his life. To ignore his ghostly cry was impossible, and so she bravely set aside her own tremulous fear and reached out for the doorknob to Roberto's secret chamber.

  By the time the maid returned to help her dress for dinner that night, Melanie had already finished the first book and was well into the second. Miss Evingale was right, she thought as the maid arranged her hair in a lover's knot. The books did make for fast reading, which was probably fortunate, as they were so badly written. But the flowery prose and cloying sentimentality aside, she had discovered that the books all seemed to share a common theme: Nothing was ever as it first appeared.

  The lowliest of scullery maids would prove to be a long-lost princess, highborn lords or ladies were inevitably scheming servants who had usurped their master's position, and the closest of friends was revealed in the final pages of the story to be the most deadly of enemies. It was this last revelation that troubled her most, for it seemed to verify her suspicion that whoever was betraying Papa was someone they both knew and trusted.

  They were to dine at the home of Lord Canaby, a former diplomat once stationed in New York, so Melanie was not surprised to learn that Mr. Barrymore was to join them. It did surprise her, however, when he asked to speak with her privately while they were waiting for the carriage to be brought around.

  "Certainly, Mr. Barrymore," she answered, shooting him a quizzical look. "Is there something amiss?"

  "Not at all," he assured her, guiding her into the earl's study. "But I thought we should talk. You see, your father has told me that you have learned of the vicious rumors that are being circulated about him."

  "Do you mean you knew, too?" Melanie asked, feeling faintly shocked by the admission. Good heavens, was she the only one in London who didn't know, she wondered unhappily.

  "I am your father's assistant," Mr. Barrymore answered, sitting behind the earl's desk. "It is only natural to assume that if he is under suspicion, then so am I. That is what I wished to speak to you about."

  "What do you mean?" Melanie asked, the plot of the book she was now reading springing unbidden to her mind. Although she was only halfway through the story, she strongly suspected the villain would turn out to be the earnest young man who was always warning the heroine away from the locked cellar door.

  "Your father said that you were quite upset by what you heard, and that you thought he should take some sort of action. Is that not so?"

  "Yes," she agreed cautiously, studying him through half-lowered lashes.

  "As it happens, I agree with you," Mr. Barrymore said, his blue eyes twinkling at her look of astonishment. "I take it you thought I would share his sentiments?"

  Melanie nodded, her shoulders slumping with relief as she realized she now had an ally. "I admit the possibility did cross my mind," she admitted, giving him a cautious smile. "Papa was so adamant that nothing be done that I feared you might feel the same. I cannot tell you how pleased I am to learn that such is not the case."

  "Not at all," he assured her, his expression serious. "In fact, I even agree with your charge that your father is being set to take the blame for another's crime. Do you have any idea who the villain might be? Other than myself, that is."

  "You?" She stared at him in shock.

  He shrugged his shoulders. "It's a logical assumption, my lady," he said simply. "As his assistant, I have access to the missing documents, and, of course, I am not of noble birth."

  "Mr. Barrymore!" Her cheeks pinked with embarrassed color as she realized she had suspected him. "I am sure such a notion never crossed my mind! And the matter of your birth is of little consequence to me, I assure you."

  "Your ladyship is too kind, but there are others of your class who are not quite so generous," Mr. Barrymore said, a trace of bitterness evident in his soft voice. "If your father has been the object of a few questioning glances of late, it is nothing compared to what I have endured! There are several men in power who would as lief see me hang as to let one of their own stand accused of treason. That is why I must ask your help."

  "What is it you need?"

  "I want you to keep your ears open," he instructed Melanie gently, leaning forward to meet her gaze. "Go to as many balls as you can, and listen for any word, any hint, that might lead us to the real traitor. The moment you hear anything, I want you to come directly to me."

  "Is that all?" Melanie felt vaguely disappointed; even the foolish, swooning heroine in this newest book had more to do than just that.

  "It's more than enough, I promise you." Mr. Barrymore's voice was grim. "You see, as an outsider I am not privy to the types of conversation you will be hearing. And I think we both agree that our villain is of the nobility?"

  "Well, yes, I suppose so," Melanie agreed reluctantly. "Certainly he is someone Papa must know and trust. How else would he have had access to his dispatch box?"

  "My sentiments exactly. And because he is probably one of your own class, you stand the best chance to help trap him. No one would ever suspect you of trying to trap him, would they?"

  This was true, Melanie was forced to agree, and put that way, it did sound rather intriguing. She could pretend to be enjoying herself at every rout and ball in London, and all the while she would be helping Papa to clear his name! Yes, the more she thought of it, the more she decided it was just the sort of thing the heroine in one of her books might do.

  "Very well, Mr. Barrymore," she said, her violet eyes taking on an excited glow. "I shall do as you ask. I shall keep my eyes and ears open, and the moment I hear anything of importance, I shall come to you at once."

  "Excellent!" He gave her a brilliant smile. "And while you're busy doing that, I shall be attempting to determine the source of these rumors. We know they started in Whitehall, but that is all we have been able to learn. With any luck, we shall discover the blackguard's true identity before your father's reputation is irreparably damaged. Now, come." He rose to his feet, offering her his hand. "It is time I returned you to your father, else it is your reputation that is damaged."

  "Damn it all. Now what the devil are we going to do?" Drew muttered angrily, his hazel eyes flashing with fire as he watched the carriage drive away.

  When Mr. Barrymore had taken Lady Melanie into the earl's study, he had followed them, slipping into the room off the hall, where he could listen to their conversation undetected. He told himself it was necessary that he do so, but he knew it was really because he found the notion of Melanie going off for a private conversation with Barrymore oddly disturbing. Certainly he hadn't seen fit to do so when she had spoken with her father earlier this morning, a rather unfortunate oversight on his part, it would seem. Terrington knew everything!

  Another thing which troubled him was the rumor that was already being circulated about the earl. Secrecy was vital to a successful mission, and if Terrington was aware he was under suspicion, then he would be that much more difficult to catch. And if he was not guilty, then the same could be said about the real culprit. Quarry that knew the hunter was there invariably escaped the trap.

  His frown deepened as he thought of what Barrymore had said to Melanie. Logically he would have been suspected first when the documents were discovered missing, and for the very reason he gave her. His birth would have automatically made him suspect in the rather insular world of diplomatic circles, yet a very high-ranking official in that group had vouchsafed his character above one of his own. Why? That was the one piece of the puzzle he had yet to learn.

  "Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Davies." Grisby, Barrymore's valet, appeared at Drew's side, a hopeful expression on his weasellike face. "But I was wonderin' if I might be havin' the rest of the night off? Mr. Barrymore usually gives me the third Thursday free, so's I can go see me sister."

  "Then as it is the third Thursday, Grisby, I suppose I
have no objection," Drew replied, slipping easily into his role of an upperservant lording it over one he considered an inferior. "Will you be gone all night?"

  "Oh, can't be sayin', Mr. Davies," Grisby said, giving him a broad wink. "Depends on me sister, if ye takes my meaning. But I reckons ye'll see me when ye see me."

  "We will be locking the doors one hour after his lordship and his party return home, Grisby." As a butler, Drew did not lower himself to gossip with the valet. "If you aren't in your room, then I fear you will have to seek accommodations elsewhere. Also, will Mr. Barrymore be requiring the services of one of our footmen in your stead?"

  "Nah, his nibs can do just fine on his own." Grisby dismissed his employer with a cavalier shrug of his beefy shoulders. " 'Sides, Mr. Barrymore be almighty particular about his fancy clothes an' them sparklers o' his. Don't let nobody but ol' Grisby touch 'em," he added, his chest swelling with pride.

  Drew was careful to hide his interest. Until now Grisby had been tight-lipped to the point of being suspiciously secretive, but apparently the thought of a few hours pleasure in his doxy's arms had loosened his tongue, and Drew was eager to exploit the fact. Calling upon a servant's usual tendency to brag about his employer, he allowed a faintly skeptical expression to flit across his face.

  "Indeed?" he asked coolly. "I have yet to see Mr. Barrymore wearing any sort of jewelry. However, there is a fine safe in the house should he wish to keep his watch fobs there."

  "Watch fobs?" Grisby's cheeks puffed out with indignation. "Mr. Barrymore has a lot more'n watch fobs! Why, that last sparkler o' his were as big as me thumb! An' plen'y more where that come from, he tole me!"

  "I see." Drew resolved to search Barrymore's rooms the moment Grisby left. "Well, then I should definitely suggest to Mr. Barrymore that he avail himself of our safe. His Grace has an excellent one hidden in his private chambers."

  "Mr. Barrymore don't need your tin safe!" Grisby sniffed with disdain. "He can take care of what's his, don' you be worryin'. He carries a brace o'pistols with him, an' he'll use 'em, too, if anyone was to come snoopin' around. He's bang up to the nines, is my Mr. Barrymore!"

  "The duke has an armory at his estate in the country." Drew defended his alleged employer with the dogged loyalty of an old retainer. "And he is both a skilled marksman and a fencer of some note."

  They spent another few minutes extolling the virtues of their respective employers, and when Drew felt he had soothed any suspicions Grisby might be harboring, he said, "You may go now, if you wish, Grisby. As I said, we lock the doors one hour after the earl's return. If you aren't in, then you will have to spend the night in the cold."

  "Oh, I won't be cold, guv'." Grisby forgot himself enough to poke Drew in the ribs, a lascivious grin spreading across his face. "See you on the morrow, then."

  Less than twenty minutes later Drew was staring down at a large diamond fob, a soundless whistle pursing his lips. Whatever his other faults, it was obvious Grisby wasn't prone to exaggeration. The diamond in his hand was at least two carats in weight, and the chain it was hanging from was pure gold. He turned it over, noting the small crest that had been stamped into the shiny metal. He held it closer to the flickering candlelight, his brows meeting in a frown as he studied the design. There was something about it that was vaguely familiar; then he remembered the ruby ring.

  Two minutes later he held the ring and fob side by side, studying the feathered crest carefully. It was a heraldic device, that much he could tell, but it wasn't one he recognized. He took a piece of paper and pen from the desk and traced the crest to show Sir, reasoning that if anyone would know what it meant, it would be his superior.

  That done, he conducted a quick search of Barrymore's private correspondence, looking for anything that might explain his sudden affluence. He found several bills from his tailor, all marked paid, and a few markers for gaming debts, but nothing of a more personal nature. Disgusted, he was about to give up when something made him take a closer look at the name on one of the markers. Parkinson. He stared at the name, wondering why he should recognize it, then in a flash it came to him. Parkinson was Lord Marlehope's son and heir, and, if memory served, an up-and-coming officer in the Foreign Service.

  Using the same pen and paper he had used to copy the crest, Drew transcribed the marker for Sir. He was certain Sir would be interested in the connection, especially if it had been Marlehope who had arranged for Barrymore to be hired by Terrington; and Marlehope who swore to Barrymore's innocence in the matter now under investigation. All in all a good night's work, he decided, giving the room a final glance to make sure he had left no trace of his snooping behind. Sir would be pleased.

  Melanie spent the next week attending every ball to which she had been invited and studiously devouring the Gothics Miss Evingale had lent her. Although she learned little of interest with her eavesdropping, she did find the novels to be most instructive, and she soon grew restive to act upon her newfound knowledge. The first thing she decided she must do was to take a more active role in the mystery.

  In her Gothics the heroines were forever sneaking about, peeking into locked drawers and snooping around abandoned dungeons. There were no dungeons in Marchfield House, but there was a locked drawer in the desk in Papa's study. If she was to clear his name, she decided, she would have to know what was inside.

  She waited until Papa and Mr. Barrymore had left for the day before making her try. It was the day before her presentation, and with the household so distracted, she was certain no one would notice her stealing into her father's study. Not that it should really matter, she thought, creeping down the hallway. It was Papa's house, after all, and if anyone should dare question her, she could simply say she was looking for something. But in the books, stealth was indicated as being of major importance, and she thought it best not to quibble with the experts.

  The room looked perfectly ordinary in the bright sunlight pouring through the open drapes, and for a moment Melanie was vaguely disappointed. It would have been much more intriguing if she'd had to do her snooping in a dark and deserted monastery, as had Constance Bartholomew in The Sinister Hand. She crossed the pale cream and blue carpet to the desk, extracting the butter knife she had slipped into her pocket a few minutes earlier. In another moment she was behind the desk, regarding the shiny brass lock with a frown. The author had simply written that Constance had used a knife to open the rusty lock on the poor box, but she hadn't indicated precisely how this was accomplished. Ah, well. She shrugged her slender shoulders and bent her head over the desk, cautiously prying at the drawer with the flat edge of the knife.

  From his position behind the drapes, Drew watched her amateurish probings with grim interest. He had seen her stealthy progress down the hall, and realizing she was heading for the study, he had quickly availed himself of the secret passage into the room which Marchfield had prudently shown him. He had barely hidden himself behind the drapes when she slipped soundlessly into the room.

  So Melanie was involved, he thought angrily, his hands clenching into tight fists. The little baggage! And here he had all but convinced Sir that the real traitor was Barrymore. Not that he could entirely rule the assistant out, of course. The two could well be working as confederates. But why? What possible reason could Melanie have for putting her head in a noose? The only reason he could think of was love, and he was shocked to discover that he found the thought of Melanie in love with Barrymore almost as hateful as the notion of her being involved in treason.

  The sound of wood giving way was followed by Melanie's soft gasp of delight as the knife fell to the floor. He ventured a cautious peek around the edge of the crimson velvet drape, watching as she lifted the sealed papers from the drawer.

  "It worked!" she exclaimed triumphantly, lifting the first document and peeking at its contents eagerly. She found nothing of interest and set it down, studying the remaining papers with the same hopeful caution. It was only as she examined all of them that she realized that she had
no notion of what she should be searching for. Papa had said only that some of his dispatches had found their way into enemy hands, but he had never told her precisely what those dispatches contained. Nor would he, she realized glumly. Papa never discussed such things with her.

  Glancing down at the papers in her hand, a faint sense of shame and embarrassment began creeping over her. She had broken into the duke's desk and betrayed her father's trust in her, and all for naught. Clearly she was not destined to be a heroine, she decided with a heavy sigh as she rose to her feet.

  She was returning the papers to the desk when the sensation she was being watched stole over her. She'd felt tendrils of the sensation earlier when she had forced the lock, but she had shrugged the feeling aside as guilt. Now there was no ignoring the sickening feeling of awareness that was hammering at her consciousness. Taking a deep breath to steady her racing pulses, she whirled around to confront her unseen observer. There was nothing, not even the slightest movement or sound to indicate another's presence in the study.

  Melanie eyed the drapes cautiously, even taking a step toward them before she realized how foolishly she was behaving. Idiot! She gave a self-conscious laugh, mentally scolding herself for acting in such a missish fashion. Of course there was no one in the room. The only way into the room was through the door, and she would have known if anyone had entered. Shaking her head at her own gullibility, she straightened her skirts and quietly exited the room.

  It was only when she was halfway up the stairs that she remembered the butter knife lying on the carpet. If it were discovered, then someone would know Papa's desk had been searched, and she shuddered to think of the havoc it would wreak were she found to be the culprit. Repressing a small sigh, she turned and retraced her steps to the study.