Her Ladyship's Man

by Joan Overfield

  She would also have to think of some way of returning the knife to the kitchens, Melanie realized, opening the door and walking over to the desk. Apparently there was more to this investigating business than she had first supposed, she mused, her lips quirking in a smile as she bent down to retrieve the knife. It was gone.

  Chapter Seven

  Melanie stared at the blank expanse of carpet in stunned dismay. It had to be here, she thought frantically, scrambling around on her knees as her fingers felt under the desk. There was nothing, no sign of the knife or the mysterious forces that had spirited it away. She sat back on her haunches, forcing her frozen mind to function.

  Perhaps one of the servants had innocently happened along, and finding the knife, had simply returned it to the kitchens. But even as this thought occurred to her, she rejected it. She had been gone from the room less than a minute, and there was no way a servant, or anyone else for that matter, could have slipped out of the room and down the hall without her seeing them, which left only one logical conclusion, she realized, her stomach clenching with dread. Someone had been in the room with her.

  But who, and why had he taken her knife with him? Both Mr. Barrymore and her father had been gone for well over an hour, and she found it difficult to envision either Miss Evingale or her grandmother behaving in so clandestine a fashion. Her companion lacked the wit to carry the thing off successfully, and such subtlety was beyond Lady Charlotte's abrasive but forthright personality. Which left the servants, she decided, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. And she thought she might have a very good idea what servant that might be. Davies.

  She thought of everything she did and did not know of him. He was young, much too young to be a butler, and far too handsome as well. In the past week she had been in any number of elegant London homes, and not a single butler she had seen looked anything like Davies. Then there was the time she had caught him in the study, standing beside this very desk. And he knew what a hakim was, she remembered, struggling awkwardly to her feet. If he was not the villain, she would eat each and every one of Miss Evingale's Gothics!

  But in the next moment she was frowning again. It couldn't be Davies, she realized, her confusion mounting. Papa said the dispatches had disappeared during their last year in Washington, and Davies had been safely tucked away on the Duke of Marchfield's country estates at that time. Or had he? She shook her head in bewilderment. None of this made the slightest bit of sense to her.

  On the one hand, Davies was the only possible suspect, but on the other hand, he couldn't possibly be involved in whatever mischief was afoot. But whatever the case, she vowed she would keep a closer eye on the butler. If he made any movement she considered suspicious, then she would decide what she must do.

  After returning the knife to the pantry, Drew retired to his room to pace and think. Now, here was a fine kettle of fish, and no mistake about it, he thought, raking an impatient hand through his tousled hair. What had Melanie been thinking when she came creeping into that study? She hadn't even opened some of those documents, and the others she had discarded after scarcely glancing at them. If she'd been looking for something important, wouldn't she have taken greater care in examining the papers? And if she wasn't looking for anything specific, then why had she broken into the desk in the first place? He shook his head. This was without doubt the most convoluted mission he had ever undertaken for Sir, and he wished to heaven it was over.

  He paused in his pacing to study his reflection in the mirror; the frown wrinkling his brow growing more pronounced as he remembered Melanie's conversation with Barrymore. She had been so eloquent in her father's defense, and so patently eager to help prove his innocence. Why then would she turn around and search his office without his permission? Unless—his golden-brown eyebrows met over the bridge of his nose—unless she had broken into the desk looking for some sort of information that would help her clear his name.

  No, he dismissed the thought angrily, not even Melanie could be that big of a gudgeon. And yet, he admitted with mounting exasperation, it sounded precisely like something the minx would do. She was as obstinate and headstrong as she was beautiful, and he could easily imagine her devising such a stratagem.

  The realization that he was allowing his partiality for Melanie to delude him occurred to Drew, and he was too good an agent to ignore the possibility. With so much at stake, he knew he dared not trust his own judgment in the matter, and he decided he would have to confide in Sir.

  The Terringtons would be dining out this evening, which meant he would have at least four hours to himself. He could slip over to Sir's rooms near Covent Garden for a quick conference and be back in Mayfair long before the family returned home. Drew's eyes flicked to the small clock on his bedside table. It was almost noon; with any luck Sir would still be at home. He'd send a message requesting a meeting, and hopefully he would receive a reply by the time the family had left. If not, he'd simply have to risk contacting Sir on his own. Events were moving rather quickly now, and his excellently honed senses warned him they were approaching a crisis point. And when that point came, Drew was determined to be ready for any eventuality.

  "You aren't accompanying the others tonight?" Drew asked, staring at Melanie in dismay. "Is there some sort of problem, my lady?"

  "Not at all, Davies," Melanie replied serenely, her expression cool as she studied the butler's unhappy countenance. "I simply didn't feel like dining out this evening. Why?" She turned the tables on him with a sweet smile.

  "No reason, Lady Melanie," Drew said, masking his anger at her sardonic reply. He might have known the little she-devil would manage to throw a spanner into his carefully laid plans, he thought, his agile mind working to overcome this newest difficulty. "I was merely concerned that you might not be feeling well, that is all."

  "Oh, I am in the best of health," she assured him with a glittering smile. "But as tomorrow night is my presentation at Court, I thought it best to make an early night of it. I shall be retiring quite shortly, as a matter of fact."

  "A wise plan, my lady," Drew agreed with relief. With her tucked snugly in her bed there was still a chance he could slip away from the house undetected.

  "I am glad you approve," Melanie murmured, trying not to laugh at the scheming look that stole across Davies's face. She could swear she could hear the thoughts racing inside his head, and what she heard reaffirmed her decision to remain at home rather than spend another useless evening listening to the same old tired gossip.

  She had gotten the idea from one of Miss Evingale's newer books, The Dreadful House of Clymsford, wherein the clever heroine pretended to be asleep while the villain was skulking about doing his evil deeds. That Flavia was entombed in a crypt for her pains was dismissed as unimportant, for she had eventually found her way out. What mattered most was that the villain had been lulled into a false sense of security by the heroine's actions, thereby bringing about his own downfall. She had no idea what Davies might be up to, but she was resolved to find out.

  "Would you care for a glass of milk before you retire, my lady?" Drew asked solicitously, remembering the laudanum Mrs. Musgrove kept locked in her cupboard for the maids. "It might be just the thing to help you sleep."

  Melanie was sure it would, being liberally laced with heaven only knew what kind of heathenish potion. "That sounds lovely, Davies, thank you, although I'm sure it won't be necessary," she answered, stifling a delicate yawn behind her hand. "I am so fagged, I vow I shall sleep until morning. Please see to it that I'm not disturbed, won't you?"

  "Very good, my lady, and I will have one of the maids bring you the milk in the event you should want it," Drew said, pleased with the way things had worked out. With Melanie lightly drugged with laudanum, he would have no difficulty keeping his rendezvous with Sir. "Sleep well."

  "Oh, I will," Melanie demurred, praying she hadn't overplayed her hand, possibly alerting him to her true purpose. "Good night, Davies."

  Once in her room, she had the maid
assist her into her nightrail, yawning and rubbing at her eyes like an exhausted child. As she expected, a second maid appeared with an appetizing glass of warm milk, dusted with enough nutmeg to mask whatever drug may have been added. She pretended to drink it, but the moment the maid's back was turned she dumped the suspicious mixture into the chamber pot. Satisfied she had succeeded in duping the young girl, she climbed into bed, sleepily bidding her a good night as the door closed.

  Melanie spent the next half hour waiting in the darkness until she was certain the maid wouldn't return, then she got up and cautiously lit one candle, hurriedly donning her oldest gown of blue serge. This accomplished, she extinguished the candle and got back into bed, pulling the covers up over her head. She hadn't long to wait; scarce twenty minutes later the door creaked open, and two figures stealthily approached the bed.

  "There you see, Mr. Davies," the young maid who had assisted her whispered eagerly, " 'tis just as I said, the poor wee thing was that tired. She barely stayed awake long enough for me to tuck her into bed."

  "Are you certain she drank the milk?" Drew asked softly, bending over Melanie and watching the even rise and fall of her breasts beneath the rose counterpane. Her cheeks were warm and slightly flushed, and in the faint light from the hallway he could see the shadows cast by her thick lashes. A strand of black hair lay across her high cheekbone, and it took every ounce of will he possessed not to brush it aside.

  "Every drop, sir," he was assured by the breathless maid. "My lady even complained there was too much nutmeg, and asked me to tell Mrs. Musgrove."

  He smiled at that. "I shall tell her myself," he said, turning away from the bed. "In the meanwhile, I want you to check on her every half hour. She should sleep well until morning, but in the event she wakens, try to keep her in the room. I don't know what time I will be returning, and I don't want to find her roaming the halls when I do."

  "Very good, Mr. Davies," the maid agreed, trailing him to the door. "I'll tell Millie, too, mayhap she will help me keep watch." And the door closed behind them.

  Melanie waited for another ten minutes, then scrambled hurriedly from the bed. Not daring to risk lighting another candle, she found her shoes in the darkness, slipping her bare feet into the soft leather slippers. She fumbled for her cape, flinging it about her shoulders and then racing from the room as silently as a ghost.

  There was no one about as she crept down the stairs, although she could hear the sound of laughter coming from the servants' hall. Well, let them laugh, she decided crossly, her fingers shaking as she cautiously lifted the door latch. It would seem the entire household, including the motherly Mrs. Musgrove, was involved in Davies's nefarious plot, and the very notion filled her with indignation. Was there no one she could trust, she wondered somewhat angrily.

  It was cool outside, the late April evening still carrying a touch of winter's chill. Melanie's slippered feet made no noise as she crossed the cobblestoned street, hiding herself behind a neighbor's house, where she could watch the back of her own house without being seen. She waited for what seemed an eternity before a caped figure came out the servants' exit. She had no trouble recognizing Davies's broad shoulders and proud carriage as he turned down the street, his long-legged stride making it difficult for her to keep up with him.

  Drew kept his head down, his collar turned up against the damp wind as he walked purposefully toward the inn where he had arranged to meet Sir. There was much he had to tell his superior, and he found himself dreading what his reaction might be. Although he admired Sir and would willingly lay down his life on his behalf, there was no denying that the man was as cold and ruthless as the sea. If he believed Melanie to be involved in whatever rig Barrymore was running, then he would be totally without mercy.

  A carriage rumbling by made Drew pause at the corner, and as was his habit, he stole a quick glance over his shoulder. The small figure emerging out of the ever-deepening fog made him tense, his hand reaching automatically for the knife in his pocket. But as the figure drew closer, he could see it was only a housemaid doubtlessly scurrying to an assignation of her own, and he turned away in disinterest.

  The streets around the small tavern where he was to meet Sir were filled with revelers, and more than once Drew had to step aside to let them pass. He had almost reached The Blue Stallion when he heard a sharp cry behind him. He turned around in time to see the small maid, who was apparently still following him, being dragged into the darkened alleyway by a burly-set man. Cursing the man's poor sense of timing, he pulled the knife from his pocket and raced into the alley after them.

  Melanie never even saw the man. One moment Davies was just ahead of her, and the next a strong set of arms had closed about her, a hard and filthy hand clamping over her mouth and choking off her scream. Despite her terror, Melanie fought with all her strength, her heavy skirts hampering her attempts to free herself. Her struggles only seemed to amuse her captor, who flung her against the brick wall in back of her, his brutal hands tearing at her cloak.

  "Come on, dearie, give us a peek, eh?" He laughed drunkenly, his slurred words increasing Melanie's terror as it dawned on her what he intended to do. "Ol' Ben just wants some lovin', there's my girl." He slipped a hand inside her cloak, grabbing at the tender flesh beneath.

  "No!" Melanie screamed, struggling furiously to free herself from this nightmarish situation. "Let me go!"

  "Hush, you bitch!" Her assailant clamped his hand back over her mouth and nose, shutting off her air and making it impossible to breathe. Melanie fought against the darkness that swirled around her, sheer terror giving her a strength she did not know she possessed.

  Just as she was certain she would surely faint, the man holding her gave a convulsive jerk, his eyes widening for a moment and then slowly going blank as he slumped against her, his body sliding to the filthy stones.

  Melanie first thought he must have passed out from drink, then in the flickering light of the torch burning near the alleyway's entrance, she saw the handle of the blade protruding from his back. She swayed on her feet, her mouth opening for the scream that was caught in her throat. Bright lights danced before her eyes as she tried to force her voice to work.

  "Are you all right?" Another pair of arms, just as strong as the first man's but strangely different, slipped around Melanie's waist, guiding her gently from the alley. "Don't worry about that vermin, he won't cause you any further trouble. Poor child, did he hurt you?"

  The voice was tender and reassuring and oddly familiar as well. Slowly Melanie managed to raise her head, violet eyes made wide from shock resting on her rescuer's face. "Davies," she said quite clearly, and then fainted into Drew's waiting arms.

  "I didn't know what else to do," a frantic voice emerged out of the safe gray fog that sheltered Melanie, disturbing her slumber and making her faintly fretful, and she willed it to go away. "She'd fainted dead away from the shock."

  "I agree you could hardly leave her lying on the sidewalk, but you must realize this does complicate matters. I suppose I needn't ask what happened to the whoreson that attacked her?" A second voice was speaking, and Melanie's brows puckered faintly. What were all these men doing in her bedchamber? It didn't seem quite proper to her.

  "Dead. I left my best knife in his back, too, blast it all. The mudlarks will have scooped it up by now along with whatever else they could steal from the bastard's body. God, when I think of what that animal might have done to her if I hadn't been there, I—"

  It all came back to her then, the drugged milk, her escape from the house, and lastly the man dragging her into the darkened alley. Melanie sat up, the scream she had been unable to utter exploding from her throat.

  "It's all right, Melanie." Davies was bending over her, his hazel eyes moving over her face with obvious concern. But rather than being assured, Melanie shrank away from him, cowering against the back of the couch on which she lay.

  "You killed him," she croaked, her voice husky from strain. "I saw the knife in his back
. . ."

  "I had to, my dear, the bastard was going to rape you. It was the only way I could stop him," Drew explained soothingly, his heart twisting at the fear and revulsion he saw on Melanie's face. He hated it that she should look at him with loathing in her eyes.

  Melanie shook her head wildly, her dark hair flying about her shoulders. The memory of the blankness spreading across the dead man's face was imprinted on her mind, and she knew she would never forget watching the life flicker and then die in his dark eyes. Not all the Gothics she had read, despite their lurid passages, had prepared her for the brutal reality of such a sudden and violent death.

  "Drink this." A snifter of brandy was thrust into her hands, and she dully raised the glass to her lips. The sharp bite of the potent liquor made her choke, but as it hit her stomach, spreading its burning warmth through her frozen limbs, she felt some of the raw panic crowding her subside. As her control returned, so did an awareness of her surroundings, and she raised her head to gaze slowly around the darkened room.

  It was small, and if the shabby furniture was any indication, a parlor of some kind. She could see a door in one corner of the room, and a large stone fireplace in the other. A cheerful fire was burning in the grate, casting a warm reddish glow through the room and illuminating the features of the man standing over her.

  He was tall, taller even than Davies, with a hard, muscular body that looked somewhat incongruous in his blue velvet evening jacket and cream satin breeches. Thick blond hair was brushed back from a broad forehead, and eyes the brilliant blue of a tropical sea glittered out at her from beneath a pair of straight, tawny-gold eyebrows. Even as part of her mind registered the fact that she had never seen a more handsome man, she also realized she had never seen a more dangerous-looking one.

  As if in response to her thoughts, the man's full lips thinned into a cool smile. "I believe your employer has recovered from her fit of the vapors," he said, his eyes flicking over Melanie's head to rest on Davies. "Perhaps you can reassure her we don't mean to slit her throat and dump her in the Thames."