by Kit Donner
Abruptly, Mr. Gibbs raised his fist, aiming to smite his anger at the squirming child.
“No, I won’t let you!” she cried and snatched Lem out of his grasp. Mr. Gibbs’s hand arched down and knocked her to the floor, her head ringing in pain. She watched as the butler, his face still contorted with hostility, started toward her, but Londringham grabbed him from behind and spun the surprised butler to face him.
“I have been grievously deceived by your nature. You are no longer in my employ.”
Patience watched in a cloud of pain as the earl confronted the brutal butler. If she had feared Mr. Gibbs for the cruelty emanating from him, it was nothing compared to the aggressive, lionlike power the earl now displayed. She saw the butler take a step back, fearful of his former employer.
Mr. Gibbs put up a hand to ward off any possible threat and declared defensively, “They were not on duty, I…I was only trying to discipline them.”
Bryce, his face taut with fury, spat, “I do not happen to like your form of discipline. I should have rid myself of you a long time ago.” He hesitated before throwing the first punch, right to the butler’s nose. “That was for hitting the young woman,” he said succinctly.
Mr. Gibbs landed on his backside, close to the fireplace, his nose a bleeding mess. Before he could rise on his own, Bryce pulled him up by the collar and forcibly hit him in the jaw. “That was for Lem.” This time Bryce’s fist knocked Mr. Gibbs into the wall, and he slid stupidly to the floor.
When Bryce made another move to the butler, Patience called to him, “Please, my lord, no.”
Bryce glanced at Patience and Lem, sitting on the floor, clutching each other and watching the fight in fear. He crossed the few steps in a hurry, anxious to see how they fared. He helped Patience and Lem rise, and, with Lem grasping his coattails, Bryce escorted Patience to the door, but not before Mr. Gibbs had risen unsteadily to his feet.
Bryce told him harshly, “You better be gone before I come back. That is, if you do not want me to finish what I started.”
Luckily, none of the countess’s guests noticed Bryce slip up the stairs with Patience, Lem at his back. He insisted she retire to rest.
Lem waited outside her door as Bryce escorted Patience into her room and watched her recline on the bed, her black lashes drawn down on her pale face. He whispered consolingly to her, “Would that I could have spared you this pain. I should have realized long ago what he was about. Because I have been occupied with other matters, I have not been sufficiently attending to those under my protection. I promise you this will not happen again.”
Her eyes fluttered open as Bryce began to reveal his culpability. She frowned, listening to his self-castigation, and shook her head. “Please, don’t worry. I really am fine, just shaken. I shall be ready to return to my duties tomorrow.” She comforted him with a smile.
Bryce stood up, once again in control, his mouth grim. “Do not worry about your duties. I want you well. Now I must see to Lem and the rest of the guests.” With a curt nod, he left, unable to stop thinking Patience could have been seriously hurt if he had not arrived in time.
And Patience, unable to keep up the façade any longer, broke down and wept heart-wrenching tears that seemed to have no end. For Lem. For Rupert. For the earl, his kindnesses, and for her confusion about who he really was, and how she truly felt about him.
The next morning dawned bright and clear as Patience struggled out of bed. She still felt a twinge of the headache but was anxious to rise and begin the day. Across the hall she heard the servants as they dressed for a busy day of cleaning, cooking, sewing, and pressing for the countess’s guests.
As she wandered down into the kitchen for a bit of fortification she realized that with Mr. Gibbs no longer employed, the house staff had no superior. In the bright, airy kitchen, maids and footmen bustled in and around the huge room, their young, shiny faces breathing new life into the once-melancholy place of inedible repasts.
In the center of the room stood a bald man with a gray goatee and a pince-nez, whose short arms did not match his long legs. With arms akimbo, this undistinguished man controlled everyone’s movements while enjoying himself like a puppeteer with his puppets. He scolded the two women cooks for scalded hot chocolate, directed the duties of two liveried footmen on handling the guests, and snapped his fingers at the twittering maids, led by the flirtatious Myrtle, smug over her newly increased authority.
Patience spied Melenroy sitting by the fireplace, her cap neatly affixed to a gray bun in starched white apron, a beacon of cleanliness and solitude, and totally overlooked. Hands accustomed to usefulness lay empty in the old cook’s lap.
Concerned, Patience walked over to the woman she knew as a dreadful and sullen cook who rarely opened her mouth. She asked, “Is that the new butler?” pointing to the commanding rotund figure in the center of the kitchen.
Melenroy nodded slowly, a lonely sadness in her eyes, and murmured, “Marlow.”
“Do you not have duties for this morning?” Patience, confused over the cook’s inactivity, felt compassion for the woman who seemed to no longer have a place.
“I am not needed. I will lose my job, and I have no place to go,” Melenroy murmured, looking at the floor.
Patience kneeled by her side, the two of them forgotten among the bustling mob of maids, footmen, valets, housemaids, and the commanding presence of the new butler. “Surely you have a place here, no one has dismissed you, have they?” She tried to console the inconsolable.
“It’s only a matter of time. The master hired new cooks, so’s they shan’t be needin’ me. The countess wants me gone,” Melenroy responded, surprising Patience with her verbosity.
Patience stood before replying, “I shall speak to the earl and ask for Marlow to retain you. Perhaps you could be the new cook’s assistant?” she suggested with a smile.
“Would you do that for me?” the cook asked hopefully, amazed at the kindness the younger woman offered.
Patience nodded vigorously, then pulled the older woman to her feet. “Let us first ask Marlow how best you may be employed here in the kitchen, after which, I’ll find the earl to discuss your continuing employment.”
A short discussion with Marlow and Mrs. Knockersmith followed where they agreed to find a place in the kitchen for the old cook. Patience left Melenroy cutting garlic, and went to work on the house accounts in the earl’s study before searching for Lem.
Another of her new responsibilities included schooling Lem in reading and writing. So far, the little scoundrel managed to disappear about the time the learning was to begin. Surprisingly, she found him in the hallway greeting guests. Instruction would have to wait until later, she decided.
Patience also learned that his lordship and the captain were out for an early-morning ride. With the news of the earl’s absence, an idea crept into her head. Was it possible that his lordship might keep a key to his desk drawers in his bedchamber? Spying was so terribly difficult when one had no instruction as to how to go about it. Rubbing her lucky stone, she flew up the stairs before losing her initiative.
She stole down the hallway, anxious of the slightest movement, and surreptitiously entered the earl’s room, without anyone spotting her.
Patience paused, her back against the closed door while she studied the sparsely decorated room, a room she remembered vividly on a rainy night not in the distant past. Sensibilities warred within her. Although it did seem truly wrong to be in his bedchamber looking for clues that might brand the earl a traitor to his country, especially after his thoughtfulness in caring for her, perhaps she could also find reasons to acquit him of her imagined guilt.
After searching several drawers in the cupboard, heart racing, she came away empty-handed. She could not proceed with her search amongst his personal effects, it seemed too wicked. Patience bit her lip, trying to extricate her warm feelings for his lordship from the confusion over the person she was only beginning to know. And that person could not possibly be
a man who would sell secrets to the French or commit murder.
A small box lodged atop the mahogany table beckoned her interest. She approached the tiny chest and lifted the lid hesitantly, hopefully. Almost empty, except for a silver thread of jewelry in the velvet-covered bottom. She took a closer look and gasped. Her locket—the one she had lost on the beach—His lordship had found it!
But before she could dip her hand into the box to claim her possession, she heard the door swing open.
“What are you doing here?” the shrill voice of Myrtle the maid startled Patience, who quickly turned around, shutting the lid on her necklace.
Patience pushed her glasses farther onto her nose. “I was told to find the master’s snuffbox, but it does not appear to be here,” she responded, hoping to sound annoyed by being questioned by the saucy maid.
“Coo, it’s in the study, I’m sure. I have to prepare the fire, if you might excuse me.”
Shoulders back, Patience started for the door, unwillingly leaving behind the one thing she could claim as her own.
It was midafternoon and Patience, intent on her work, had not noticed the lack of sunlight as she sat in the study adding accounts until her vision began to blur. She rose to stretch her sleeping muscles and wandered over to the window, which overlooked the splendid landscaped garden surrounded by many meadowy miles.
The day may have dawned bright but clouds hid the cheerful rays and brought drops of rain, needed by fauna, endured by people. Her face showed complete study, not seeing the rain as she pondered how to return to Winchelsea and find Rupert. She was very concerned about him and truly expected him to impetuously appear at an inopportune time, which would result in a lot of questions and, very probably, his arrest.
All at once, she became aware of the downpour and, wanting to feel the rain on her face, she left the house and walked to the gazebo, a shelter for friends and lovers. She loved this building, painted white with a beautiful carving of Diana, Goddess of the Hunt, on top. She grabbed a column for support and smiled. Even with all her worries about Rupert and her fear that the earl would learn her true reason for working in his household, the rain made her feel like a child again and reminded her of simpler times and long-ago games.
A few minutes later she strolled around the little pavilion, tracing the figurines which lovingly skilled hands had brought to life: Pan playing his flute and a shepherd chasing his love. She rested on a bench before returning to the house.
“Am I interrupting a rendezvous?”
The French accent immediately woke Patience from her daydreams. Countess Isabella’s cousin, Alain Sansouche, stood in the entryway, patting his face dry with a lily-white handkerchief.
Patience looked up, and, hiding her fear, adjusted her mobcap and spectacles, her defenses on guard. Sansouche’s hard face combined with devil-black eyes and thin mouth would frighten any small child, like the bogeyman. She suppressed a shiver that spelled danger. Out of the rain, he propped one shoulder against a fortifying column and studied her frankly, awaiting a reply.
She opened her mouth to speak and hesitated before saying, “I…needed some air while working in the study, I must return. Please excuse me.” She rose, prepared to take flight from the evil she sensed within him. Ironically, she had never felt this way about Lord Londringham, even though she judged him guilty of serious crimes.
When Sansouche stepped farther into the small area, Patience took a step back, their movements echoing an ancient predator-prey dance. He raised his arms in askance with a mocking tone, “Why in such a hurry to leave, little one? I believe you and I have much to discuss.”
Her eyes blazed open with this unforeseen sentiment. “I am sure, sir, we have nothing to discuss. I must return to my duties.” She grasped her skirts to sweep past him, trying to feel more bravado than she felt, when he caught her arm.
Sansouche smiled a smile that chilled her blood. “Are you sure, Patience Mandeley?” He drew his eyelids down to watch her squirm with this ace.
But Patience refused to give him any satisfaction. Stiffening her spine, she laughed. “My name is Patience Simmons. You must be confused.”
He grinned wickedly. “My dear mademoiselle, I do so enjoy the game you play. Perhaps we could play further in my bedchambers? Shall we say, 11 o’clock?” After he took a pinch of snuff, he rubbed his hands together, almost in glee.
“You, sir, are no gentleman to issue such an unsought, unprovoked, and most unwelcome invitation. I wouldn’t come to your room tonight, nor any night after in this lifetime.” Her words rang of high-born gentility and not those of a lowly steward. As soon as her thoughts found voice, she wished them silent. Her rejection could only increase his aggressiveness. Oh, my wayward tongue, she lamented while biting her lip.
Her consternation only spiraled when the Frenchman’s eyes lit in a strange, frightening way. “Haughtiness won’t buy your freedom or your brother’s.”
“To whom do you refer?” Cold fright now flowed in her veins. She needed to escape, to compose herself, before revealing any more.
“I refer to Rupert Mandeley, your brother, wanted for the murder of your cousin Lord Peter Carstairs.” He paused menacingly. “Tonight, then.”
Courage finally returned to her feet. She jerked her arm out of his hold and flew past the Frenchman toward the house, her heart galloping inside, her hands shaking. Her freedom won but at what future cost? Her identity and Rupert’s safety were in the hands of a man determined to do them harm.
Sansouche sat nonchalantly on the pavilion bench waiting for the rain to dissipate, an ugly smile curving his lips. How she played into my hands, he thought smugly. But how best to use her? Demonic thoughts filled his imagination of Patience in his bed. He wanted to discover what she looked like under the cap and spectacles. His sources had confirmed that she was a beauty, he could not wait to reveal. When the rain began its staccato pattern, the Frenchman strolled cockily toward the house, assured all was proceeding well.
“Is there something out there that has caught your attention, my friend? I have repeated myself several times in the last few minutes with nary a response. The rain seems to hold some enchantment. What, a water sprite?”
Keegan’s cheery Irish lilt finally penetrated Bryce’s concentration as he stared out the window at the wet landscape. His study windows opened directly onto the garden, with a picture-perfect view of the gazebo.
Bryce stepped away from the window to return to his conversation with Keegan regarding new plans for the capture of the French spy. But a movement outside distracted him. He noticed Patience running toward the house. A few minutes later, Alain Sansouche followed her footsteps from the folly. His evident satisfaction clear to even Bryce’s hazy view. What were they doing together? he wondered grimly. Just when I might believe she has no part in this espionage, I find reason to doubt my convictions.
Turning to his friend with a humorless smile, Bryce replied, “Yes, I thought I saw a vision. But, I was wrong, it was a mistake, a mirage.”
The companions continued their discussion before leaving to dress for the small soiree Isabella had planned for the evening.
Chapter 11
Music and women’s voices floated in a cacophony up the stairs to where Patience perched on the third-floor landing. From the front parlor a mature soprano voice threatened to bring down the house. In the library overlooking the side terrace, two young dandies played a serious game of Speculation with the captain and the earl. The young men crowed with enthusiasm for the game and an eagerness to fill or let their pockets.
The countess’s shrill laughter reminded Patience of the promise issued earlier from Alain Sansouche. A cold worry filled her heart. She was certainly out of her realm in dealing with him. Oh, if only I could have an opportunity to see Rupert, to know he was safe. Would this Frenchman resort to blackmail or inform the earl of her identity? If so, her real purpose in the household could be made impossible.
She slowly rose to her feet and leane
d over the balcony in contemplation. Weariness had left her, and an excitement sparked in her veins. Probably from considering all afternoon how to retrieve her locket and avoid the Frenchman. Perhaps I have done too much thinking on it. I must do something.
She decided to wander down to the second floor and take a stroll past the earl’s rooms. If no one was in sight, and she deemed it safe, she might just slip in, grab the locket, and sneak out before anyone was the wiser.
Her slippers whispered on the smooth stairs as she slowly padded down toward the second floor. Imperturbably, Patience looked from side to side on the landing, to assure herself that her quest went unnoticed. The small crowd of guests in the front parlor continued to enjoy entertainment provided by a duet of soprano and tenor with the music from Mozart’s Die Zauberflöte.
Although Patience knew she should have returned to bed, she felt rather adventurous in a perfectly safe endeavor. Everyone was downstairs, guests and attending servants. The rest of the staff had long since retired. Entering the room she was beginning to know as well as she did her own little chamber, aided by the moonlight streaming through an open window, Patience quickly rushed to the small wooden box and claimed her locket.
Determining she needed more light, she walked over to the window and opened it. She looked down at the locket. Yes, there it was—Patience—engraved on the smooth silver.
A loud click of a door lock frightened her and, not realizing where she stood, she dropped her locket, all the way down to the terrace below. She froze, awaiting the door to open and reveal his lordship’s angry face. How could she ever explain to him her presence in his room? What might he do? She simply could not give him the answers he would certainly require.
After a few minutes, Patience released her breath with a sigh. She deduced the noise must have come from next door—in Red Tattoo’s room. Luck, and walking as softly as a ghost, would help her escape and not alert the earl’s valet. His lordship’s doorknob turned silently in her hand, and she slipped through the door.