At Tenwick Abbey, where she’d had the power and freedom to be herself, it hadn’t been an issue. The Duke of Tenwick didn’t tolerate the mistreatment of his servants, young or old, by anyone. She’d become complacent, forgetting of that long-ago time when she’d been cornered into doing something she didn’t want to do. The Graylockes had been her salvation, offering her a safe space to blossom into the strong, confident woman she was today. In a less hospitable environment, she might have withered instead.
She couldn’t just leave Eric here to wither, though she wasn’t in the same position here as she was in Tenwick Abbey. While on good terms, she wasn’t personal friends with one of the Belhavens. She couldn’t protect him in the same way, not without bringing him to Tenwick Abbey. And, with Monsieur V still at large, she wasn’t at liberty to leave the household or play her hand. Everyone in this house believed her nothing more than the Graylockes’ gardener. In a sense, she was and always would be. But they didn’t know of her personal connection to the family, how they had welcomed her in and treated her like a friend simply because she and Gideon shared a calling.
She couldn’t do anything to help Eric right now and it was eating her up inside.
Catt’s hand covered hers. The touch was calm, soothing. She glanced up into his blue eyes. He didn’t say a word, but somehow she knew that he guessed the stormy turn her thoughts had taken. She released the breath she’d been holding. The muscles in her shoulders relaxed. Just like that. With nothing more than a touch and look of shared understanding, he brought her peace. It wasn’t the first time he’d calmed her this morning.
She didn’t understand it. She twisted her hand to squeeze his and then returned to her work. A few last bouquets and they would be done with orders for the day. She carefully clipped off an orchid to add to the bunch, ensuring that the rest of the plant was thriving and would soon produce another flower from one of the buds tipping another stem.
Then she set the finished bouquet on the table and took up the last card to be filled. She couldn’t decipher the scrawl at all. Lady Belhaven’s hand had shaken too much as she’d written this one. Most of the cards were done by a servant’s hand in neat script and delivered into the hothouse as the day went on, but Lady Belhaven liked to make herself useful as well when Catt and Rocky turned her away from the hothouse for fear of her overexerting herself. Rocky had come to differentiate her handwriting from the others. With a sigh, she showed the card to Catt, who couldn’t puzzle out its meaning, either.
“I’ll ask,” Rocky grumbled under her breath.
Catt caught her by the elbow as he returned the card. “Are you all right?”
You know I’m not. She gritted her teeth and looked away. “As well as can be.”
He held her gaze for a moment longer before he released her. He didn’t say a word, but she felt the full weight of his warning nevertheless.
Don’t do anything rash. Don’t give us away.
She let out a slow breath as she tried to answer his warning the same way he delivered it—with her eyes. You can trust me.
“I’ll return shortly. We have work to do.”
He nodded, a crisp movement, as he returned to said work. Rocky turned away to hide the relief and confusion she felt that he wasn’t going to make her stay. She needed to stretch her legs right about now, to exercise away some of the seething emotion at her helplessness. She departed from the hothouse without giving him the time to reconsider.
He could trust her. And it appeared he did. She didn’t know what to make of that.
She made short work of consulting Lady Belhaven on the order. Although it took the old woman a moment to decipher the script, they sorted out the order and Rocky left to return to the hothouse. She passed Miss Towney—or was it Mrs. Abrahams now?—on the way, her arms full of linens as she sought to redress the beds.
Just as Rocky reached the stairs, a man made a disgusted noise and poked his head out of another of the parlors. Kenneth. Rocky froze with her foot on the servants’ stairwell and tamped down the sudden surge of rage. She balled her fists.
“You, wench. I’ve been yanking the bell pull for half an hour. Where’s my tea?”
I am a gardener, not a serving maid. Not that she suspected Kenneth would know the difference. He wouldn’t be able to identify a plant if it grew out of his ears.
Gritting her teeth, she took a deep breath before she turned to face him. His posture was arrogant and hostile, looming in the doorway and taking up nearly all the space. His indignant expression would have scared a lesser woman than Rocky.
At that moment, it was all she could do not to storm up to him and sock him in the nose. That was, if she could reach that high.
You are a servant, she reminded herself, not that it helped. Thinking of her mission helped somewhat, however. When she felt calm enough to speak, she said tersely, “I will see you get your tea.” She bit off each word.
“Get to it, then.” The heinous man turned away, muttering under his breath, “Lazy sods. I should see you all sacked.”
Rocky vibrated with the urge to do violence. The bite of her fingernails in her palm did little to quell the urge. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood and even that only made her want to exact the price of blood from Kenneth’s hide. How could Lady Belhaven have raised such a worthless, self-indulgent, inconsiderate creature? She turned away and stormed down the stairs.
By the time she reached the ground floor, clarity returned and she wondered where Abby was. If Mrs. Abrahams was hard at work in the rooms, wasn’t it Abby’s job to answer the bell pull? Though Rocky understood her reluctance in this case entirely. What was Kenneth doing, idling in one of the rooms while his mother resided in another? He didn’t live in the manor.
As she passed the hothouse, she paused. The hot, wicked urge for revenge mounted and she ducked into the humid room. Catt looked up from his task. The moment he spotted her expression, he stiffened.
She ignored him and stormed up to the iris plant, snatching two of its leaves.
Catt tentatively brushed her shoulder. “Rocky? Are you all right?”
If he was asking, he already knew the answer to that question. She wasn’t all right. She hadn’t been since last night, when he’d revealed the true depth of the depravity going on in this house. Ever since, she’d been in a constant state of unsettledness, soothed only now and again by his fleeting touches and unflappable demeanor. If he could face this, so could she. She knew, at heart, that Catt was as dismayed at being unable to fix the situation as she was, though perhaps it wasn’t as personal to him.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice gentle.
She fumed and turned away from the shelf of plants. “Kenneth mistook me for a maid again. He wants me to bring him some tea.”
It would be the last time he would ever make such a request from her.
Catt didn’t try to stop her as she stormed out of the hothouse. He didn’t try to tell her that, however abhorrent the man was, seeking revenge would solve nothing and only sink her to his level. Deep down, Rocky knew that. She was going to do it anyway. And he was going to let her.
In the kitchen, she directed Eliza to boil the kettle. As the teapot was being readied, Rocky slipped the iris leaves into the pot alongside the tea leaves. Steeped, they probably wouldn’t have as nauseating an effect as they might if consumed raw or whole, but Rocky hoped they would upset Kenneth in some small way. He deserved much more. He deserved to be strung up by his heels for taking advantage of a young man who had done no wrong at all. Eric had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. That was his only crime. But because he was a servant, Kenneth saw him as little better than property and treated him with the same lack of respect.
Rocky tried to breathe deep, to keep from confessing her or Kenneth’s sins to Eliza as the hawkish woman looked almost sympathetic. Although the cook’s assistant tried to probe to discover what ailed Rocky, she hid behind the fact that Kenneth had mistaken her fo
r a maid. That seemed to answer Eliza’s question to satisfaction, because she wrinkled her nose and nodded. She poured the boiling water into the pot and set it on a tray with a single cup, a bowl of sugar lumps, and a creamer.
Just as she arranged all the items on the tray for easy delivery, a sharp gust of wind from outdoors skirted through the doorway to the hall, followed by Abby’s rosy-cheeked form. Her hair was mussed, a piece of straw sticking up from her strands. Rocky bit her tongue to keep from voicing her disgruntlement.
The mystery of who David’s ladylove is has been solved, at least.
Thrusting the tray into Abby’s hands, Rocky said, “Mr. Kenneth Belhaven would like his tea served in the upstairs green parlor.”
Without waiting to ensure that Abby would comply, Rocky strode past her and returned to the hothouse. When she entered, Catt was tying off the second-to-last bouquet—the last was the one she had sought clarification on. He paused, raising his eyebrows at her in question.
That look spoke volumes. Did you go through with it?
When she smirked in answer—I did—Catt mirrored the expression. For a moment, they shared a secret smile. It was foolhardy and petty to exact revenge against Kenneth by giving him an upset stomach, but Rocky did feel a bit better for having done so. Catt seemed to share the sentiment.
It felt surprisingly good to know that she wasn’t bearing this burden alone.
Chapter 19
The cold bit through Catt’s greatcoat, chilling him to the bone. He turned up his collar to shield his neck and stuffed his gloved hands as far into his pockets as he could. The snow crunched underfoot as he navigated the all-but-deserted street just outside of Mayfair. The air was still and silent. With the bitter cold, everyone with sense was indoors, keeping warm by the fire. Curtains rustled as he passed, a testament that the tall, squashed houses on either side of the street were occupied by people with more sense than he. While Rocky enjoyed work in a balmy hothouse, he had volunteered to go out to the drop point and retrieve any correspondence Morgan might have left him.
The task wasn’t as straightforward as it sounded. Because they were on an assignment for the Crown, he had to be assured that he hadn’t been followed. This meant a roundabout route, a stop at the pub without David this time, pausing to purchase something trivial at a local shop. By the time he reached his destination, more than an hour had passed for what might have been a fifteen-minute walk at most. By that time, Catt’s cheeks were numbed and he’d begun to wish he’d sent Rocky instead.
Although he’d kept an eye peeled while he walked for signs that he had been followed, he checked once more before he stepped up to the side of the building. The third brick from the corner at level with his clavicle came loose once he dug his fingers into the crevice. He carefully removed it and retrieved the packet of papers nestled behind. After replacing the brick, he paused to thumb through them.
Although the top message was one from Morgan—Catt recognized the handwriting—the letter beneath caught his attention. Was that his uncle’s handwriting? Morgan or Tristan must have forwarded it to him. Catt stuffed the missives from Morgan into his pocket and unfolded the one from his uncle.
It contained one single line: They’re the subject of centuries of inbreeding. You’re worth ten of them.
Catt frowned. What?
In true form with his uncle’s absent-mindedness, the letter didn’t contain any other helpful clues. If not crosshatched over a letter Catt had written to him, he might have thought it was for another intended recipient.
But, upon re-reading the letter he’d sent to his uncle last May, the response suddenly made more sense. From time to time, Catt sent his uncle a letter that he assumed would be left unanswered. Truthfully, he would have doubted that his uncle even read them, if not for the fact that the man possessed an acute memory during their infrequent visits and often addressed every point that Catt had written him in the convening year. His uncle, a scholar, spent too much time lost in his research to properly answer the letters and Catt had taken to writing him during times of frustration, when he needed to confess things he could say to no one else.
In this case, the letter had been sent on the heels of the Graylockes’ last annual house party. Catt had confessed to feeling inferior to the Graylockes, nothing more than a number to fill out their ranks. He didn’t even have the drive and purpose that Rocky did.
At least, he hadn’t—not before he’d been inducted into the ranks of the Crown spies. Now he had purpose aplenty, not that he could confess as much to his uncle.
And his uncle’s response to Catt’s feeling of inferiority was to call the Graylockes the product of inbreeding. Catt chuckled as he shook his head. What would Giddy say if he knew he’d been thus insulted?
Catt would never tell him, of course, but it was amusing to imagine his expression.
Stuffing the missive in the opposite pocket, he tugged out the letter from Morgan. As suspected, it was written in code. Catt had brought a graphite pencil with him and worked diligently over the next few minutes to render the message sensible.
When he did, his heart flipped. He’s done it. He read the message twice, to be sure.
Morgan Graylocke had decoded the cipher of the plant leaves. The packet he had sent contained an explanation of the cipher. The next time Catt and Rocky intercepted a message, they would be able to decode it. Not only that but Morgan had given another clue. He was sure Monsieur V had been away from Lady Belhaven’s house the first night Rocky and Catt arrived and he would likely be going out for another clandestine meeting within a fortnight.
Catt grinned as relief poured through him. For the first time since he and Rocky had arrived at the Belhaven residence, Monsieur V would no longer be a step ahead of them. They would be able to catch him, to complete their mission.
He returned the packet and letter to his pocket and hurried back to Lady Belhaven’s townhouse, where Rocky awaited him. He couldn’t wait to tell her the good news.
Rocky finished her cursory inspection of the hothouse, satisfied that Monsieur V hadn’t slipped in any coded plants while she wasn’t looking. As she straightened, the hothouse door opened. She turned, eager to hear if the Duke of Tenwick had left them anything at the drop point.
Instead of Catt, Lady Belhaven’s grandson Lance stepped into the humid room. His face and form were just as tidy and composed as they had been upon their first meeting.
And just as forbidding.
Without so much as a greeting, Lance stormed toward her with ice in her expression. She took an instinctive step back before she realized she was cornered against the shelves.
“Mr. Belhaven.”
Rocky fought the urge to curtsey. Even if she was in the position of servant to his family, she refused to cower in front of him. She locked her knees instead and met his gaze boldly.
Where was Catt?
She shoved aside that wayward thought. She didn’t need any man to fight her battles, not even Catt. The question was, why did she suddenly feel as though she’d stumbled onto a battlefield? She hadn’t seen nor heard from Lance since the last time he’d entered the hothouse.
“Where is my grandmother?”
He’d get a better answer if he asked one of the other servants, not her. She was shut in the hothouse all day and rarely left, save to relieve herself or fetch a bite to eat or a cup of tea from the kitchen.
She squared her shoulders. “Have you checked her favorite parlor or her bedchamber?” If not abed for a nap, she could usually be found in the parlor.
“When was the last time she came down here?”
Rocky frowned as she thought. “This morning?” She couldn’t recall the time for certain, but today, like every day, Lady Belhaven had taken a moment before Catt had escorted her away. He hadn’t gone far down the corridor before she’d doffed his arm and insisted on walking the rest of the way on her own. He’d returned in mere moments.
In a brusque, cutting tone, Lance asked, “How ofte
n does she come down?”
“Daily.”
Sometimes more than once a day, especially if her memory failed her and she forgot that she’d already checked on their progress once. As irritating as it was to have their work thus constantly interrupted, Catt never lost his patience with the old woman.
“Does she ever stay to work?”
“Of course not.” Rocky infused her spine with steel. “She hired us to manage the hothouse and that is precisely what we do.”
“Then why does she come here?” His expression was cutting and his tone was accusatory.
She gritted her teeth. “She likes to check our progress in the mornings.” And the afternoons. And sometimes even in the evenings, when they should be done their work but often were still checking the plants for signs of a code.
Despite their vigilance, they hadn’t intercepted another message since the last. Though, given the hectic state of the hothouse in the mornings, it was impossible to be certain that none had gone out.
“Why not deliver a report to her yourself and save her the trouble of navigating the stairs?”
Clearly, Lance had never entered the hothouse during its busiest hours. Catt and Rocky scarcely found the time to breathe, let alone leave the enclosure to seek out their employer. With the onset of the Season, the orders had been snowballing ever since she and Catt had arrived to take on their new position.
Tightly, Rocky answered, “We do so every morning once the orders have been filled.”
If he suggested she ignore her work in order to seek out Lady Belhaven and thus slow the progress overall…
“And the plants? How often to do you check on them?”
She frowned. “Constantly.” Was he trying to find out when the hothouse would be empty? She and Catt remained in the hothouse, either separately or together, from breakfast until supper.
Charming the Spy (Scandals and Spies Book 4) Page 15