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Tom was chatting in a lively manner with Virginia and Sally across from him, while William, the other footman, looked on, injecting a comment now and then. Tom was almost holding court, Rees observed with amusement, the young maids looking as spellbound as if he were recounting a fairy tale.

Tom poked a fork toward Sally. “I had it from the head footman at Melbourne House that Lady Caroline is once again making a cake of herself over Lord Byron now that she is back from her exile.”

William chortled over a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “I heard when she asked for a lock of his hair, he sent her one of Lady Oxford’s.”

The young footmen guffawed. “He said it was lucky coincidence that its color and texture were the same!”

One of the scullery maids looked round-eyed. “Poor Lady Caroline. Isn’t Lady Oxford old?”

Tom gave her a pitying look. “Not so old . . .” he added in a suggestive way.

Rees glanced down to the end of the table to Mrs. Finlay, who was eating in the methodical way she did everything, addressing only an occasional comment to the scullery maids and the chambermaids nearest her. She was a woman of around fifty, with a trim figure and serious demeanor, her honey-brown hair half mixed with gray.

She looked up from her plate and said in a voice to be heard above the footmen, “Mr. Gaspard, did Lady Wexham discuss the menu for the dinner party with you?”

He wiped his mouth with his napkin.
“Certainement.”

Mrs. Finlay gave no sign that she noticed his scornful tone. “I should like to talk with you about it after breakfast. I must decide on which service to use for each course.”

“Bien sûr.”
His eyes snapped to the scullery maids. “Ellie, Sarah, you will accompany me to the market this morning. We must look for ze
truffes
, ze lobster, ze morels”—he waved a hand—“and everyzing else for ze dinner.”

“Yes, sir,” the two girls murmured.

Rees fixed his attention on cutting a piece of ham on his plate. If Gaspard was at the market later in the morning, and the two footmen were busy blacking boots, perhaps he could do a quick search of the chef’s room. It would only be a small window of time, but he could at least do a cursory inspection.

He brought the piece of ham to his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully, studying the man out of the corner of his eye.

If anyone in this household was a spy, he’d lay odds it was Monsieur Gaspard.

Or perhaps he was merely an arrogant French chef, for whom only food was worthy of respect. Rees suspected that even Lady Wexham was careful in her treatment of him. If he were the least ruffled, he could
threaten to quit. A good French chef, no matter how temperamental, would be snapped up by another hostess in Mayfair before teatime.

As if sensing his observation, Gaspard turned his black eyes to him, a scowl creating a deep furrow between the heavy black brows. Rees held up his fork. “Delicious ham.”

“Humph!” he snorted.

Spy or chef, Rees intended to discover which.

Rees hid his impatience as he waited for Gaspard to leave for the market. At intervals, he found excuses to wander down to the kitchen, but each time, to his growing uneasiness, the man was still bustling about, showing no signs of departing.

Soon the footmen would be finished with their morning tasks, and a search would be too risky.

It wasn’t until the servants had partaken of their midmorning tea that Gaspard finally left with the two scullery maids in tow.

Rees wiped at an imaginary smudge on a brass doorknob before addressing the two footmen. “The wine cellar is in abysmal condition. I want each bottle wiped clean with a rag.”

Tom and William gaped at him. “The wine cellar, sir?” Tom, the boldest, dared ask.

Rees gave him a quelling look. “That is correct. When I was in there last with Lady Wexham, I was appalled at how dirty everything was.”

“B-but, sir, old Rumford never permitted us in there. He preferred the bottles to show their age. We cleaned them, o’ course, whenever he brought one up.”

“Be that as it may, I would prefer you wipe every bottle off.” He plowed on, sounding as uncompromising and obdurate as he imagined a good butler would. “I was obliged to lend Lady Wexham my handkerchief to clean her fingers after taking down a bottle.”

Tom shut his mouth on whatever he was going to say. “Very well, sir, if you think we ought. I just hope Rumford doesn’t chew us up for meddling in his cellar.”

“I shall speak to Mr. Rumford myself upon his return and explain
whatever additional duties I have required of you.” He turned away from them. “Very well, be about the task.”

“Sir—”

He swiveled around, allowing just a trace of impatience in his tone. “Yes?”

William cleared his throat. “The key. We can’t get in otherwise.”

He felt the flush along his jawline. “Yes, of course. Come along.”

He marched down the stairs, as if they had been at fault. The two followed at his heels.

He left them with plenty of clean rags, staring slack jawed at the rows of bottles, and felt only a slight qualm. Hopefully, he wouldn’t return in an hour to find bottles missing or telltale signs that they had been imbibing. He tried to think of a way to warn them that he’d be aware of how many bottles there were. Mr. Rumford kept a detailed account book cataloging every bottle, but Rees was not such a mutton head to think he’d be able to tell upon a quick inspection.

“Very well, carry on. I shall be down by and by to check on your progress.”

“Yes, sir,” they both chimed in.

Rees made his way back down the dim corridor then up the service stairs to make them believe he was going to the upper part of the house.

The chambermaids were busy cleaning the upstairs receiving rooms. He could hear them chattering in the parlor.

He had little time to lose. He retraced his way down the stairs to the basement and headed toward Mrs. Finlay’s sitting room.

He knocked smartly and poked his head in the door at her immediate reply to come in. “Lady Wexham wishes to see you in her sitting room.” That much was true as the countess desired to go over dinner party details.

The housekeeper was sitting at her account books. “Very good, sir. I shall go straightaway.” She closed the ledger and rose, her keys jingling at her waist, and straightened her starched white cap.

He held the door for her and closed it after her.

As she walked away from him toward the service stairs, he jangled his own set of keys and pretended to head toward the wine cellar, but as soon as the housekeeper was out of sight up the stairs, he did an about-face and continued past her room. He glanced quickly into the kitchen, but it was empty, everything tidy. He paused in front of the servants’ dining hall then walked through it to the room in the rear used by Gaspard.

He knocked, although he didn’t expect any reply.

After a few seconds of silence, he glanced behind him then quickly turned the knob, but it resisted his pressure.

He paused, not expecting to find it locked. Why would a servant lock his room?

Quickly, Rees dug into his own pocket and took out his skeleton key. His palms starting to sweat, he slid it into the keyhole. He breathed a sigh of relief when it turned easily.

He pushed the door open and peered into the crack. Finding the room empty, he entered and shut the door softly behind him, pocketing his keys. He’d have to make sure to lock the door behind him again.

Taking a deep breath, he let his eyes roam more slowly around the perimeters of the narrow room, picking out the details. The first thing that struck him was how untidy it was.

Like his own, this chamber had only enough room for an iron bedstead, narrow chest of drawers, and a corded trunk at the foot of the bed. Some wooden knobs on the wall opposite the bed held some aprons and clothes.

The resemblance to his room ended there. The bed was unmade, dirty linen and aprons formed a pile in the middle of the floor, a stack of newspapers filled one corner of the room, the window facing the back of the house was grimy. Dirty plates and cups lay about.

Wrinkling his nose against the stale smell of an unventilated room, he trod silently forward to the bed. He lifted the crumpled bedsheets and glanced down to the foot. Then he dropped them and felt the mattress through the sheets. Kneeling down, he lifted the straw-filled
mattress and glanced under it. Trails of dust covered the floorboards visible through the ropes holding up the mattress. He let it fall and bent down to the ground and eyed the entire expanse of floor beneath the bed. Something caught his eye. Flattening his length, he reached out to the far end and grasped what looked like a corner of paper caught between the floorboards.

It proved to be only a torn scrap. He retrieved it and smoothed it out.

His eyes quickly read the scrawled jottings in French, which appeared to be in verse.
Le roi toujours. Toujours le roi.
The king always. Always the king.

A royalist sentiment. Hardly seditionary.

Hard-pressed to know whether the note was important or not, he stuck it in his pocket. He’d show it to his contact from the Home Office.

He stood back up, dusting off his trousers, and continued his search. The newspapers were also in French though printed in London. After perusing a few of the front pages, he concluded that they, too, were royalist in tone. Nothing surprising. Most of those forced from France during the revolution yearned for a return of the monarchy.

Rees turned to the chest of drawers. The top held a couple of cookbooks. He picked up one, its cover dirty, its pages stained and torn, its binding coming apart. It was all in French. Thin, folded pieces of paper were lodged here and there, but he saw that they, too, were mere recipes.

Pâte Brisée.
His eyes scanned the list of ingredients. Flour, lard, salt. A recipe for pastry dough. He stuck it back in the book and set it down and proceeded with the other. Another well-used French cookbook. He bent down to the chest of drawers.

He should be used to this task by now, but his hands still shook as they searched through Gaspard’s personal belongings, expecting at any moment for someone to enter behind him. He found stacks of starched white aprons, handkerchiefs, and shirts. Knitted stockings and undergarments.

An extra blanket lay in the bottom drawer. Under it he found a stack of postmarked envelopes tied with a string. He took it to the bed, cocking an ear toward the door, thinking he heard a sound. But only silence greeted him. He sat down on the only chair and quickly untied the bundle. The envelopes were postmarked and originated in France. He opened the first and tried to decipher the handwriting.

After skimming through the top ones, he saw that they were from a wife and a mother, but they were dated twenty years ago. So, he had corresponded with family members during the Directorate. But what had happened to those family members in the meantime?

He retied the bundle and placed it back in the drawer and shut it. Then he examined the few items of clothing hanging on the pegs, felt the ledge of the narrow window above, and glanced into every corner of the small room. Nothing suspicious. The room was curiously bare of personal effects for someone who had been in the same household for so many years. Perhaps he spent most of his time creating dishes in the kitchen, so he didn’t need a roomful of things.

He certainly appeared to be an ardent royalist. For that matter, Lady Wexham was probably one as well. It was hard to imagine her a spy. She seemed much too open, much too nice.

He reined in the direction of his thoughts. Too many of his waking hours were spent dwelling on his employer’s attributes.

Rees exited the room as quietly as he had come. As he locked the door and turned around, his breath caught. Valentine stood in the doorway to the servants’ dining hall, her arms folded, her feet planted apart. He knew she hadn’t been there when he’d first opened Gaspard’s door.

He assumed his most haughty stare to match her sharp, narrowed gaze. “Yes, what is it?”

Ignoring his question, she lifted her chin. “What are you doing in Gaspard’s room?”

His mind scrambling for possible replies, he said with quiet dignity, “That is between Gaspard and me.” Feigning indifference to her
presence, he walked toward her, hoping she would move out of his way before he reached the doorway.

She remained motionless, her eyes boring into him.

He looked down his nose at her. “Haven’t you anything to do?”

She said nothing, her nostrils flaring. They stood eye to eye, barely a foot from each other.

“Excuse me, mademoiselle, but if you do not have any other occupation, I do. Please move aside.”

Her lips flattened, her eyes mere slits. She finally took a step back.

As he passed, she hissed, “If you wish me to be quiet, it will cost you something.” The “something” came out sounding like “somesing.”

Rees stopped halfway through the doorway. “I beg your pardon?”

She tossed her head. “You understand me!”

Perspiration began to roll down the center of his back. He lifted his chin. “I have no idea what you are implying. Good day.” He left her and strode out of the dining room and through the kitchen, not stopping until he reached the wine cellar, his heart thundering in his chest.

He’d have to think of a plausible excuse if the maid told Gaspard or Lady Wexham of his snooping. He had no doubt that she would tell one or both of them, since he hadn’t stooped to bribery. Not that he hadn’t considered it for a split second. But her offer probably consisted of more than just money. And it would probably buy him little security. She would be the kind to play both sides.

How soon would she tell her mistress? He could brush Gaspard off with some haughty tale of inspection and tell him his room was a disgrace.

But as for Lady Wexham—Rees imagined the polite look of inquiry in her brandy-hued eyes. He’d have to elaborate on the inspection excuse, make something up about touring all the servant’s quarters—that it was part of the under-butler’s regular duties at Telford House.

He ran a hand along his collar, his neck cloth constricting him. Would she believe such a flimsy explanation?