Banquet of Lies (14 page)

“I
’m afraid Lord Dervish isn’t in, my lord. He’s left the country.” Dervish’s jowled and dour butler stepped back to let Jonathan in. “However, he did leave a note for you. I was going to arrange for its delivery tomorrow, but if you’ll wait, I’ll fetch it now.”

Jonathan gaped at the man. “Left the country?”

The butler gave a nod and disappeared into a room, returning almost immediately with a note.

Jonathan took it and ripped it open, uncaring that the butler would be startled by his haste and lack of decorum.

Dervish’s scrawled hand read:

Got word earlier today from a Foreign Office colleague, Frobisher, recently returned from Stockholm, that there is evidence Giselle Barrington is in Lapland. She may have run to some of the Sami people she and her father know to hide. Thornton’s so weighed down with diplomatic issues he’s unable to leave his post, so I am traveling to investigate myself. Had to leave today to make a boat waiting at Dover, as the next boat leaves next week. Have left forwarding address at my house. Send any information you learn through there, not office. We still don’t know who’s involved in Barrington’s death. D.

Jonathan had known Dervish was cut up about Barrington’s death and worried for his daughter, but this instant response went beyond that. Dervish must have owed something to Barrington, if he felt so strongly that he needed to be responsible for his daughter’s safety.

And of course, the girl could still have the letter. The Foreign Office would be saved a great deal of embarrassment if Dervish could get it from her.

Dervish cared more about Miss Barrington than about the letter, he didn’t doubt that, but the letter might have been how Dervish justified the sudden trip to his superiors.

Jonathan raised his head and found Dervish’s butler staring at him. “When did he leave?”

“Late this afternoon, my lord.”

It was nearly ten in the evening, now. There was no way he would catch him. And the letter Madame Levéel had delivered was no doubt sitting on his desk, waiting to be forwarded.

“I came to discuss a note Lord Dervish would have received sometime this evening. Perhaps, as he’s gone, I can deal with it for him?” Jonathan folded Dervish’s note and stuffed it in his coat pocket.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, my lord.” The butler didn’t sound apologetic at all. “Some of Lord Dervish’s correspondence is quite sensitive, and I’m not able to hand it over to anyone.”

“It’s urgent. Damn it, if only he’d let me know sooner that he was leaving.” Jonathan looked over the butler’s shoulder to the room he’d just been in, and guessed it was Dervish’s study. He would have given a lot right then for five minutes alone in that room.

That thought must have shown on his face.

The butler shifted to block the door more fully, and for a moment Jonathan contemplated taking him on, pushing past him and getting into the room. But he didn’t know where the letters were kept, and he would ruin any chance of communication with Dervish while he was away—of that he was sure. The butler looked the kind to hold a grudge.

He sighed. “I’ll write a response and send it round tomorrow morning.” He turned for the front door, and the butler held it open and then closed it behind him with insulting alacrity.

Jonathan smiled. He couldn’t blame the fellow. He’d have wanted to boot himself out, too, in his position.

Standing on the top step, he looked out into the night and wondered if the watcher was still there. He’d come back this way after losing Madame Levéel, but had he known Dervish wasn’t here? It seemed strange to watch a house when its owner was on his way to Sweden.

Unless they were watching to see who tried to contact Dervish.

Jonathan walked slowly down the stairs and hunched against the fine mist that fell from the sky. It almost blinded him, the drops so tiny they clung to his eyelashes and blurred his vision.

He kept his ears tuned for any sound of following footsteps, and after he turned down Farm Street he hid behind the tree he’d used earlier.

The watcher had to be employed by someone who knew Dervish was important. What he’d seen and heard made him sure the watcher was merely a paid thug—so the thug’s employer was interested in . . . Dervish’s sources? His spies? His lovers?

Jonathan rolled his shoulders at the last thought. Madame Levéel wasn’t Dervish’s lover, of that he was sure. But what
was
she? Was she giving him information? Bribing him?

There was still no sign of the watcher, and Jonathan moved carefully out from behind the tree and continued on his way.

In the few days since his new cook had entered his household, he’d taken to skulking around his neighborhood, hiding behind trees, creeping through alleys with a knife in his hand and contemplating fisticuffs with a friend’s butler.

He could simply ask Madame Levéel what she was up to, but if she were a spy, she would run or lie, or both—and he’d rather get to the bottom of it.

He increased his pace, lengthening his stride.

He hadn’t felt this alive since he was in the army.

Taking the title after Gerald’s death had been killing him
slowly with boredom, and he knew that was a large part of Madame Levéel’s charm for him. She exuded a suppressed excitement, an air of danger he simply couldn’t resist.

So he wouldn’t turn her over to Durnham, or his connections in the Alien Office. If she was guilty of some wrongdoing. . . . He didn’t want to think about where she would end up. Something in him rebelled at the idea of her being locked away, spy or not.

Which was precisely why he should take this to Durnham. He was so far from objective, he was the wolf guarding the sheep.

And he didn’t care.

As he swung back onto Chapel Street, he saw Goldfern down the road and hoped that at least Giselle Barrington was safe in Lapland.

T
he sound of the front door opening forced Edgars to rise from the kitchen table. Lord Aldridge was home.

“Good night, Monsieur Edgars.” Gigi’s accent had become slightly more French since they’d literally slammed into each other in the alleyway. Easier to pass off bizarre behavior if you were foreign.

“Good night, Madame Levéel.” He went reluctantly, as if taking his eyes off her for even one moment would result in some catastrophe.

Gigi waited for him to disappear up the stairs to the hall, grinding her back teeth together. Then she stood and poured
her tea down the sink. She hadn’t wanted it, but making it had given her something to do while Edgars tried to question her. She rinsed her teacup and slammed it down a little too hard on the drainingboard. She was certain he thought he was being subtle. The man was as subtle as chillies in a soufflé.

He was probably trying to get her dismissed right now.

And she needed to stay here. It was her one safe place.

Well, she couldn’t stop Edgars talking, but she could at least find out what he was accusing her of.

She walked to her door, opened it, and took her shoes off, leaving them within her little sitting room. Then, still standing in the kitchen, she closed the door loudly.

She tiptoed up the stairs in her stockings, the stone floor icy.

“No need to stay up, Edgars. I’m going to write a note to Lord Dervish and leave it in the hall. If you could see it’s sent round first thing tomorrow?”

Gigi reached the top of the stairs and saw Lord Aldridge walking to his library. Edgars was hanging a dripping coat on the coatrack. He followed Aldridge, leaving the hallway empty, and she ran across, skirting the little pools of water on the floor, and slipped under the semicircular table pressed up against the wall near the library door.

A perfectly starched white linen tablecloth covered it to the floor, and she was just small enough to fit under it, her legs tucked up under her chin.

“I’m sorry, my lord, I need to speak . . .”

She heard Edgars trail off, almost miserably. She had put
him in quite the spot. And she could hardly bear a grudge about it; she
was
behaving strangely.

She closed her eyes and laid a cheek on her knees, suddenly exhausted.

“What is it, Edgars?”

“It’s . . . well, it’s the new cook, my lord.” Edgars was quiet for a moment, and she wondered what he was doing. Fiddling with his waistcoat probably, or tugging at his hair. “I know I hired her on, and she had such excellent references, but I’ve found her doing strange things—”

“What things?”

Did she imagine it, or was Lord Aldridge’s voice a trifle too sharp? A trifle too interested?

The now-familiar beat of fear and panic surged through her, forcing her to lift her head and pay more attention.

Edgars was silent a little longer. “If there is something . . .” His pause this time was actually painful. “If there is an . . . understanding between you and Madame Levéel . . .”

Gigi frowned. What on earth was he talking about?

“What do you mean by that, Edgars?”

Gigi didn’t need to see Aldridge’s face to know Edgars had made a grave, grave error; it was all in his lordship’s voice. She’d have felt more sorry for Edgars, except his mistake might mean she’d get out of this without having to talk herself back into a job.

“Nothing, my lord.” Edgars swallowed audibly. “You were both out at the same time tonight, both came in so wet, it crossed my mind that you may have met up . . .” He coughed,
so terribly embarrassed now, Gigi was glad she couldn’t see either of their faces. It was never pretty to see a grown man cringe.

“It was raining. If we were both out, it only follows we both got drenched.” Aldridge’s words were soft. “Now, what strange things, Edgars?”

“This . . . this morning, my lord. She left straight after Lord Dervish. Iris said she didn’t even stop to explain properly what she was off to get. She grabbed her coat and ran out.” He cleared his throat. “And then, this evening, she went out again”—he sounded truly aggrieved at her frequent trips—“and came back in wet as a drowned rat, and with grass stains all over her coat. Like she’d been rolling round on a lawn somewhere. . . .” His voice trailed off, and Gigi wondered why.

And then it came to her, in a sudden flash of understanding.

She bit her lip and her cheeks burned, hot and fierce, like she’d leaned straight into the oven.

Edgars thought she and Lord Aldridge had . . . that Lord Aldridge had taken her . . . in a garden?

She buried her face in her hands and shuddered.

She knew the ways of the world, from the glittering ballrooms of Europe to the small villages where she and her father were the only strangers the villagers had ever met.

But she had never been compromised, had never even been tempted to risk it.

Her father had kept her close, partly because of the double life he led, and her interests in her studies had given her a
channel for her energies. She had been busy with her recipes, her book, her cooking and her adventures. She led a far more exciting life than most young women of her class and age.

It must be from the shock of the accusation that she now felt something tighten inside. Her heart was beating fast, and the burn of her cheeks wouldn’t abate. She squirmed, trying to get comfortable.

She wondered what Lord Aldridge felt. His face must be quite an interesting sight, because Edgars still hadn’t spoken.

Perhaps his lordship was choking him to death.

Perhaps she should leave her hiding place and lend him a hand.

“It was suspicious.” Edgars plowed bravely on, still clearly alive, although his voice was an octave higher.

It suddenly occurred to her that Edgars had no room to point a finger, after nearly landing face-first on the kitchen floor, ogling Iris’s breasts. Although he’d thought she and Lord Aldridge had done more than simply admire each other’s . . . bits.

“Tonight, after you went out again, my lord, she went out a third time. She said it was to breathe in the night air after a day in the kitchen. Said she was just stepping a few yards from the door. But after about ten minutes, I went out to find her.” He paused again and it felt like it was for effect, not out of fear this time. “She was hurrying to the kitchen door when I stepped out, coming from the back alley. And she was looking over her shoulder, frightened, like she expected someone to be following her.”

There was another long silence.

“What is it that you suspect Madame Levéel of, Edgars?” Lord Aldridge’s tone was mildly curious.

“I . . . I don’t know, my lord. But she’s up to something. I’d bet on it.”

“I didn’t realize you were a gambling man.”

Edgars choked. “I’m not, my lord. But this time it’s a sure thing. I can’t believe the Duke of Wittaker’s chef would have recommended her without believing her aboveboard, so she’s pulled the wool over his eyes, same as mine.”

Lord Aldridge made a
hmm
ing sound. “With everything that’s been going on, I’d forgotten she’d been recommended by Wittaker’s chef.” She heard the soft clink of a crystal glass on a silver tray. “Edgars, has Madame Levéel done her job since she’s been in this house?”

“Yes, my lord.” Edgars sounded like he was in pain.

“And all you have against her is that she has gone out more than you obviously think is normal—is that right?”

“Yes, but . . . she’s hiding something, my lord. Lying.”

Poor Edgars. He was quite right.

Well, about her hiding something. Not about rolling about on the grass with Lord Aldridge.

A bolt of pure, sensual heat shot through her. The idea of being so earthy, so passionate, as to make love in a garden in the rain.

With Lord Aldridge.

She had a terrible feeling that she would imagine it the next time she saw him, and she hoped she could control her blushes.

“You have raised your concerns with me, Edgars. If anything occurs that concerns Madame Levéel that I don’t like, the fault of it rests with me. Consider the matter in my hands.”

Edgars must have made some sign of assent—bowed, perhaps—because she heard him walk toward the door.

“Oh, Edgars.” Lord Aldridge’s voice was still soft, but Edgars stopped short. “Your many years of loyal service in this household saved you this evening after your implication about Madame Levéel and me. But be assured, if you should ever raise it again, with me or her, I will dismiss you.”