Corey McFadden (41 page)

After that gentleman, looking somewhat relieved, had left the room, Radford turned back to the pile of files and ledgers now strewn about the table. “It will simplify matters, Mr. Parks, if we remove these papers from your office today. Maude can review them with my solicitors and catalog those items which are clearly fraudulent. I think that under the circumstances it would be foolish to alert Maude’s actual guardian, James Romney, as to what has transpired here. While I do not suspect him of complicity in this sorry affair, it is undeniable that he has left all this business up to his wife all these years and, therefore, must share the blame, at least as far as his own negligence is concerned. Perhaps while we wait, we can make a list of the documents so that we can all attest to their authenticity if there is a trial.”

Radford began to stack the documents and gestured for the clerk to come forward to help with the dry business. While they worked, Maude picked up the file that pertained to the stables and began to peruse it again. An item that she had not noticed in her earlier haste popped out at her: an elegant—to judge from the price of it—brougham, sumptuously fitted out, “for Miss Maude Romney’s transportation needs.” Growling in her frustration, she slammed the file back onto the pile and sat back glaring at Mr. Parsons. Brougham! When Romney Manor had been served for years by a dilapidated old coach, not much better than a farm cart. Oh, it would feel good to bring these miscreants to justice!

* * * *

John paid the hansom impatiently and let himself down heavily from the door. Ahead of him were the steps leading up to the Messrs. Booth and Parks legal establishment. Before he could ascend, however, he heard another carriage pull up to the curb behind him. His nerves on edge, he glanced back and was startled to see that it was a police cart. As he watched, several constables alighted and proceeded past him on the steps. John waited until they had entered and the door had closed behind them. Then, as nonchalantly as he could manage, he turned away and crossed the street. For the second time that day he found a bench and seated himself, paper in hand, every inch the young toff with nothing much to occupy himself.

John had to will his hands not to shake as he held up the paper and pretended to read. Gazing casually up and down the street, he could not spot the earl’s coach, but that meant nothing considering his nearsightedness. He had only a short time to wait before the door to Booth and Parks opened again. Out came the constables, and with them, in shackles was Mr. Parsons.

John’s heart pounded as he saw Parsons loaded unceremoniously into the police cart. There was no doubt it was he, and no doubt as to why he was being arrested. Just as the police cart drove away, John saw the door open again and Maude and Radford emerged. Radford held up his hand and a coach waiting a short way down the street pulled out and came forward, stopping at the curb. Radford, who carried a large case, helped Maude into the waiting carriage. She looked pale and shaken now, not like the exhilarating wench John had first glimpsed this morning on horseback.

John held the newspaper up close now, not even daring to peer around the sides, lest he be recognized. He lowered the paper slowly as the carriage drove away and gazed after it, not bothering to mask the rage and fear in his eyes. He had lost his confederate and now he needed to act with the utmost speed and on his own. Fortunately, in his meanderings through London, he had had occasion to meet up with certain fellows whom he could count on to help him—for a price, of course. Some, indeed, were old friends of his mother’s. Yes, one or two chaps came to mind who’d have the stomach to help him carry out his plan. They might even enjoy it....

Chapter Twenty-two

An hour later Maude lay alone in her darkened room, a cold, damp cloth across her forehead. She had sent Anna away so that she could rest, although sleep now eluded her. Her head pounded with a ferocity that made her think Edward had somehow passed his headache on to her. He certainly had been chipper enough when he had left. As far as he was concerned, the mystery was solved and now they could move on to getting her affairs back into order.

He was right, of course, she had to admit, but he was able to look at it so objectively and from the vantage point of great personal wealth and well-being. Over and over the thoughts chased through Maude’s mind. Aunt Claire had allowed Romney Manor to fall into disrepair; she had forwarded her own two children at great expense, while denying all but the basic necessities to Maude and Romney Manor. And as the final insult she and John had concocted a plot which had driven Maude from her own home. These people were clearly monsters; there was no doubt about that. All those years while Maude had suffered from a lack of love, she had at least assumed her affairs were being properly looked after.

And there was the rub. Maude was overwhelmed with her own sense of guilt. No matter that young ladies weren’t supposed to bother their heads with financial affairs. Maude knew in her heart she should at least have paid enough attention to learn how to run the household, how to keep the accounts, how to manage the estate. She owed that much to her parents. Instead, she had acted the devil-may-care tomboy, riding her horses, gallivanting about the countryside, leaving all the work to Aunt Claire, because she felt no inclination to deal with the woman, or, in fact, to do any of the work. She had to take her share of the blame for this foul mess. Had she been minding her affairs, her aunt could not have gotten away with such bold-faced embezzlement and John would not have been able to dupe her into believing herself a near-pauper.

But then she would not be marrying Edward. And that thought made the pain and the blame recede like a patch of dirty snow melting in the spring sunlight. She would never have imagined that such good could come of such evil. Perhaps she should write Aunt Claire a thank-you note. She giggled at the thought. Edward was right, wasn’t he, to face forward and not look back? Maude drifted into a light sleep, a smile curving her lips.

* * * *

The bell at the back entrance of the townhouse jangled. Betsy sprang forward, still smarting from the bawling out she had received from Cook over the incident of the gentleman calling for his lordship a little while ago. It seemed that there was no excuse for not getting the man’s name and it was unpardonable of her to have hung in the front door, chatting with him about the household business like she was selling fish. Cook had explained, in a very unkindly tone of voice, that Graves’s coming departure was no reason for the “’ouse’old to go all to ’ell.”

Determined to make a better showing this time, particularly since Cook was in the kitchen within earshot, Betsy answered the rear door with a haughty efficiency.

“Yes?” she queried loftily of the slightly disreputable sort standing on the stoop.

“I’ve a note for a Mr. Graves, miss. Is ’e ’ere?”

The man used a respectful tone which instantly thawed Betsy’s hauteur, unused as she was to hearing such a tone aimed at herself.

“Oh, yes. ’E’s upstairs packin’.” She smiled at the man. “’E’s leavin’, you know, this very afternoon. ’E—

“Betsy! That’ll do.” Cook’s voice bellowed from the kitchen doorway. Betsy jumped at the sound, then turned around hurriedly, flushing to the roots. “Get into the kitchen, girl. I’ll take care of this.”

Cook advanced menacingly, and the hapless Betsy slipped to the side of her and fled into the kitchen. “Now,” Cook said, turning her attention to the figure on the stoop who seemed to quail a bit under her baleful gaze, “What would you be wantin’? Make it quick, we ’aven’t got all day, in spite of what that young chit seems to think.”

“I’ve a note for a Mr. Graves, mum,” he began. “If I might....”

Without ado, Cook seized the envelope he was holding in his hand and stood glaring at him, challenging him to defy her possession of the letter.

“I...I’m supposed to give it to ’im direct, mum,” he went on, with some hesitation. She continued to stare malevolently. “Or I suppose I can leave it with you if you’d be so good as to give it to ’im yourself,” he went on, clearly losing this battle of wills. “Right away, if you’d be so kind, mum, there’s a gentleman waiting to see ’im,” he finished in a rush. He was not used to the gentry and this woman who was the cook to a noble household was as far above him as the king himself.

He gaped hopefully at her for a second or two, then deciding the conversation was at an end, he smiled weakly and tipped his cap. He had barely turned to go down the steps when he felt a gust of air on his backside from the door slamming shut behind him.

Cook stood staring at the sealed envelope, gritting her teeth in irritation, noting with some annoyance that it was properly sealed with wax. She’d give a week’s wages to know who was writing to the old sod. She and Graves had worked together in this household more than ten years, without a personal word between them in all that time. Not that she wasn’t a friendly enough sort when the occasion arose. Yes, indeed. But him! Why, the old baronet himself hadn’t thought so highly of himself.

She turned the letter over, noting that it was not written in the baronet’s hand, nor did it bear his seal. The paper was a good enough quality though, and the handwriting was gentrified. She tucked the offensive missive in her apron pocket. Clearly, the old goat had had someone to turn to this morning when his lordship had given him the sack. Oh, it was frustrating! She wouldn’t hear a thing from the old sod himself. Well, the sooner he got the letter, the sooner she could set about finding out what was in it.

“Betsy!” Cook bellowed, making her way back into the kitchen. The girl was sweeping, somewhat ineffectively. Cook noted for later remark. “Take this up to ’is majesty, and see that you’re quick about it!” She held the letter out.

With a quick “Yes, mum,” Betsy had the letter and was off at a trot, eager to erase the most recent fault.

Cook turned her attention back to the elegant dinner she had planned. Pretty little Miss Ramsey had her gentleman back where she wanted him and Cook would see to it that there was nothing to complain about with this dinner. And this household would be a better place without that old sourpuss hanging about, that was for certain!

* * * *

Graves sat in his much-beloved wing chair, a drawing-room cast-off from years back, all the more comfortable for its long service. He pondered the mysterious letter, turning it over yet again to see if he could fathom from whence it came.

Its message was brief and to the point. In a well-educated hand was penned,
I have reason to believe you have been greatly wronged in this present unfortunate situation. I should very much like to help you. Please meet me in an hour at the Hawk in Hand by the docks. Forgive the unseemly location and the clandestine nature of this assignation, but it is imperative that I not be discovered by any of my acquaintance. My dear family’s reputation depends upon our discretion. You may trust me.

There was no signature, not even an initial. The stationery was of the finest linen, but there was no engraving, no mark to indicate from whom it had come.

Graves glanced up, his slate-gray eyes narrow in speculation. His initial, inarticulate rage had faded some hours ago, to be replaced by an almost lustful drive for revenge fed by a cold and calculating anger. To be thrown into the street over the likes of that tuppenny whore, without so much as two-weeks’ notice as if he were a common bootblack! His lordship had considered himself gracious in allowing that he would forward the baronet’s reference, stating only that the new tenant had found that he had no need of the butler’s services. And Graves, head butler these ten years and more to a fine gentleman of the peerage, was to knock on back doors like a scullery maid to find a new position! It was not to be borne.

A spasm of anger crushed the letter in his hand, reminding him that as the clock ticked on he must make a decision as to whether to heed the letter’s terse instructions. Not a trusting man by nature, his first impulse was to suspect a trap, yet how could it be? He had been sacked only this morning and as of yet had communicated with no one about his situation.

The rest of the staff must know, of course, but he dismissed their possible involvement with his usual haughty indifference. He had no friends among the staff and that was how he had wanted it. Familiarity breeds contempt and as the secret bastard son of a squire in the north, albeit by a chambermaid, Graves knew his status was considerably higher than the cockney rabble that entered domestic service these days.

Certainly Lord Radford had nothing to gain by baiting him in this fashion. His sacking had been bloodless, absolutely emotionless on his lordship’s part. If Lord Radford had had so much as a flicker of an idea of the humiliation he had inflicted on Graves by his cavalier, monstrously unfair action, he had given not a sign. To be sure the man had offered to pay Graves’s way by hired coach to the baronet’s country estate and a few nights’ interim lodging, and Graves had haughtily pocketed the money, although he had not yet decided where he would go.

The letter, therefore, seemed providential, if it were indeed on the level, offering the possibility that revenge might be enjoyed and that some unknown ally might hold the key. And if there were some catch, some unsavory element he did not wish to get mixed up in, he could simply walk away from it.

Standing abruptly, mind made up, Graves tucked the letter into his pocket. He gazed at his reflection in the full-length mirror, surplus from one of the fine bedrooms downstairs because of a tiny crack at the top, stroking down his hair and straightening his waistcoat. Then he reached for his cloak, flung it around himself, and strode for the door. Pausing only to lock it securely behind him, he descended the back stairs.

Without so much as a nod to Cook, Graves was out of the back door, leaving her staring behind him. Of all the nerve! So high and mighty he couldn’t be bothered to say when he’d return, and him supposedly still on duty until tomorrow! Oh, this would be a much better household when the old sod was gone. Cook thought, a satisfied smile curving her lips.