Elizabeth Mansfield (12 page)

Jane shook her head. "From what I see here in this book, it's a great deal more than a little bit. I calculate you've put by enough 'blunt' to keep you in silk for years."

The color faded from the butler's lips, and his cheeks turned ashen. Although his guilt was clearly evident, he nevertheless tried to maintain an air of truculent resistance with the feeble, last-ditch excuse of miscreants everywhere: "It don't hurt nobody."

She stood up and faced him, eye to eye. "It isn't
honest,
Mr. Parks."

He blinked at her for a moment before he lowered his head and turned away in defeat. "I s'pose you'll tell his lordship," he said glumly, walking to the fireplace. "It's the honest thing to do."

She made no answer.

"He'll sack me for sure." The thought made his knees give way, and he had to clutch the mantelpiece for support. "Funny, ain't it?" he said, glancing at her over his shoulder. "Just the other day you fought like the devil to save my post for me. And now you're causing me to lose it."

"I just
discovered
the crime, Mr. Parks. I didn't
commit
it."

"No, you didn't. That's true." He leaned his forehead against the mantel and heaved a great sigh. "You're right. Right as rain. I may as well face it—the blame's all mine."

She sank down on her chair. "I don't want you to be sacked, Mr. Parks. What I want is for this dishonesty to stop."

His head came round at once. "You mean—?"

"I mean that you should begin a new ledger book. A clean slate. All purchases should be moderately made and honestly recorded."

Color came slowly back to his lips and hope sprang into his eyes. "Are you saying you
won't
tell his lordship?"

"If I have your word—and Mrs. Hawkins's, too—that there will be no more of this. Not one trumped-up charge. Not one mendacious bill. Not one false, perjurious penny on these pages."

He ran across the room to her chair and dropped on his knees. "I swear it, Miss Jane! On the soul of my sainted mother in heaven!" He clutched her hand and pressed it to his lips. "Bless you, miss, bless you!"

She pulled her hand away. "Please get up, Mr. Parks. There's no need for such excessive gratitude."

"Yes, there is," he insisted in a choked voice, getting unsteadily to his feet. "That you trust me enough for this second chance is cause enough for gratitude."

"I'm taking your sworn word, Mr. Parks, but not completely on trust. You may be sure I shall keep a wary eye on the ledger while I remain here, and whoever takes my place will be instructed to do the same. So watch your step. And you'd best warn Mrs. Hawkins, too."

Outside the library door Luke chose this moment to back silently away. He didn't want to be discovered eavesdropping, but he was glad he'd done it. In the last few minutes, he'd learned a great deal—about his butler, his "man of business," and himself. What he'd learned about himself was painful: his staff thought him selfish and unfeeling. What he learned about the butler was useful: he'd be less naive about the accounts in the future. But what he'd learned about Jane Douglas was astounding. This mere slip of a girl had acted as sleuth, prosecutor, and judge. She'd detected an ongoing fraud, she'd drawn a confession of guilt from the perpetrator, and she'd passed down a sentence. It was not a very punitive sentence; he himself would have been harsher. Parks was right to suppose that he would have been sacked. But perhaps Miss Douglas's decision was wiser. She'd been kind and forgiving. As a result, the household would continue to function as smoothly as before, but there would be no more stealing. And it was all done quietly, without creating a stir and without involving him in an awkward foofaraw. "You were right, Mama," he murmured aloud as he climbed the stairs, "your Jane
is
a rare gem."

FOURTEEN

Luke dressed with his usual care, although his plans for the evening were not particularly exciting. He was promised to Lady Shelford for her monthly soiree, but he didn't expect to enjoy it. Lady Shelford had a habit of forcing him to dance attendance on young ladies of her own choosing, and her choices were usually not his. He'd warned his friend, Ferdie Shelford, that he intended to cut out of his mother's fete early. He wanted time to indulge in a little gambling at the club before he went to pay a late-night call on Dolly.

As he made his way up the crowded stairway of Lady Shelford's brightly lit town house, exchanging warm greetings with friends as he passed, Luke expected his spirits to rise. He usually enjoyed tossing pleasantries about with friends. Tonight, however, a strange feeling of ennui enveloped him. He hoped it would soon pass. He did not like this feeling one bit.

At the top of the stairs Lady Shelford stood greeting guests. She gave a glad cry at the sight of him. "Luke, my dearest boy, I've been speaking of you. Come and meet my favorite niece, who's visiting from Lincolnshire. Charlotte, my love, this is Luke Hammond, Lord Kettering, whom I told you of. Luke, make your leg to Miss Charlotte Gardine, my sister's daughter."

"A pleasure, Miss Gardine," Luke said, bowing. It actually was a pleasure, for Miss Gardine was more appealing than he'd expected. She was tall, slim-waisted, with a pretty mouth, clear blue eyes, and an air of serene confidence. Their first exchange of conversation was a pleasure, too, for in response to Luke's questions about her home in Lincolnshire and her first impressions of London, she neither giggled nor simpered. He was almost cheered. Perhaps the evening would turn out to be more enjoyable than he'd anticipated.

He fully expected a return to good spirits. When his hostess required him to partner Miss Gardine to dinner, he was perfectly content to do so. But that was where disillusionment slipped in—Miss Charlotte Gardine's true colors began to show.

During the first course, Miss Gardine introduced the subject of horses, and, before he knew it, she was hinting that, when Luke came round to take her riding the next morning, she would be quite ready. He gaped at her, for he'd made no such offer.

During the second course she suggested that they would undoubtedly see much of each other during the month of her stay. What had he said to lead her to that assumption?

And when the ladies rose to leave the gentlemen to their port, she made it quite clear that, when he rejoined the ladies, she expected him to stand up with her for at least three dances. Surely she knew that a man who danced three times with a girl was signaling definite designs on her. How could Charlotte Gardine believe he had designs on her, when he'd already said he would not be staying for the dancing?

Her presumptuous expectations surprised and irked him. Her air of confident serenity now seemed more like self-satisfied hauteur. Just because he'd offered her his arm for dinner was no reason for the young woman to conclude that he was interested in courtship.

When the men were left to themselves, Luke took a place beside Ferdie Shelford. Ferdie was a bookish fellow whose thick spectacles had made him a laughingstock at school but who had since earned the respect of his peers. Although not sufficiently proficient at sports to be considered a Corinthian, he was welcomed among them for his remarkable memory for sporting statistics. If one wanted to know who scored highest at the Cricket match at Harrow in '07, or the time achieved by the winner of the footrace at the Conduit Club, one had only to ask Ferdie. Luke liked him, not only for those things but for his exceedingly generous nature. Although the presumptuous Charlotte was his cousin, Luke felt sure he could speak frankly to Ferdie. He pulled his chair close to the fellow, leaned over, and whispered, "I say, Ferdie, whatever gave this cousin of yours, Charlotte, the notion that I'm wooing her?"

"Good God, did she take that notion?" Ferdie rolled his eyes heavenward. "I wish I could explain it. A bit smug, our Charlotte, I'm afraid. Mama says she's quite a belle in Lincolnshire. Perhaps that's made her expect every man she meets to dangle at her |heartstrings.''

"Well, I've no wish to dangle," Luke said. "In this case, Ferdie, old man, I think the better part of valor is to execute a strategic retreat. I'm off to the club. Make my excuses to your mother, will you?"

He was down the stairs and on his way to the club before the gentlemen at Lady Shelford's table had returned to the ladies. Although it was not yet ten, there was already a game of hazard under the way, with a crowd surrounding the players. He was welcomed with familiar greetings and soon had the dice in his hand.

He threw a seven, and several of his supporters among the observers bet that he would "nick it." But he threw a four. A quick calculation of the odds that Jane had taught him indicated that his chances of throwing the matching four were two to one. He bet a hundred, and several of the observers joined in the bet. He did manage to throw a four, and won. There was a loud cheer. "Luke's synonymous with luck tonight!" someone shouted.

Luke laughed. "Don't count on it. Whenever Lady Luck gives me a kiss, I always wonder what blow she's saving up to strike me with later."

He was right. At his next turn he lost all he'd made. As he watched the winners take his money, he suddenly wondered why he was spending his time this way. Before this, losing had always driven him to keep trying to make up his losses, but not tonight. Tonight, inexplicably, he felt bored and restless. He wanted to get away.

As soon as possible he excused himself and left. He hoped that an evening in Dolly's arms would help him lose this disheartening feeling of aimlessness.

Dolly welcomed him with the same glad smile he'd been receiving from friends all evening, but his unaccountable mood prevented him from responding with equal enthusiasm. Yet he could not blame Dolly for his discontent. She'd done everything she could to please. She looked enticing, dressed in a flowing dressing gown of a soft, sheer fabric, her hair hanging loose and curled oh-so-slightly round her face, and her red, full-lipped mouth pursed for kissing. She'd set a table with a number of things she knew he liked: a platter of little apricot soufflés, gooseberries with truffles and Bavarian cheese. A bottle of his favorite wine stood cooling in a silver bucket. Everything was arranged to perfection. Yet, again, all he wanted to do was to get away.

He responded to her welcoming embrace, and he smilingly admired the new draperies and pieces of furniture that she'd acquired in her redecoration. But before long, he announced with regret that he was unable to stay. None of her protestations—even the exaggeratedly tearful ones—induced him to change his mind.

As he made his way home, he mulled over his strange behavior. Something was definitely different about him. His usual pursuits seemed pointless, his usual amusements unamusing. What, he wondered in alarm, was happening to him?

FIFTEEN

All during the following day Jane could not shake off her feeling of depression. The business with Mr. Parks had revolted her. That such kindly-seeming people as Mr. Parks and Mrs. Hawkins could be guilty of corruption darkened her view of human nature. And, what was more troubling, she wasn't sure of her own motives. Why had she agreed to keep the information from the Viscount? Did she do it in sympathy for the servants' plight or to keep from having to face their resentment? Was she kind or merely cowardly?

Worst of all was her feeling of loneliness. Without a single friend, she was imprisoned in this vast house and forced to play the repressive role of custodian to the Viscount's fortune. That's what she was, a Constable of Finance. What sort of role was that for a young, vital woman?

Except for the library, there was no place here for enjoyment, no outlet for her spirits to lift from the doldrums. Even the act of eating was depressing. Lady Martha had generously decreed that she was to take her meals with the "family," but there was no family here. Her ladyship herself was gone, leaving only the Viscount to dine with. She would have enjoyed his company—at least there would be some conversation over the soup—but his lordship's habits of eating were peculiar. He breakfasted much later than she, took luncheon on the fly, and never dined at home. So, day after day, she was forced to sit alone at the round table of the morning room, her food served by a footman who treated her with too much awe. It made her feel like a leper.

That evening, too disheartened to subject herself to another solitary dinner, she decided not to go down to dine at all. Instead, she lit a candle, sat down at her dressing table, removed the restricting tucker from round her neck, took down her hair, and, thus relaxed, began to read a book of poems by Cowper that she'd brought up from the library. However, when she found herself dripping pathetic tears over simplistic lines like

What peaceful hours I once enjoyed!

How sweet their memory still!

But they have left an aching void

The world can never fill

she shut the book in annoyance. She was a sensible woman, not the sort to indulge in foolish self-pity. Moreover, she was suddenly very hungry. She got up, took a quick look in her little mirror, and, deciding that she needn't bother to pin back her hair when there was nobody to see it, picked up her candle and went down to dine.

The morning room was dark. She set her candle on the table, wondering if she'd been completely forgotten by the staff. But only a moment after she'd seated herself, Parks appeared in the doorway and cleared his throat. When she glanced up at him curiously, he threw her a warning look. Before she could interpret his meaning, he stepped aside to permit the Viscount himself to enter. "Tell Mrs. Hawkins I'll take my dinner here," his lordship said to the butler before turning to Jane. "That is, if you don't mind my joining you, Miss Douglas."

"Of course I don't," she responded, startled. She'd never before known him to be at home at this hour. "But shouldn't you prefer taking your dinner properly in the small dining room?"

"The small dining room seats eight. I'd much prefer the intimacy of this room. I don't think it improper, do you?"