Her Ladyship's Man (3 page)

"They are being cooperative . . . for them," Sir answered with his usual caution. "Although I think they seem overly eager to place a noose about Terrington's neck."

"That means nothing," Drew said, recalling the Corps's fanatical obsession with secrecy. "The slightest hint of anything untoward is enough to send them scrambling for someone on whom they can lay the blame. I'm only surprised it is the earl they are accusing, and not his assistant. It has always been my experience that the higher rank one holds, the less his chances of being accused. The nobility does tend to protect its own when it comes to a scandal."

"An interesting point," Sir agreed, rising to his feet, and crossed the room to the cellarette. "I raised much the same question, and was quickly assured that young Mr. Barrymore was, and I quote, 'above reproach.' Whatever the circumstances of his birth, it would appear he is not without friends. This recommendation came from the highest level."

"What are the circumstances of his birth?" Anthony asked, shaking his head when Sir offered him a glass of brandy. "His name is not familiar to me."

"He is the only son of a country parson and his wife." Drew repeated the information he had carefully uncovered. "She is a distant relation to Lord Marlehope, and one can only assume he is responsible for the lad's present position with the earl."

"Isn't Marlehope the underambassador to Spain?" Sir was frowning as he handed Drew a glass of brandy. "The plan to involve Mexico in any potential war with America originated in Madrid."

"I have already checked on that, Sir," Drew an
swered quickly. "The duke was in Scotland when the plan was first discussed, and there is no way he could have known of it. Besides, I find it doubtful that he should involve himself in anything unsavory. The man is as ambitious as they come."

"Tell me more of this Lady Melanie," Jacinda demanded with a determinedly cheerful smile. "I overheard Lady Jersey talking, and she said the girl is a bluestocking. How I should love to meet her!"

"You would enjoy meeting any female who has the smallest tinge of blue," her husband told her fondly. "If only to make yourself appear less of a periwinkle."

"Beast." A playful tap was administered to his cheek. "You know I am proud of my mind and my ability to use it. I merely meant that I am happy to know that Lady Melanie is no simpering chit. Perhaps she might prove an unexpected ally should you have need of one, Captain." Bright hazel eyes flashed to Drew.

"An interesting thought, Your Grace," he responded with an easy smile. "But you must know that as his daughter, Lady Melanie must automatically be considered a suspect in the earl's treason. She has moved in diplomatic circles for the past five years, after all, and there is no telling what she may or may not know. Also, it is reasonable to assume she would have some access to her father's papers. Her sex cannot eliminate her as a traitor, you know."

Jacinda colored brightly. "Indeed I do," she said, recalling when she had been accused of a similar crime by Anthony because of the saucy journals she had written as Lady X. That was all in the past, but things had been decidedly uncomfortable for a
while. Her generous heart went out immediately to the unknown Lady Melanie.

"Well, I think the poor child is the innocent victim of circumstance!" she declared flatly, her small chin coming up in defiance. "If her father
is
a traitor, then her life will be ruined. Unless you mean to offer the earl one of your infamous 'choices'?" She shot Sir an accusing look.

"The decision is not mine." He answered her question with all due seriousness. "But whatever the outcome, we must be very sure of ourselves before making any accusations. That is why you must be constantly vigilant, Merrick. No one in the house must be considered above suspicion. Not even the servants."

"I have already been looking into that, Sir," Drew was happy to inform him, "but so far I have been unable to uncover anything unusual. The earl's valet is a possible suspect; he has been with Terrington for the past ten years, and has accompanied him all over the world. Lady Melanie's companion is another possibility, although I think we can safely rule her out. She is the daughter of an army major, and my investigation shows she has been with her ladyship for only the past year. It seems her father died unexpectedly, and the woman, a Miss Evingale, was left stranded in America without funds. Lady Melanie somehow heard of her plight and hired her as her companion. I should think it unlikely she would betray her employer."

"I agree," Anthony said, rubbing a thoughtful finger across his bottom lip. Although he was only nominally involved in the mission, he was still eager to offer what help he could. "But what about the other servants? I know diplomatic personnel
often employ local domestics when abroad, and given some of Terrington's last postings, it might be prudent to look into their backgrounds."

"I have already done so," Sir told him. "Nothing."

"Then we will have to go on the assumption that the traitor is either Terrington, his assistant, or his daughter," Drew concluded, his lips thinning. "The problem is, how do we prove it?"

"I have some ideas along that line," Sir said enigmatically. "But it may take some time, and time is the one commodity we have precious little of. The Americans are holding debating sessions even as we speak, and a declaration of war is considered imminent. Although the earl has been isolated from any sensitive material, we still have no way of knowing what may have already been passed on."

"You may depend on me, Sir," Drew said fiercely, his hazel eyes flashing with determination. "If the earl or a member of his household has sold us to the French, I will find him out."

"I'm sure you shall, Merrick, I'm sure you shall." A rare smile softened Sir's hard features. "Halvey has assured me you have all the makings of an excellent butler, and as I have already learned to my discomfort, it is almost impossible to keep secrets from one's butler. They are worse than wives when it comes to ferreting out the truth. Just be the best major domo you know how to be, Merrick, and we shall have our answers before the season is half over."

Chapter Two

I
t was early the following Tuesday before Melanie and her father set out for London. The earl received several urgent missives from Whitehall as they were leaving, and it was decided that he and Mr. Barrymore would travel down in the carriage while Melanie and her companion, Miss Edwina Evingale, followed in the closed barouche. At least, that was the explanation Lord Terrington offered. Privately Melanie thought he had chosen the separate traveling arrangements so that he could avoid Miss Evingale's incessant chatter.

"Are we there yet?" Miss Evingale moaned as the ancient carriage rounded a corner. "I vow my poor nerves cannot take another moment of this dreadful jostling!"

"We are less than an hour from Mayfair, Edwina," Melanie replied, her voice edged with weariness. They had been on the road all afternoon, and her companion's litany of complaints had long since grown wearisome. First the carriage was too drafty,
then it was too warm, and now it was the motion of the carriage which affected her. Melanie considered herself as charitable as the next woman, but five straight hours in Miss Evingale's company was enough to try the patience of a saint.

"Close your eyes and think of something else, Edwina," she advised, shooting her pale companion a look of patent long-suffering. "You didn't eat a thing at that last inn when we stopped; perhaps you are simply hungry."

"Pray, Lady Melanie, do not even
mention
food," Miss Evingale pleaded, clutching a handkerchief to her lips. "That awful cook was a murderess, I am sure of it! Just like in
The Plight of Lady Prudence
, where the villainess was the cook in the castle. You remember, my lady, I read it to you on that dreadful voyage from America."

"I remember." Melanie answered glumly, recalling the days she had preferred the storm-washed deck of the ship to the airless cabin she shared with her companion. Miss Evingale had spent most of the time either suffering in the throes of
mal de mer
, or reading aloud from one of her beloved Gothics. The woman was positively addicted to the wretched things, and she had the annoying habit of applying the lurid tales to her everyday life. Although how anyone could go about thinking villains and heroes lurked behind every bush, Melanie was sure she did not know.

"Why don't you tell me about the book now?" she suggested, hoping to distract her from her suffering. "However did a murderess obtain a post as a cook?"

"By employing the cleverest of deceptions," Edwina answered, squeezing her pale blue eyes shut as the coach swayed dangerously. "She pretended
to be the orphaned daughter of a constable, but she was actually a dreadful hussy who had designs on Lord Tattleburn. Naturally, both Lady Prudence and I tumbled to her evil scheme at once; imagine hiring a cook who doesn't know the first thing about plucking a fowl!"

"That does seem rather odd," Melanie agreed, rubbing her head with a gloved hand. She prayed they would soon reach their destination, as she was not sure her patience could endure much more.

"Indeed," Miss Evingale responded, delighted at having so attentive an audience. "It was obvious Mrs. Crumbly, that was the hussy's name, by the by, was no mere domestic, but some highborn adventuress who was only pretending to be a servant until she could trick the hero into marrying her. But try telling Lord Tattleburn that! Prudence did, and only look where it got her?"

"Where did it get her?" Melanie enquired dutifully, grateful that her father and Mr. Barrymore were traveling in a separate carriage. Heaven only knew what they would make of so preposterous a conversation.

"The dungeon, of course. He thought she was a madwoman and decided to lock her up." Edwina's sallow cheeks flushed with excitement. "Fortunately the rats were obliging enough to chew through the ropes binding her, and she was able to escape and warn Lord Tattleburn before he ate the poisoned tarts Mrs. Crumbly had prepared."

"I don't see why Lady Prudence bothered," Melanie replied with an indignant sniff. "If any man were to lock
me
in a dungeon, poisoned tarts would be the least of his worries! Well, what became of Mrs. Crumbly?" she asked, intrigued despite her
self. "I suppose she soon found herself locked in the cellar with the obliging rodents?"

"Oh, no!" Edwina's eyes flew open. "She forgot about the arsenic she'd placed in the tarts and died an agonizing death! Naturally, Lady Prudence and Lord Tattleburn were married shortly thereafter."

"Naturally. There is nothing like a funeral to bring the romantic out in a fellow," Melanie replied dryly, noting they were within a few blocks of their temporary lodgings.

"Really, my lady, I do wish you weren't quite so cynical." Edwina sighed, eyeing Melanie with gentle reproof. "You have no romance in you, and that is quite unnatural in a girl of your breeding! Why, with your beauty and grace you would make the perfect heroine for one of Mrs. Radcliffe's novels, and I am certain you would never lack for a hero!"

"I thank you for the compliment, Edwina," Melanie said, noting with relief that the carriage was pulling to a halt in front of a large brick house. "But a man who would lock one in the cellar for trying to save his life hardly seems the most eligible of spouses to me, and I would just as lief do without one of the wretched creatures."

"But—"

"No buts, Edwina, my mind is made up," Melanie said as the door opened. "No heroes for me. Even if one does exist, I am convinced we would never suit. Now, come, it is time we were inspecting our new home." With that she accepted the hovering postillion's hand, eager to end their bizarre conversation.

"James, check your cravat, it is crooked," Drew ordered, surveying the footman in front of him with
the critical eye of a general preparing his troops for battle.

"Y-yes, Mr. Davies!" the footman stuttered, snapping to attention. "A-as you say, Mr. Davies!"

"Excellent, James," Drew approved, secretly pleased that all of Halvey's careful instructions were now bearing fruit. Given his brief but exhaustive training, he was confident he could pass muster as a butler in even the most exacting of households. Perhaps they might carry this thing off after all, he mused, pausing to flick a piece of lint from another footman's uniform.

"Sorry about that, Mr. Davies," the footman muttered, his cheeks reddening with chagrin.

Drew said nothing, having learned from Halvey that a haughtily raised eyebrow was often more effective than the most blistering of scolds. After inspecting the remaining members of the household, he turned to Mrs. Musgrove, the duke's housekeeper, who hovered anxiously at his side.

"Have the rooms been prepared for the Terringtons and their staff, Mrs. Musgrove?" he asked, straightening his starched cuffs with a flick of the wrist.

"Indeed they have, Mr. Davies," the good woman replied stoutly. Like the rest of Marchfield's servants, she was privy to the deception, and she was eager to do her part for her king and her employer. "I gave Lady Abbington and Lady Melanie the two suites at the front of the house. The earl and his assistant will be put in the Emerald Suite, just as you said."

Drew nodded absently. His choice of rooms for the Terringtons was no idle whim. After studying the lay of the house he had decided it would be best to keep the earl and his daughter as far apart as
possible. Even if she wasn't involved in his lordship's treason, it would be easier for him to carry out any reconnoitering he might have to do without having to work around a simpering debutante.

"Very good, Mrs. Musgrove," he said, turning at the sound of a carriage stopping in front of the house. "Be sure to have plenty of hot water waiting, as I am sure Lady Melanie will be wanting to freshen herself after her journey. And mind that you can have tea served in a moment's notice; they may desire refreshment as well."

This inference that she did not know her duties made the housekeeper stiffen with indignation, but she stoically held her tongue. Evidently Halvey had trained him too well, she thought, tucking a strand of graying hair beneath her mobcap. The lad was every bit as pompous as the old tyrant himself!