How To School Your Scoundrel (9 page)

Luisa’s fingers tightened around her glass. She took a sip and threaded her other hand through Quincy’s fur. He raised his head and looked up at her, inquisitive. “Do you mean to hurt him?” she asked, as casually as she could.

“Hurt him? Dear me, no. I rely on him to keep you safe, after all.”

“Do you mean
me
to hurt him?”

“No, no, no. Not at all. You quite misunderstand me.” He fiddled with his sherry glass. “As I promised in the beginning, your role shall be strictly one of observation. I only ask you to be prepared for any events, as they may arise.”

“Events? What sort of events?”

He drank his sherry and tapped his vermillion lips. “Ask no questions, my dear.”

Luisa finished the sherry, set Quincy carefully to the floor, and rose to her feet. She handed her empty glass to Olympia. “I will not betray him, Uncle. I cannot play both sides.”

“You won’t have to. Everything will turn out for the best, Luisa.”

She shook her head and crossed the room to open the parlor door. She half expected Miss Dingleby to be lingering in the hallway, listening through the keyhole, but her onetime governess was nowhere to be seen.

She plucked her hat from the hall stand and bent down to scoop Quincy into her arms. “Thank you for the sherry, Mrs. Duke. I’m glad to see you’re well. Keep me apprised of your gamble with Emilie’s life, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Olympia folded his arms against his false bosom. His eyes shone a bright blue in the light from the gas sconce affixed to the cheap burgundy fleur-de-lis wallpaper. “I do rather wish you would bend that spine of yours an inch or two and trust me.”

“Good day, Mrs. Duke. I’ll see myself out.” She turned and unbolted the door.

“Mr. Markham.”

She stared at her hand on the knob. “Yes, Mrs. Duke?”

“I suspect your employer may wish to have a word with you, on your return.”

J
ohnson, tell Mr. Markham I wish to have a word with him,” said the Earl of Somerton, without looking up from the papers arranged before him.

The butler crossed his arms behind his back. “I regret to say that Mr. Markham is currently enjoying the liberty of his weekly half day, sir,” he said triumphantly, as if to inform his employer that he had caught young Mr. Markham stealing bread from the local orphanage.

Somerton raised his head. “Half day? Half day, did you say? Who authorized this . . . this
half day
of his?”

“You did, sir.”

“
I
did?”

“He has been taking them regularly since his arrival.” Johnson left
the lazy young bastard
to dangle unspoken in the chill air of his lordship’s study.

“Has he? For God’s sake, why?”

“I believe it is a customary condition of British employment, sir. In some cases, the working man is entitled to a half day on Saturday, as well as the entirety of his Sunday, quite at leisure.” Johnson’s voice was dark with disapproval.

Somerton frowned. “Particularly distasteful in a nation that prides itself on its habit of sober industry. One expects these sorts of ramshackle customs on the Continent.”

“There are also the bank holidays, sir.” As he might say
the lands of Sodom and Gomorrah.

“Mark my words, Mr. Johnson. These so-called
week-ends
and
bank holidays
will lead inevitably to the decline of the British nation. We shall end up no better than the Spaniards. Next thing, it will be afternoon siestas, paid for by your honest beleaguered factory owner.”

The butler shuddered. “Or sick leave.”

“God forbid. Where will it end, if we pay workers to be sick? Weeklong holidays by the seaside every year, I suppose, with full compensation of wages.”

Johnson’s throat worked, as if he were struggling to contain tears.

“There, there, my good fellow,” Somerton said soothingly. “It won’t come to that, not if I still maintain my seat in the Lords. Though I expect the damned socialists will be after that, too, before long.”

Johnson removed his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the corner of his eye. “Quite right, sir. As to Mr. Markham, sir. Shall I tell him to join you in the study when he returns?”

“I see no other recourse, I’m afraid.”

An hour later, Mr. Markham strolled through the door, with his dog trotting confidently at his heels. Mr. Markham never knocked before entering a room. He scarcely even paused. For a chap who scraped along the bottom rungs of the social ladder, Mr. Markham carried about a remarkable air of owning every chamber he occupied.

“How was your
half day
, Mr. Markham?” Somerton said, when the secretary had settled himself in his chair and picked up his pen.

“Why, very well indeed, thank you. I was visiting my dear old aunt in Battersea.”

A soft weight settled on Somerton’s left foot. He gave his ankle a little jerk, but the little beast simply dug himself in more firmly. “I hope you have enjoyed yourself in Battersea, Mr. Markham, while the rest of us toiled the afternoon away.”

“I did indeed. My aunt’s maid makes a superb cup of tea. Quincy thoroughly enjoyed the ham sandwiches. Didn’t you, my dear?” He aimed an indulgent smile at the damned furry ball covering Somerton’s feet and waggled his fingers.

Somerton filled his lungs with air, causing the buttons of his jacket to strain in a most satisfactory manner. He looked down his long beak at Markham’s face—that delicate young face, those quiet brown eyes, why did they affect him so?—and used his most earth-rattling voice.

“Perhaps, in future, Mr. Markham, you would be so kind as to inform me of your plans when you elect, in the manner of a lady of leisure, to treat yourself to an afternoon entirely devoid of productive labor. As it happened, I had several urgent tasks awaiting your immediate attention.”

“Had you? I confess, after all these months, I’m rather dashed you haven’t noticed that I visit my aunt each Sunday afternoon, without fail.” He looked down to the surface of his desk and heaved his thin shoulders. “My only remaining family.”

“You have no need of family,” Somerton said harshly. “You have a job.”

“How unfortunate, since I vastly prefer her company to yours.”

“The quality of the company is irrelevant. Your loyalty is to me, and to this household, above all else. I believe I have paid generously for the privilege.”

“Loyalty is not a commodity to be purchased, Lord Somerton.”

Somerton roused his throat into a laugh. “What a naive chap you are, Mr. Markham. So full of fine ideals. But I assure you, a man’s loyalty can be bought. I have done so many times.”

“Forgive me, sir, but that’s not precisely true. You rule by bribery and fear. This loyalty you crave, this loyalty you think you’ve purchased, it’s not to you personally. It’s to your money, or to your subject’s own desire for self-preservation.”

Somerton clenched his fingers around his pen. He said icily, “What does it matter, as long as the result is the same?”

“Because, should you find yourself stripped of your money and your capacity for intimidation, I daresay you would find yourself betrayed in an instant.”

The mongrel’s wet tongue began to lick his exposed ankle in a quiet rhythm. He wanted to kick it away, to send an unmistakable signal that he, the Earl of Somerton, needed neither man nor beast to demonstrate a single iota of affection toward him. But his feet remained still under the patient licking, the soft nestling of Quincy’s body against his.

“Then let us hope, Mr. Markham,” he said, rather softly, because he was afraid his voice might crack if he spoke at full volume, “I am never deprived of either one.”

Markham picked up his pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and turned his attention to the paper before him. “I suppose that was insolent of me.”

Somerton cleared his throat of its absurd dryness. “I choose to ignore your insolence, Markham, because at the moment I require your services for a task of great delicacy.”

“And what is that, your lordship?” Markham did not raise his head.

“I require you to search my wife’s bedroom for evidence of her association with Lord Roland Penhallow.”

Markham startled upward. “What’s that?”

“The details remain personal. My suspicions are of long standing, however, and have recently been further revived by a chance piece of knowledge that came my way this morning.” He reached down and fingered the scrap of paper in his pocket.

“You’re mad. Lady Somerton is innocent.”

At the word
innocent
, Somerton tore his fist out of his pocket and crashed it against the solid mahogany surface of his desk. The paper was still tucked inside. “She is not innocent.”

“I would stake my word on it.”

“You would lose.”

Markham laid down his pen. The winter night had already fallen, and the heavy green damask curtains had been drawn snug by an efficient housemaid hours ago. A coal fire hissed steadily in the grate, though it was not enough to banish the February cold entirely, and the tip of Markham’s nose was nipped with red. His eyes, however, were large and warm and compassionate. “Sir, this unreasonable jealousy of yours, this madness . . .”

“It is not unreasonable!”

“. . . will destroy what remains of your happiness, and hers. Why don’t you simply talk to her? Some . . . some loving gesture . . .”

He banged his fist again. “You forget yourself, Markham.”

“Because it pains me to see you so unhappy.”

The room went hollow. There was no air, nothing for him to take in and breathe out, nothing to nourish him at all. He wanted to yank away his necktie, to gasp, to find some cursed, all-damned oxygen. Would someone just give him some bloody
air
to breathe?

He bolted to his feet and set his hands against the edge of the desk. Quincy jumped aside with an astonished yip. He opened his mouth and expanded his chest, and to his vast relief, his lungs obeyed him at last. “We have strayed far from the point, Markham. This is what comes of allowing you such extraordinary liberties.”

“I cannot sit back and watch you . . .”

“You can, Markham. Your duty, for which I pay you handsomely, is to execute my orders without question. My order at the moment is to search the countess’s bedroom and recover evidence of her association with Lord Roland Penhallow, brother of the Duke of Wallingford, grandson of the Duke of Olympia, God rot every last man of them. Your personal reservations are to be kept to yourself. Do you understand me?”

Markham stood and met Somerton’s gaze with an expression of fiery defiance. “Sir, I cannot countenance such an outrageous violation of . . .”

“Or I shall sack you at once, Markham.
At once.
I will turn you out on the street without pay or reference this instant.” He said the words forcefully, stabbing the air as he spoke, but he didn’t shout. He congratulated himself for that. Self-control was the bedrock of leadership.

“Sir.” Markham looked a little dazed.

“I do hope this dear old Battersea aunt of yours has a spare room, Mr. Markham.” A nice touch, that. Back to his old hard, invulnerable self.

Markham frowned at the mention of his aunt. The gaslight hit his face from an odd angle, making him look a trifle too thin, a trifle gaunt. His narrow shoulders looked as if they might be swallowed whole by his black wool coat. His fingers pressed into the desk so forcefully, the tips had gone quite white.

Somerton noted these telling details with pride.

“Well, Mr. Markham? The choice is yours. Never say I forced you to it.”

Had Markham looked pale before? He was now positively white-faced. “I will do it, your lordship,” he said softly, “but only to prove that you’re wrong. To clear her ladyship’s name. I want your promise that if I find nothing, the entire matter will be closed forever.”

Somerton walked around the side of his desk, toward Markham. The young fellow stood nobly, chin tilted, arms now crossed behind his back. Somerton admired the way his white neck held firm, the way his shoulders braced. He raised one massive leg and settled himself on the edge of the desk.

“My dear Mr. Markham, I couldn’t ask for more.”

•   •   •

L
uisa waited until half past nine o’clock in the morning, when the door had shut firmly behind Lady Somerton and her son.

She paused at the top of the stairs and glanced out the window to confirm their departure, heading hand in swinging hand across the street to the barren square gardens, as they did every morning. Lord Kildrake’s nurse trailed behind, looking more like an unwanted chaperone than a proper British nursery nurse. The poor woman spent most of her time reading novels in her tiny room, drinking gin quietly by the measured capful. (This from Tess, the housemaid with whom Luisa had struck up a tentative friendship over the past few months.)

When at last the three figures had passed through the black wrought-iron gate, had slipped in amongst the skeletal trees and disappeared from view, Luisa turned away to face the nursery door.

The small metal key in her pocket sagged downward with an unnatural weight. She had felt like a criminal, asking Mrs. Plum to take it off her ring.
An important errand on his lordship’s behalf
, she’d said, avoiding the housekeeper’s gaze, the slow hostility with which the woman had unhooked the loop, sorted through the various keys, and lifted one away.
Thank you
, she’d said, and instead of replying with the usual cheerful
You’re quite welcome, Mr. Markham
, Mrs. Plum had merely muttered something about returning it promptly and turned away.

Well, she couldn’t blame Mrs. Plum. The entire staff adored Lady Somerton. Even Johnson the butler harbored a certain softness for the countess, though the affection clearly taxed his divided conscience.

Luisa stiffened her shoulders, pulled the key from her pocket, and unlocked the door.

The windows in the day nursery faced south, and the room was bright and still, each toy put away in its cupboard, each cushion set back in its chair. In the center of the rug stood the desk on which young Philip wrote his letters and worked his sums; he was a precocious boy, already reading well, entranced by soldiers and horses, with that early reader’s endearing habit of mispronouncing words and speaking in oddly formal constructions. The family had spent December and most of January at the earl’s estate in Northamptonshire, and Philip had gone out riding regularly with a particularly sympathetic yellow-haired groom named Dick, while Lord Somerton had followed the hounds with the local hunt until Boxing Day signaled the end of the season. Luisa hadn’t joined them. For one thing, she felt exposed riding astride, with her all-too-feminine legs encased in boots and snug breeches.

For another thing, she hadn’t been asked.

Luisa turned away from his lordship’s schoolboy desk and walked to the door on the right. In earlier days, it might have served as a nanny’s room, but it was now given over to the countess’s use, an entirely unsuitable location that everybody pretended was quite ordinary and matter-of-course for the wife of the Earl of Somerton.