The Butler Did It (16 page)

 

F
ANNY WAS STANDING
just behind the slightly ajar door to her bedchamber when Sir Edgar mounted the stairs and came down the hallway, humming as he walked…and barely limped. Wasn't that nice, that he was such a happy man?

She'd soon fix that.

She waited until he'd opened his door, then scampered across the hallway and slipped inside his room just as he was about to close the door.

“Good afternoon, Sir Edgar,” she said, closing the door for him. Before he could more than open his mouth to protest, she slipped her right hand from behind her back and held up a key. “Misplace something?”

 

“I
TELL YOU
, I can't find it,” Daphne lamented, wringing her hands as Emma sat at her dressing table, Claramae (who had quite a talent for it) twisting her mistress's long black hair into ropes threaded through with faux pearls.

“Yes, so you've said, Mama. Several times.” She waved Claramae away and turned to look at her mother. “Now, if you would tell me precisely what it is you can't find, perhaps I might be able to help?”

“The voucher, of course,” Daphne said, plopping herself down on the bench at the bottom of Emma's bed and fanning herself with the ribbons on her gown. “The
voucher for Almack's. We need to present it to gain admittance. I'm sure of that.”

Emma relaxed. “Mama, I've already tucked it into my reticule. See? Nothing to fret about. And you look wonderful tonight, although are you quite sure about the turban?”

“Your grandmother swears it is expected of a widow escorting her daughter. She read it somewhere.”

“Did Grandmama say it had to be purple?” Emma asked, privately thinking her mother, with her round face and flushed cheeks, greatly resembled a confectionery treat with plum sauce. “Your gown, after all, is green.”

“I know, I know, but it's the only turban I have, and it's older than you, as it was once my mama's and she's been dead these thirty years. And it itches.”

“Claramae?” Emma prompted, pointing to her mother. “Could you possibly perform one of your miracles on my mother's hair? Really, Mama, you're years too young for a turban. But we must hurry. His lordship was adamant about having us ready to leave by nine.”

Emma stood up from the dressing table and walked over to the window as her mother sat down and Claramae began unpinning the offensive turban.

His lordship had said to be ready by nine. He had said many things at the dinner table this evening, most of them having to do with other strictures his imaginative mind had conjured up for all of them.

Sir Edgar was never to be a part of their party in So
ciety, and would make himself scarce in the event the Grosvenor Square mansion was opened for any activities.

Emma had expected Sir Edgar to protest, but the man had looked nearly oppressed when he'd come late to the dining room, and had only nodded his agreement with the marquis's plan. In fact, that nod was the only animation Sir Edgar had shown. He'd pretty much just sat there and stared at his plate, and barely nibbled at his food.

Her grandmother, on the other hand, had been particularly vivacious as she sat at Sir Edgar's right. Talking nineteen to the dozen about this and that, regaling everyone with a fine imitation of Lord Boswick's lamentations about the sad state of his liver.

She'd had a sparkle in her eyes and a spring to her step as the ladies had retired to the drawing room, and then suddenly cried off from going along to Almack's because she had the headache. It certainly had come on suddenly, perhaps caused by Olive Norbert, who had been quiet through their meal (except for the volume she raised with her chewing, which was considerable).

Once out of earshot of the marquis, Olive had seemed to feel the need to empty her budget of several complaints.

“He says I can't come to the table no more,” she'd spit angrily. “Who is he to say such a thing to me? Me, what's paid down good money to be here. Just because I don't have no hoity-toity ways about me.”

Emma had reminded the woman that the marquis had promised to return her entire lease payment, and still allow her to remain in residence, which had calmed Olive somewhat, until she'd said, “And I can't go to no parties if you have them!” And then, shocking everyone greatly, she had run from the drawing room in tears.

“Mama?” Emma said now, remembering Olive's tearful flight. “Do you think I should speak to the marquis about Mrs. Norbert? She seemed quite overset to hear she won't be included in any small parties we might have here during the Season.”

“Yes, that was odd, wasn't it?” Daphne frowned into the mirror as Claramae brushed her hair into a topknot. “Perhaps she wished to move in Society more than she let on?”

Emma came to a decision. “I'll talk to him. Sir Edgar, on the other hand, didn't seem to mind at all, although I longed to question the marquis, as Sir Edgar is, after all, a peer. But he's an odd sort, isn't he? Either out and about, or locked in his rooms.”

Fanny, who had been reclining on a slipper chair in Emma's bedchamber, a cool cloth to her forehead (and faintly moaning every now and then), said, “Nothing wrong with Sir Edgar, gel. Leave him be. I like the man. We're going for a drive together tomorrow as a matter of fact. Shame we have to use that hulk of a coach. Do you think you could get his lordship to give us use of his curricle, Emma?”

“I highly doubt that, Grandmama,” Emma said, knowing she would rather champion Mrs. Norbert than plead use of a gentleman's curricle and horseflesh. Especially since Cliff had asked that same favor at dinner and had his head nearly bitten off. “I don't think his lordship's magnanimity stretches that far.”

“Then the coach it is. Probably better for what I have in mind anyway.”

Emma's eyebrows lifted as she turned to look at Fanny. “Why? What are you planning, and do I really want to know?”

“I don't,” Daphne said, patting at her hair as she peered into the mirror. “Thank you, Claramae. I feel much more the thing. I do hope it's proper. I know, I'll go find Thornley and beg his opinion.”

“There she goes,” Fanny said, lifting the cloth from her eyes as her daughter-in-law all but skipped out of the room. “Any day now she's going to tackle the poor fellow, and the next thing we know there'll be a clutch of little bastard butlers running around Clifford Manor, amusing themselves in polishing the silver.” She shrugged, replaced the cloth. “Maybe I should sic one of the old roués on her instead of offering up a grandson to you. Would you mind one the less?”

Emma picked up her fine wool shawl and draped it around her shoulders, taking time to inspect her reflection in the pier glass. She looked tolerably well in white, although she longed for more color than debutantes were
allowed. Still, the overall effect wasn't unpleasing. “Ten rather than eleven, as I'm already convinced that the King is rather above my touch? I think I should be able to sustain the loss.”

“Don't be too generous, pet. Willie never married, so he's little use to us, and Dickie Harper had only daughters who produced more females. Florizel whispered to me that Bosey is all but under the hatches, and his whole family with him. We don't need to fall into another debt-ridden household.”

“But I thought you said we'd be knee-deep in suitors, Grandmama.”

Fanny readjusted the cloth over her eyes. “I did. But it may take some time. There's still some who haven't come crawling over here yet. And I've got other irons in the fire.”

Emma walked over to the slipper chair and lifted the cloth, to stare into her grandmother's face. “Do I want to know about them? These other irons?”

Fanny grabbed the cloth and replaced it, then folded her arms on her stomach. “No, you do not. Now go away.”

Emma tried again. “The marquis was not best pleased to see that parade of your victims today, Grandmama, so he'll be delighted when I tell him your plan hasn't been all that successful. As am I, I have to say. Will either of us like your new plan?”

Fanny didn't answer.

“Grandmama,” Emma said, jamming her hands down on her hips. “I would consider it a kindness if, whatever grand idea you've taken into your head now, you discard it, along with your never-to-be-written memoirs. You could have some faith in me, you know. I'd like to think I might actually attract an eligible gentleman on my own.”

“Ha! You'd need a whacking great dowry for that, gel, no matter how beautiful you might be. What dowry we have for you isn't enough to interest a second son.” She lifted the cloth once more. “But you do look top of the trees tonight. Much like me in my grasstime, although my blue eyes were more the rage. Admirers you'll get on your own, but you need either my threatened memoirs or a whopping great dowry to get any of them to the altar.”

Emma bit her bottom lip, knowing her grandmother was right. True love was for fanciful novels; in the
ton
marriages were more convenient than hot-blooded. “And you have irons in the fire about—about what? Another way to bring eligible admirers to the sticking point, or a way to gain me a dowry? Tell me, Grandmama. Tell me now, or I will leave the marquis and Mama both downstairs to cool their heels, because I will
not
go to Almack's, or anywhere else. I don't trust you.”

“Smartest thing you ever said,” Fanny told her, sitting up and swinging her feet down to the floor. “Go, and stop fretting. I said I have irons in the fire, not that we'll all be clapped in irons. And smile at the marquis. It wouldn't
hurt your consequence any to have him drooling over you for the whole world to see.”

“I…
drooling!
I would never…how could you? Isn't it enough that we're living under his roof? Poor man. I do have some conscience, you know. Oh, I'm leaving. But I warn you, Grandmama, do anything horrid and I will never forgive you.”

“And I thought your mama was the dramatic one,” Fanny said, rolling her eyes. “Now, go, go. I never held with this business of keeping a gentleman waiting.”

I
F ONE SALLIED
forth into London, specifically searching for the most mundane, colorless, uninspired building in which to hold a weekly dance Assembly, ending up at Almack's would be considered a major triumph of discovery.

For anyone hoping for more than overheated, banal surroundings, aged musicians definitely past their prime, and refreshments seemingly designed to tempt the tastes of no one—well, then, welcome to Almack's.

But there was an
air
inside Almack's, variously perceived by those who entered through the hallowed portal. To the ladies, both hopeful mamas and nervous debutantes, it was the heady smell of the hunt, and the scent of Eligible Man. To the gentlemen, it was the tense atmosphere of the hunted, and if they trod carefully, their gazes ever vigilant, it was because of stories they'd heard about others of the hunted, and their ignominious captures.

Many a young miss could be heard to say that Almack's was a pitiful place, a crushing bore with rules that
were Positively Medieval, and that those who attended were Desperate In The Extreme. These would be the young misses denied vouchers, who on Wednesday evenings during the Season spent their time cooling their heels at tame parties and gnashing their teeth, a lot.

Young men attended because their mamas insisted, or their papas rendered sage advice on the lines of, “You have to get yourself an heir, boy, so you may as well get it over with and get on with your life.”

In any event, Almack's was the Marriage Mart, and both the females and males of the species approached it in full armor, alert and poised to pounce or retreat.

The Patronesses, and self-appointed Doyennes of Social Arbitration, wielded their power with the subtlety of peacocks on the strut. They decided who was eligible. They decided who was deserving. They decided who should be left out in the cold, to weep bitter tears of rejection.

They even decided when a debutante would be allowed to waltz, not only within the walls of Almack's, but anywhere in Society.

In short, in long, they were a starchy gaggle of self-important bullies who had somehow convinced the Polite World that they deserved to rule it. If nothing else, Morgan admired them for that, because setting yourself up for greatness only works if there are lesser minds who agree to worship at the altar you have constructed.

Daphne, who had listened to all of this from Morgan
as his crested coach inched along King Street, slowly approaching this dignified den of iniquity, nodding at all the appropriate and not so appropriate times, said at last, “How low do we curtsy to a Patroness, please?”

Emma, who was still smarting over the fact that the Marquis of Westham hadn't so much as blinked when she slowly descended the stairs in her finery—and she
did
look fine, she knew it—said, “We don't curtsy, Mama. We kneel, then kiss the hems of their garments.”

“Even Sally?” Daphne asked, aghast. “Surely, as old chums from school, she wouldn't make me—oh!” She sat back against the velvet squabs and glared out the off-window. “That was exceedingly cruel of you, Emma.”

“I'm sorry, Mama,” Emma said, patting the woman's pudgy, gloved forearm. “I believe I must be out of sorts, and I aimed my barb at entirely the wrong target.”

Morgan lifted one eyebrow and looked across the dimness of the coach. “Pardon me, ladies. Did someone call my name?”

Emma's palms itched to slap his supercilious face. “You could at least
pretend
that you see something even marginally laudable in the evening ahead, my lord. As it is, I suddenly feel not only moneygrubbing, but somehow grubby.”

“Nonsense, Miss Clifford,” Morgan said, picking a bit of nonexistent lint from his sleeve. “Grubby? I should say not. You look passably fine. You carry a reticule, not a net to cast over the first unwary male you see. We ap
proach a jungle, surely, but you will hunt with your smile, your fluttering fan, your delightful repartee, your graceful step as you go down the dance. The moneygrubbing, however, I would leave stand.”

She looked down at her gown, covered as it was by her cloak, knowing that this was her third best gown, and if not of the first stare, at least fashionable in cut and color. Passably fair? How dare he! She was much more than passably fair.

Emma decided she would not respond to the marquis's obvious baiting of her, and merely shifted the subject to himself, and others of his ilk. If her voice dripped venom as she spoke, well, she couldn't help that, could she? “And which are you, my lord? A man avoiding matrimony, or one on the lookout for a fitting broodmare to give you sons, along with a large dowry?”

“Emma…dearest…” Daphne said, looking from her daughter to Morgan. “You are not being gracious.”

“No, Mama, I'm not. But if he can attack me, I should be able to attack him back,” Emma said, then winced when she realized how very juvenile that excuse sounded. “Moneygrubbing. It's insulting.”

Morgan, noticing that the coach had stopped for what seemed like the last time, leaned over and opened the door, then kicked down the steps. “Sheath your claws, Miss Clifford, for we have arrived.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, rolling her eyes. “We will be in public in a few moments, won't we? Where we Cliffords
are to sing your praises to the sky, and all of that drivel. I must have been out of my mind to agree to this charade.”

“I'd agree, Miss Clifford, save that I would be agreeing to my own guilt in a truly mad scheme. But, as we are committed to this farce, please put a brave face on it and tackle the first eligible man you spy. Get yourself bracketed within the month, Miss Clifford, and I'll go so far as to buy you a lovely present. Something Wedgwood?”

“Go to the devil,” Emma said as a liveried footman inserted his hand into the coach, to assist her down to the flagway.

Morgan assisted Daphne in descending, smiling as he realized that holding one's temper, at least for the moment, was giving him much more pleasure than did those minutes spent in his rooms earlier, where he had tossed not one, but two, vases at the wall. His temper, and his mood, improved with every spark that shot from Miss Clifford's lovely eyes, each insult that sprang from her lips.

Yes, he was enjoying watching her lose her temper, much more than he had ever enjoyed losing his own.

 

“N
OW, NOW, DON'T LOSE
the reins on your temper, Sir Edgar, for it will do you no good, and may even prove injurious to your spleen, or so I've heard. Besides, I have been ranted and raved at by the best, and anger neither
frightens me nor moves me. Now, I ask again, why should your brilliant scheme line only your pockets? Especially when it's already obvious that, between the two of us, mine is the superior brain.”

“How so?” Sir Edgar asked, jumping up from his chair and beginning to pace.

Fanny smiled and began ticking off her reasons on her fingers. “One, I took one look at you that first day and knew you were up to something shifty and shady. Two, I found the key you so clumsily left lying about for me to find. Three, I saw what's in those chests. Four, after looking into those same chests, I deduced exactly what you are planning. Five—”

“Women! I detest women!” Sir Edgar said, which caused Fanny Clifford to sit back even more at her ease, her smile broad and satisfied, rather like a cat with canary feathers sticking out of the corner of her mouth. “But to demand to be my partner? You can't mean that.”

“Yes, I can mean that, Sir Edgar. I
do
mean that.”

Sir Edgar walked from one side of his bedchamber to the other and halfway back again, stopped in front of Fanny, held up one finger as he opened his mouth to say something, then shook his head and retreated to his bed, leaning back against the side of the mattress. “I can't believe this is happening. To
me.
”

“I see no reason for you to fly up into the boughs, Sir Edgar, and hysterics are so fatiguing. All I'm suggesting is a simple partnership. I do not interfere with your
aims. On the contrary, I will be bringing you new prospects.
Rich
prospects. You would prefer them rich, I imagine. And brick-stupid. I cannot begin to tell you the most prodigious length and breadth of my acquaintance with rich, brick-stupid men.”

Sir Edgar, who had been feeling so very lucky after his afternoon with John Hatcher, knew himself to have been cast into doldrums of despair such as he hadn't known since that terrible day during the victory celebrations after Waterloo, when he had barely escaped being clapped in irons for attempting to sell Hyde Park to two very accommodatingly naive and thoroughly bosky visitors from Russia.

“I work alone,” he said at last, but fatalistically, as he already knew further protest would do him no good. Fanny Clifford was a sort he recognized, almost a kindred spirit, and once she got the bit between her teeth, there was no stopping her.

“So do I, Sir Edgar, for the most part. And quite successfully, if I must say so myself. However, there can never be any such thing as too much success. That said, how much do you think we can make, from Hatcher and the others I will bring to you, chickens ready to be plucked?”

“Hatcher? How do you know about—oh, never mind. I mentioned him, didn't I? Do you ever miss a trick, Mrs. Clifford?”

“No, and you may call me Fanny, as long as we're
going to be cohorts in crime.
Edgar.
” She hoisted her slim body upright, ignoring the way her bony knees creaked, and refilled her glass from the bottle she'd carried with her to Sir Edgar's room after everyone had departed for Almack's. She held up the bottle. “Are you quite sure you don't want any? And there's more in the drawing room, should we still feel dry. The marquis keeps a tolerable cellar. There's not a bottle down there less than five years old.”

 

“W
HAT HAS IT BEEN
, Westham? Five years? Sulking in the country, that's what I heard.”

Morgan opened his mouth to say something, what, he wasn't quite sure, but he should have known better. Sally Jersey didn't really ask questions, not really, and if she did, she then answered them herself.

“Yes, that's it. Five years. After that duel with the dear Earl of Brentwood. Ah, Perry. I haven't seen him here in many a year. Do something about that, will you, Westham? I seem to remember that you two ran tame together. Until you pinked him. Quite a dashing scar. Where's yours?”

Morgan ignored that question, about the only one Sally Jersey couldn't answer for herself, thank God. “I'm here this evening, Lady Jersey, to—”

“Find yourself a bride,” she finished for him, winking broadly, which served to make him grit his teeth. “About time, too. I imagine your poor mama has been
nattering you to death, to find a wife and populate her nursery. Wants grandkiddies, I suppose. Most women do. But not me. What on earth would I do, being a grandmother? I can't see it, can you? No, I can't see it. So. Don't you have anything to say for yourself?”

“I—” Morgan closed his mouth, shook his head and inclined his head to the countess. “Are you quite done, madam? I wouldn't wish to interrupt.”

Lady Jersey slapped his arm playfully with her furled fan. “Impertinent pup. I'm never quite done, didn't you know that? Why, I haven't even begun to question you about the Cliffords. Dragged them here with you tonight, didn't you? Of course you did. I was friends with Daphne once, aeons ago. Childhood friends, you understand. Although she's older. She has to be older, I'm sure of that. I know I don't look that old. Do I look that old? No, of course not.”

Morgan was getting the headache. “Lady Jersey,” he said firmly, “I have approached you this evening to ask you to step over to speak with Miss Clifford for a few moments, lend her your great consequence, and give her permission to dance. If you would be so kind.”

“Kind has nothing to do with it, Westham,” Lady Jersey said, already heading across the uneven wooden dance floor in full sail, Morgan following in her wake. “This is what I do, and I have to do more of it, we all have to do more of it, or Almack's will go the way of so many wonderful things that were once here, and now are
gone. But she's pretty enough, don't you think? And with you as her guardian, she should have no trouble bracketing herself in her first Season. You're not a stingy sort, so I'm going to presume that the dowry is more than sufficient?”

And there it was. He hadn't been inside Almack's above ten minutes, and his main worry of the day had been voiced by none other than a woman whose tongue fair ran on wheels.

If he said he was not actually Miss Clifford's guardian, it would be all over Mayfair by breakfast time tomorrow that his interest in the girl was not quite aboveboard.

If he said he was acting as her guardian but was not providing a dowry, he would be considered closefisted and mean, and still considered as fodder for any gossip that would have him cast as hardened seducer of innocent maidens.

If he said he was a totally avuncular friend, acting as her guardian, giving her a ball, and gifting her with a substantial dowry…well, any way he looked at the thing, there was no way he was going to win, was he?

“Miss Clifford!” Lady Jersey said, coming to rest in front of Emma, who had immediately dropped into a well-executed curtsy. “La, aren't we looking splendid this evening? Of course we are. Daffy?”

“Lady Jersey,” Daphne said, dropping into a curtsy fit for royalty, the move ruined only when she hesitated at
the bottom of it and began to drift to one side, so that Emma had to quickly reach down and steady her until she could regain her balance. “It is such an esteemed honor, a true condescension, a most rare treat and a greatly appreciated—”

“Oh, cut line, Daffy,” Lady Jersey said, and Daphne obediently shut up. “Where's your turban? You're on the shelf, Daffy, you do know that, don't you? Of course, you do. It's the chit here we're to pop off, not you, you silly widgeon. And if not a turban, feathers, at the very least, don't you think? Of course, you do. Why, I have feathers in my hair, and I'm
years
your junior. Now, Lord Westham? Is there something you want to ask me? Of course, you—”