The Incomparable Miss Compton (7 page)

Except the fact that she collected rocks.

He smiled, remembering her set down. There was a story there; he was certain of it. Perhaps he could get her to reveal it the next time they met. She would not divulge it easily, that much was clear. Sarah was a strong-willed woman, exactly what he needed. He looked forward to persuading her of that fact.

Appleby was just turning down the bedclothes when Malcolm entered the room. Malcolm started to wave him out, then remembered Chas’ advice. He eyed the fellow appraisingly as his valet went to stir the coals of the fire. The red glow from the black marble fireplace cast a somber look to the fellow’s narrow face. Of course, it took very little to make Appleby look somber. All Malcolm had to do was pick the wrong coat.

“Is something amiss, my lord?” the man asked in his slow, quiet voice as he straightened and caught Malcolm watching him.

“Do you mix much with other servants, Appleby?” Malcolm asked.

His valet’s eyebrows rose at the personal question, and Malcolm realized it was probably the first of its kind. “I’m not certain what you mean, my lord,” the fellow murmured.

Malcolm prowled over to the bed, debating how much effort to put into the questioning. He didn’t want to alienate the man -- he had little time to hire a valet and train him to work as Malcolm preferred, which was quickly and silently. On the other hand, having another avenue to learn about his fellow Parliamentarians would be very helpful. One never knew what obscure fact could win an argument. He had gotten Lord Wincamp to vote against the Corn Laws by pointing out their potential effects on badgers, which happened to be on the fellow‘s ancestral shield.

“Lord Prestwick informs me,” he said carefully, keeping his gaze on the gold-shot green bed hangings, which appeared to need a thorough cleaning, “that his valet entertains him with stories from other servants and their masters. I note that you do not do so with me.”

He could hear the frown in his man’s voice. “I never had the impression my lord enjoyed stories. In fact, I rather had the impression my lord would prefer I not speak at all.”

“Certainly you may speak,” Malcolm told him, feeling annoyed for no reason he could name. “Particularly if you had something useful to speak about.”

Glancing up, he saw Appleby’s brow clear. “Useful? I see. My lord would perhaps like tips on fashion or personal hygiene?”

“My lord would not,” Malcolm snapped. “I’m no fashion leader like Brummell.”

“You certainly aren’t,” Appleby agreed with a sigh.

Malcolm frowned. “Was that a comment on my dress, Appleby?”

Appleby frowned as well. “Certainly not, my lord. However, may I point out that my lord did just indicate that he prefer I speak? Perhaps my lord would prefer to return to our usual silence?”

Malcolm took a deep breath and prayed for patience. The bed hangings would not be cleaned until he had a wife to oversee the household. There would be no wife unless he exerted himself to find one. And Sarah Compton was the most likely candidate.

“Appleby,” he said carefully, “I understand that there is a chain of servants who bandy information about their masters and associates. What I am trying to ascertain is whether you are connected to this chain and whether you would be willing to pass information from it to me when asked.”

“I see,” his valet intoned. “You would like me to relay gossip. I generally try to avoid gossip as it is always overblown and frequently dead wrong. So, I would say this would be an addition to my duties, and I do not think I could add to my duties without expectation of an increase in pay.”

Malcolm cocked his head, amused despite himself. He would not have thought the fellow held such scruples, nor that he held them so cheaply. “I imagine additional remuneration can be arranged for the right information,” he allowed.

Appleby inclined his head. “Always your servant, my lord.”

“Very well,” Malcolm agreed. “See what you can find out about Miss Sarah Compton, late of Suffolk.”

Appleby stared off toward the far end of the room, for all the world like some gypsy going into a trance. “Miss Sarah Compton,” he mused, voice echoing oddly. “Yes, of course, Miss Compton.”

“You know her?” Malcolm asked with a frown.

“It’s possible,” Appleby intoned. “Yes, quite possible. Elegant female, chaperoning the Incomparable Miss Persephone Compton?”

“Yes, deuce take it,” Malcolm admitted, “the very one. Speak up, man. What have you heard?”

Appleby blinked and focused his bleary blue eyes on his master. “Why nothing. Nothing at all. But perhaps I can remedy that by the time you awake in the morning.”

“See that you do,” Malcolm growled, thoroughly put out with the fellow. “I expect a full report at breakfast.”

“Your servant, my lord,” Appleby replied, starting to bow himself out.

Malcolm held up a hand to stop him. “And Appleby, I don’t think I need to remind you that you are not to relay information about me without asking first.”

Appleby froze halfway up from his bow. “You would give me permission to gossip about you?”

“If it suited my purpose,” Malcolm explained. “It might be an expedient way to let a colleague know of my opinions without advertising them, or humbling him. However, in all other circumstances, I expect you to be silent about my doings.”

“Will not the other servants see this as a difficulty, my lord?” Appleby asked, licking his lips as he slowly straightened. “I imagine I shall have to pay in some way for their confidences.”

“I pay no one to stand as betrayer,” Malcolm informed him, scowling at the very thought. “Understand me well, Appleby. If servants are talking of their own free will, I see nothing wrong in listening. In fact, it appears to be expected that you will relay it to me. However, I do not want to offer any inducement to them to tell tales on their masters. That betrays a trust. Do you understand?”

Appleby nodded. “I believe so, my lord. If you need nothing else, then?”

Malcolm waved him out then shook his head. He could not help feeling that Appleby would prove singularly unskilled at this game. Just in case the man was as hesitant in gathering information as he was in dressing Malcolm, Malcolm would send a few pointed notes to others from whom he had previously learned much. With any luck, he would soon know just how qualified Sarah Compton was for his purposes.

He could hardly wait.

Chapter Six

Sarah wasn’t certain what time they left Lady Prestwick’s ball. The night seemed to stop the moment Viscount Breckonridge left, the time slowing, the people dulling. She watched the gentlemen flatter her cousin as if from a distance. She barely noticed that several others had joined the throng, including the brooding gentleman who had watched them from the doorway at dinner. Even the renewed attentions of the Duke of Reddington failed to pique her interest. The world had somehow shrunk and with it her enjoyment. She had no idea what spell Lord Breckonridge had woven over her, but she could hardly wait to go home.

Even Norrie remarked on her change of attitude. “Sarah, this isn’t like you,” she protested when repeated questions had failed to get Sarah to answer in more than a monosyllable. “You’ve spent well over an hour in the gentleman’s company. Give over, my girl. What do you think of him?”

Sarah rubbed her temple. “I think I shall have a headache for the first time in my life,” she murmured crossly. “I shall have to go home and brew a potion of feverfew leaves. Aunt Belle claims that always works wonders for her.“

She looked up to find Norrie regarding her with narrowed eyes. Sarah threw up her hands. “Honestly, Norrie, I don’t know what to think about Lord Breckonridge. There were moments in his company that were delightful beyond words, and moments that drove me to distraction.”

“Distraction, eh,” Norrie mused. “That could be auspicious or disastrous. I suppose the important thing is his intent. Did he ask to call on you?”

“He did,” Sarah admitted, still marveling at the fact. “Though truth be told he asked in such a way that I cannot be sure he did not include Persephone in the request.”

Norrie’s face fell. “Well, that is a leveler. I can see why you’re confused. Let us just hope the gentleman is more obvious when he visits. Would you like to go home? I can bring Persephone with us. It will only take a moment to pry Justinian away from the discussion of literature he is no doubt finding so fascinating.”

Sarah shook her head. “You are kind, but I have my duty. I just hope this evening ends soon.”

Unfortunately, her cousin obviously felt otherwise.

“What a lovely evening,” Persephone remarked hours later when they at last rode home in the family carriage. “Lady Prestwick puts on the best attractions. I vow there will not be another ball to rival this all Season.”

“It was interesting,” Sarah allowed, stifling a yawn. “Though in truth I still am not sure what to make of it. But one thing I do know. You are quite a success, Persy. You should be pleased.”

The girl lowered her head demurely, but not before Sarah saw her smile widen in triumph. “Thank you, Cousin Sarah,” she said quietly. “I am pleased that people seem to like me. The duke was even attentive.”

“Wonderfully so,” Sarah agreed, but her mind immediately conjured up the image of a raven-haired gentleman who had danced attendance on her instead. She forced her attention back to the matter at hand. “I hope His Grace will come calling this week.”

“Oh, very likely,” Persephone replied. She gave a gossamer giggle that echoed against the hard wood panels and made it sound as if an entire family of pixies had been let loose in the vehicle. “Can you see his face when I refuse him? He will be beside himself.”

Sarah blinked, feeling suddenly at sea. “Refuse him? Why would you refuse him?”

Persephone giggled again, and this time the sound sent a chill through Sarah.

“Because I’ve found someone better, of course. You do want me to make the best match possible, don’t you, Sarah?”

“Of course,” Sarah said with a frown. “But I was under the impression that the duke was the best of your suitors. He is wealthy, he is titled, he is handsome and charming, and he is besotted. What more do you want?”

“Power?” Persy said thoughtfully, elfin head cocked so that her golden ringlets tickled her dainty chin. “Position? Influence?”

Sarah stared at her. It had never dawned on her that her frail cousin would crave such things. But the interest in her voice would not be denied. “And you don’t think you’ll have those things as the Duchess of Reddington?”

Even in the dark, Sarah could see that Persy had made a face. “Doubtful,” she replied. “Everyone says the duke is somewhat of a recluse. He spends most of the year at his hunting lodge in York of all places. I am not convinced I can persuade him to stay in London. And I refuse to waste away in the country.”

“I imagine even London would cloy after a time,” Sarah told her. “It swelters here in the summer and oppresses with fog in the winter. Besides, wouldn’t you miss the quiet of home? We haven’t been here three months, and I miss it already. Why would anyone want to live here all year long?”

Persy shook her head. “That is just one of the differences between us, cousin,” she said with a sniff of superiority. “You do not mind being hidden away. I hate it.”

“It does not follow that you must therefore hate the duke,” Sarah pointed out, ignoring the slight. “He seems a fine gentleman to me.”

“If you like him so much,” Persy replied airily, “then perhaps you should marry him.”

“Perhaps I should,” Sarah snapped. Then she bristled despite herself as Persy laughed.

“Oh, Sarah, you are so good at distracting me,” she said as if she had done nothing wrong. “I remember how you’d make a game of taking that horrid medicine. ‘Pretend you’re the stable, Persy. Here comes the horse, a fine strawberry roan. He’s so tired, he needs to rest. Open up and let him in.’”

It was so hard to stay angry at the girl, even when she needed a dressing down. Sarah smiled at the memory. “I remember. You were very good to open up. I tasted that stuff once. It was quite nasty.”

“Completely abhorrent,” Persy agreed. “Unfortunately, I’m no longer that child, Sarah. You can’t get me to accept someone with a pretty story. If I don’t wish to marry the duke, I won’t.”

Sarah held back a sigh of vexation. “I cannot force you to marry, Persy. Nor would I even if I could. But you must marry eventually. Do you want to end up like me?”

It was a dire threat and an empty one. They both knew that Persy would never countenance being an old maid. Besides, there were simply too many men willing to marry her to allow her to remain single against her will. Persy merely eyed her contemptuously before turning her face to the window in dismissal. Sarah let the sigh slip out.

She was still perplexed when she retired to bed two hours later, after making sure their butler, Mr. Timmons, had settled the house for the night. Mr. Timmons was nearing retirement. Indeed, his replacement was practicing at the Compton home while Sarah and Persephone visited London. Sarah had worked with him too many years to let the fellow shoulder all the burden of running the household. Besides, all the servants were used to bringing her their problems. Aunt Belle was too preoccupied with Persy, and Uncle Harold felt managing servants was woman’s work.

“Bless you, miss,” Timmons had said to her tonight when she’d finished locking up for him. “One more trip up those stairs tonight would have done me in.”

Though Sarah was just as tired, she had only smiled into his wrinkled face. Patting him on the frail shoulder, she had sent him off to his room in the corner of the basement for a well deserved rest.

Unfortunately, she still had one more task before she could say her prayers and retire for the night, and she was far less sure she wanted to handle it. Every night she wrote to her aunt and uncle, although she posted the packet of letters only once a week. In the letters she reported on how Percy was doing, which beau was the current favorite, and what places they had visited. She wasn’t certain what to tell them tonight.

“Persy refuses to marry and I wish I could escape,” seemed spiteful and ungrateful. Perhaps she should try in the morning. Maybe by then she could think of something better.