Her Ladyship's Man (10 page)

Well, he could close his eyes and play the blind-man if he chose, Melanie decided abruptly. But she had no intention of sitting quietly by while her father was arrested and hung for a crime he had not committed. The villain she had tried to warn him of was as real as any creature out of Miss Evingale's Minervian novels, and she would catch him any way she could. And with that thought she turned and walked out of her room, her expression determined as she knocked on her companion's door.

". . . and
Lady Devore's Masquerade
, that one had the most wonderfully gruesome ghost; I couldn't
sleep a wink for days!" Miss Evingale concluded, adding another book to the growing pile in Melanie's arms. "That should be more than enough to get you started; you must come back for more when you are finished with them."

"I'm sure this will be more than adequate, thank you," Melanie replied, fumbling for the doorknob with her free hand. Her companion was regarding her with the zealous fervor of a missionary with a new convert, and she was eager to escape before another volume was pressed upon her.

"Well, if you're sure that will be enough." Miss Evingale was eyeing her dubiously. "They make for very quick reading, you know, and you can't have more than a dozen or so. Perhaps one more . . ."

"No, really, this is more than enough, I promise you." Melanie opened the door and began inching her way out. "I'll give these to Grandmother when I have—"

"
The Castle of Montenegro
," Miss Evingale interrupted, pulling a leather-bound volume from beneath the tea table and waving it at Melanie in triumph. "It's one of my favorites, and I'm sure you will adore it. The villain is a curate who tries to entomb the heroine when she discovers his dreadful secret. You did say you wanted something with a dash of mystery, didn't you?"

"Indeed, I did," Melanie agreed, accepting the book with a resigned sigh. "Thank you."

"Do you know, I am rather surprised that you should want to borrow my novels," Miss Evingale said abruptly, her brows puckering in a confused frown. "I had formed the opinion that you weren't overly fond of them."

"Well, it is true that I am not quite the devotee
as you and Grandmother," Melanie agreed mendaciously, mentally crossing her fingers. "But I have decided that perhaps a bit of romance and mystery in one's life is not so terrible a thing after all. Good day, Edwina, I shall see you at luncheon."

Once safely in her rooms, Melanie dismissed her maid and spread the books out on her bed. The titles were really quite appalling, she mused, picking up a book and flicking it open to read the contents. But perhaps if she was lucky, she might find something that would prove helpful. Ah, she paused, her lips lifting in a pleased smile as she read a passage. This looked promising.

      
In the most hidden recesses of her heart Lady Cassiopia knew she had no other choice. Her murdered brother's spirit called out to her from the nether world demanding revenge upon the archvillain who had taken his life. To ignore his ghostly cry was impossible, and so she bravely set aside her own tremulous fear and reached out for the doorknob to Roberto's secret chamber
.

By the time the maid returned to help her dress for dinner that night, Melanie had already finished the first book and was well into the second. Miss Evingale was right, she thought as the maid arranged her hair in a lover's knot. The books did make for fast reading, which was probably fortunate, as they were so badly written. But the flowery prose and cloying sentimentality aside, she had discovered that the books all seemed to share a common theme: Nothing was ever as it first appeared.

The lowliest of scullery maids would prove to be a long-lost princess, highborn lords or ladies were inevitably scheming servants who had usurped
their master's position, and the closest of friends was revealed in the final pages of the story to be the most deadly of enemies. It was this last revelation that troubled her most, for it seemed to verify her suspicion that whoever was betraying Papa was someone they both knew and trusted.

They were to dine at the home of Lord Canaby, a former diplomat once stationed in New York, so Melanie was not surprised to learn that Mr. Barrymore was to join them. It did surprise her, however, when he asked to speak with her privately while they were waiting for the carriage to be brought around.

"Certainly, Mr. Barrymore," she answered, shooting him a quizzical look. "Is there something amiss?"

"Not at all," he assured her, guiding her into the earl's study. "But I thought we should talk. You see, your father has told me that you have learned of the vicious rumors that are being circulated about him."

"Do you mean
you
knew, too?" Melanie asked, feeling faintly shocked by the admission. Good heavens, was she the only one in London who didn't know, she wondered unhappily.

"I am your father's assistant," Mr. Barrymore answered, sitting behind the earl's desk. "It is only natural to assume that if he is under suspicion, then so am I. That is what I wished to speak to you about."

"What do you mean?" Melanie asked, the plot of the book she was now reading springing unbidden to her mind. Although she was only halfway through the story, she strongly suspected the villain would turn out to be the earnest young man
who was always warning the heroine away from the locked cellar door.

"Your father said that you were quite upset by what you heard, and that you thought he should take some sort of action. Is that not so?"

"Yes," she agreed cautiously, studying him through half-lowered lashes.

"As it happens, I agree with you," Mr. Barrymore said, his blue eyes twinkling at her look of astonishment. "I take it you thought I would share his sentiments?"

Melanie nodded, her shoulders slumping with relief as she realized she now had an ally. "I admit the possibility did cross my mind," she admitted, giving him a cautious smile. "Papa was so adamant that nothing be done that I feared you might feel the same. I cannot tell you how pleased I am to learn that such is not the case."

"Not at all," he assured her, his expression serious. "In fact, I even agree with your charge that your father is being set to take the blame for another's crime. Do you have any idea who the villain might be? Other than myself, that is."

"You?" She stared at him in shock.

He shrugged his shoulders. "It's a logical assumption, my lady," he said simply. "As his assistant, I have access to the missing documents, and, of course, I am not of noble birth."

"Mr. Barrymore!" Her cheeks pinked with embarrassed color as she realized she had suspected him. "I am sure such a notion never crossed my mind! And the matter of your birth is of little consequence to me, I assure you."

"Your ladyship is too kind, but there are others of your class who are not quite so generous," Mr. Barrymore said, a trace of bitterness evident in his
soft voice. "If your father has been the object of a few questioning glances of late, it is nothing compared to what
I
have endured! There are several men in power who would as lief see me hang as to let one of their own stand accused of treason. That is why I must ask your help."

"What is it you need?"

"I want you to keep your ears open," he instructed Melanie gently, leaning forward to meet her gaze. "Go to as many balls as you can, and listen for any word, any hint, that might lead us to the real traitor. The moment you hear anything, I want you to come directly to me."

"Is that all?" Melanie felt vaguely disappointed; even the foolish, swooning heroine in this newest book had more to do than just that.

"It's more than enough, I promise you." Mr. Barrymore's voice was grim. "You see, as an outsider I am not privy to the types of conversation you will be hearing. And I think we both agree that our villain is of the nobility?"

"Well, yes, I suppose so," Melanie agreed reluctantly. "Certainly he is someone Papa must know and trust. How else would he have had access to his dispatch box?"

"My sentiments exactly. And because he is probably one of your own class, you stand the best chance to help trap him. No one would ever suspect you of trying to trap him, would they?"

This was true, Melanie was forced to agree, and put that way, it did sound rather intriguing. She could pretend to be enjoying herself at every rout and ball in London, and all the while she would be helping Papa to clear his name! Yes, the more she thought of it, the more she decided it was just the
sort of thing the heroine in one of her books might do.

"Very well, Mr. Barrymore," she said, her violet eyes taking on an excited glow. "I shall do as you ask. I shall keep my eyes and ears open, and the moment I hear anything of importance, I shall come to you at once."

"Excellent!" He gave her a brilliant smile. "And while you're busy doing that, I shall be attempting to determine the source of these rumors. We know they started in Whitehall, but that is all we have been able to learn. With any luck, we shall discover the blackguard's true identity before your father's reputation is irreparably damaged. Now, come." He rose to his feet, offering her his hand. "It is time I returned you to your father, else it is
your
reputation that is damaged."

"Damn it all. Now what the devil are we going to do?" Drew muttered angrily, his hazel eyes flashing with fire as he watched the carriage drive away.

When Mr. Barrymore had taken Lady Melanie into the earl's study, he had followed them, slipping into the room off the hall, where he could listen to their conversation undetected. He told himself it was necessary that he do so, but he knew it was really because he found the notion of Melanie going off for a private conversation with Barrymore oddly disturbing. Certainly he hadn't seen fit to do so when she had spoken with her father earlier this morning, a rather unfortunate oversight on his part, it would seem. Terrington knew everything!

Another thing which troubled him was the rumor that was already being circulated about the earl.
Secrecy was vital to a successful mission, and if Terrington was aware he was under suspicion, then he would be that much more difficult to catch. And if he was not guilty, then the same could be said about the real culprit. Quarry that knew the hunter was there invariably escaped the trap.

His frown deepened as he thought of what Barrymore had said to Melanie. Logically he would have been suspected first when the documents were discovered missing, and for the very reason he gave her. His birth would have automatically made him suspect in the rather insular world of diplomatic circles, yet a very high-ranking official in that group had vouchsafed his character above one of his own. Why? That was the one piece of the puzzle he had yet to learn.

"Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Davies." Grisby, Barrymore's valet, appeared at Drew's side, a hopeful expression on his weasellike face. "But I was wonderin' if I might be havin' the rest of the night off? Mr. Barrymore usually gives me the third Thursday free, so's I can go see me sister."

"Then as it is the third Thursday, Grisby, I suppose I have no objection," Drew replied, slipping easily into his role of an upperservant lording it over one he considered an inferior. "Will you be gone all night?"

"Oh, can't be sayin', Mr. Davies," Grisby said, giving him a broad wink. "Depends on me sister, if ye takes my meaning. But I reckons ye'll see me when ye see me."

"We will be locking the doors one hour after his lordship and his party return home, Grisby." As a butler, Drew did not lower himself to gossip with the valet. "If you aren't in your room, then I fear you will have to seek accommodations elsewhere.
Also, will Mr. Barrymore be requiring the services of one of our footmen in your stead?"

"Nah, his nibs can do just fine on his own." Grisby dismissed his employer with a cavalier shrug of his beefy shoulders. " 'Sides, Mr. Barrymore be almighty particular about his fancy clothes an' them sparklers o' his. Don't let nobody but ol' Grisby touch 'em," he added, his chest swelling with pride.

Drew was careful to hide his interest. Until now Grisby had been tight-lipped to the point of being suspiciously secretive, but apparently the thought of a few hours pleasure in his doxy's arms had loosened his tongue, and Drew was eager to exploit the fact. Calling upon a servant's usual tendency to brag about his employer, he allowed a faintly skeptical expression to flit across his face.

"Indeed?" he asked coolly. "I have yet to see Mr. Barrymore wearing any sort of jewelry. However, there is a fine safe in the house should he wish to keep his watch fobs there."

"Watch fobs?" Grisby's cheeks puffed out with indignation. "Mr. Barrymore has a lot more'n watch fobs! Why, that last sparkler o' his were as big as me thumb! An' plen'y more where that come from, he tole me!"

"I see." Drew resolved to search Barrymore's rooms the moment Grisby left. "Well, then I should definitely suggest to Mr. Barrymore that he avail himself of our safe. His Grace has an excellent one hidden in his private chambers."

"Mr. Barrymore don't need your tin safe!" Grisby sniffed with disdain. "He can take care of what's his, don' you be worryin'. He carries a brace o'pistols with him, an' he'll use 'em, too, if anyone was
to come snoopin' around. He's bang up to the nines, is my Mr. Barrymore!"

"The duke has an armory at his estate in the country." Drew defended his alleged employer with the dogged loyalty of an old retainer. "And he is both a skilled marksman and a fencer of some note."

They spent another few minutes extolling the virtues of their respective employers, and when Drew felt he had soothed any suspicions Grisby might be harboring, he said, "You may go now, if you wish, Grisby. As I said, we lock the doors one hour after the earl's return. If you aren't in, then you will have to spend the night in the cold."

"Oh, I won't be cold, guv'." Grisby forgot himself enough to poke Drew in the ribs, a lascivious grin spreading across his face. "See you on the morrow, then."

Less than twenty minutes later Drew was staring down at a large diamond fob, a soundless whistle pursing his lips. Whatever his other faults, it was obvious Grisby wasn't prone to exaggeration. The diamond in his hand was at least two carats in weight, and the chain it was hanging from was pure gold. He turned it over, noting the small crest that had been stamped into the shiny metal. He held it closer to the flickering candlelight, his brows meeting in a frown as he studied the design. There was something about it that was vaguely familiar; then he remembered the ruby ring.