Her Beguiling Butler (14 page)

“I will be honest and tell you I am relieved. To encourage him to have a liaison with you would have been disastrous for you.”

It is.

“Come out with me into Society, Alicia. Limited as it will be with this court mourning for old George, we will have no engagements of any note for months. But when we do, you must appear and begin to enjoy yourself. Find a man worthy of you. A man who will help you run your estates, your wealth and make you proud.”

“I will. But know this, Aunt, I seek no man. I will rule my own estates, make my own money, take care of my own tenants. I will have my own house, decorate it as I choose with silks from China and rugs from the Ottomans, and paintings.” She giggled. “Decadent paintings of ladies of the night.”

“Alicia!” Her aunt fanned herself.

“Fragonard nudes and delicious oddities.”

“Be serious!” her aunt insisted, calling her bluff. “What do you know of such paintings?”

She patted her aunt’s hand. “Aside from the books you loaned me?”

“Please forget that, Alicia.”

“I can’t. Rest easy, my dear. The art is one thing of little importance. But the house I will have. A shell to do with as I wish. My own house. My home. And I will dedicate myself to my tenants. I am educated. Smart. I can add, subtract and count my own money. I’ll find a good estate man, an honest one and march onward.”

Hortense pursed her lips. “To run farms and mills is a task that requires strength of will. You are forthright, dear. But let’s be honest. You may find people do not take kindly to a woman ordering them about.”

“If I am fair and honest, why would they condemn me for my sex?”

“Be prudent, Alicia. Be wise to the world.”

“I am. More than you know.” She patted her aunt’s hand. “I have a lifetime to learn how to be a good manager of my estate. There are so many titled dandies who fail daily and no one runs them off their lands.”

The coach idled in front of the church door.

“Never fear, Aunt Hortense. No one will run me from my land. They will applaud me for my excellent service to them.”

* * *

“Welcome, Mr. Finnley.” Camden, the Stanleys’ butler, invited him to sit in their servants’ parlor. “Shall I have our cook make us tea?”

“Yes, thank you. I would enjoy that.” No chance he’d be poisoned here, was there?

“I’m glad you’ve come. Been wanting to make your acquaintance and ensure the safety of those in our midst.”

Finnley unbuttoned his waistcoat and relaxed in the comfortable stuffed chair by the fire. It was customary that neighborhood staff got on together. All in the name of security for their masters and mistresses, but more for the social aspects of what was otherwise a rather lonely and constrained life. “I quite agree.”

“Most dreadful news about our late king,” Camden said, digging out an ochre meerschaum pipe from his pocket. His tin of tobacco on the side table was close to hand and he reached for it without looking. Oddly, his white hair stood on end much the same as at midnight last.

“I hope he went peacefully. His fits sounded unnerving.”

Camden struck a match off the sole of his shoe. “Our household has gone to services. Yours, too?”

“Yes, Lady Ranford went round to collect her aunt.”

“Dug out her widow’s weeds, did she?”

“Sadly, yes. She was not happy to use them, I will say.”

“Don’t blame her. Our lady’s youngest sister lost her husband two years ago. Even we were not pleased to dig our black from the closet. But there you have it.”

“Has your staff gone to church as well?” Finnley saw the cook from the corner of his eye. Stout like Mrs. Sweeting, she bustled around her stove and worktable.

“The upstairs maids, yes. One of our footmen.”

“I understand you have a maid who is friends with Grimes, our footman.”

“That’s so.” Camden puffed on his pipe. “Do you approve?”

“I don’t see the harm unless you have an objection?”

“None. They behave prudently, I do expect.”

“One can hope. Have you met our Grimes then, Mr. Camden?”

“I have. He seems a restrained young man. From Kent, isn’t he?”

Finnley suppressed his alarm. According to Lord Winston, Grimes was employed through the Mayfair Registry Office. Grimes himself said he came from Maidenhead west of London. “Kent?”

“That’s what he told our girl.” Camden took the pipe from his mouth and stared at Finnley. “Is he not?”

“I’m most certain he claimed he was from Maidenhead. I will check.” Was Grimes hiding a past as a thief? And was he implying to Finnley he’d left it behind?

“Do. I don’t want no troubles with my girls, I’ll tell you straight, Mr. Finnley.”

“I understand. Nor me with Grimes.” He leaned forward. “I have another question for you. Do you or any staff tend the green plot behind the house?”

“Our cook grows herbs. Carrots, too.”

“Does she tend it well? Keep the weeds out?”

“Let’s ask her.” He rose from his chair and went in to bring the cook close behind him. “Mrs. Harding, we need to know if you are a good gardener.”

“Sir?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron.

“I wonder if you could tell me if you have trouble with weeds in your plot?”

“No, sir. No more than normal. I ‘ave more sass from rabbits, though God ‘imself only knows where they come from.”

“No poisonous plants, Mrs. Harding?” Finnley asked.

“No, sir. If I did, I’d rip them out straight away.”

“Why do you ask, Mr. Finnley?”

“We had a few plants of nightshade, I’m told. But our footman Grimes ripped them out.”

Camden, the cook and Finnley proclaimed their appreciation of that.

“Did you know the previous butler, Mr. Camden?”

“Yes, sir. Liked him quite a bit. Why?” the man cast beady eyes at Finnley. “Does anyone speak ill of him?”

“No, sir. They do not.” Finnley heard the defense in Camden’s words. “Were you surprised at his passing?”

“I was. He was healthy. He should not have died in that way. Slipping? No, no. He was sure-footed.”

“Did Norden seem to be frail of mind? Repeating odd phrases?”

“Going a bit barmy, you mean, Mr. Finnley?”

Finnley nodded.

“No, sir. Straight as a pin, he was.”

Finnley sat forward. And the cook had disappeared so he thought it private enough to share confidences. “Did Mr. Norden share any suspicions with you of, shall we say, odd instances in the house?”

Camden stared into his eyes. “He was distraught that his master had died. He liked Lord Ranford, even if his lordship was a wild one in many ways. He thought that his master had come down with some malady of headaches and such, but he never spoke of odd doings. Do you have fears of that?”

“Well,” said Finnley, “I myself now have headaches.”

Camden paused, his pipe in the air. “Had them before coming here?”

“No.”

Camden pointed the end of the pipe at him. “I’d say you watch what you eat, sir. And drink.”

“Would you have heard of any odd doings among our old staff?” Finnley put up a hand. “In confidence I ask this now.”

“I understand, sir. And my answer is no. Only that bit from Norden that he didn’t like that his master had died.”

Finnley sighed, and in a few minutes rose and said his thanks.

As he stepped into the chilling air, he heard the Number Ten kitchen door slam. He paused at the sound of running footsteps, cracking ice on the paths.

Had someone followed him to the Stanleys’ residence?

In the entrance to Number Ten, he noted that the floorboards were wet. Clumps of snow lay melting there and the footprints outlined were women’s shoes.

“Who came in a minute ago, Mrs. Sweeting?” he asked the cook.

“I don’t know, sir. I didn’t look.”

To look was not difficult. She could have seen who it was in her peripheral vision. But she might not have been interested…or she might have been more interested in covering someone’s tracks. Literally.

Just then Preston came running down the back stairs.

“Mr. Finnley, our lady is home. The coach has arrived.”

He headed for the stairs—and halted. Preston had left footprints on the wood. They appeared to be the same size and shape as those at the servants’ entrance. Well, then. Preston had been spying on him next door.

He paused, listening to Preston speak to Mrs. Sweeting.

“After I polish milady’s shoes, I’ll be going out in a few minutes. My usual Sunday stroll.”

“You’ll be home by dark?” the cook asked her.

“I will.”

Where did Preston go on Sundays?
He’d turn the tables on her and follow her today.

He took the stairs two at a time, gained the foyer and opened the front door just in time to have Alicia sail through.

She picked at her gloves and shrugged out of her coat without so much as a glance at him.

“Alicia,” he whispered though no one was about. He had to tell her what he knew, what he suspected. Perhaps she had a viewpoint or knowledge he had not considered. “I must talk with you.”

“Not now, Mr. Finnley.” She turned for the front drawing room, her black wool gown marring her beauty, causing him to frown.

Finnley hated to see her in her black again. She’d begun to blossom in the purples and lately in the lighter lavenders. Complementing her eyes, those colors set her off as the beauty she was. If he were her husband, he’d tell her not to wear the black, propriety be damned.
But you’re not her husband…now not even her lover.

He followed her.

Closed the doors behind him with a snap of the locks.

She whirled to face him, fury snapping in her eyes. “Open them, Finnley.”

He walked forward. “No.”

“Open those doors at once and summon the staff, Finnley.” He’d never seen her so imbued with power.

He took a step toward her. “Alicia, I wish to talk with you.”

His pocket watch chimed the hour of one.

She smiled, an enigmatic expression that frightened him and yet made him proud of her. “That time has passed, Finnley.”

“I want to explain myself.”

She looked him squarely in the eye. “No need, Mr. Finnley. Get me the staff. Everyone.
Now
.”

He turned on his heel, pride of her and despair that he’d lost her mixing in his guts. She would not let him into her private thoughts and justly so. Failure to please those he loved was nothing new. He’d always been able to cope with those inadequacies. Failure to please his irrational father had been a badge of honor. Disappointing his mother had been the hallmark of his youth. Disappointing himself with his mission to marry Alicia as her brother Jerome wanted was another. This inability to declare how he loved Alicia was different. Worse. Raw as an open wound.

Whirling away, he headed below stairs at a crisp walk, anger at himself consuming him.

Down in the kitchen, he summoned Sweeting and the scullery maid. Preston he found polishing Alicia’s half boots in the boot room. Grimes and Connor stood talking in the stables.

“Seven minutes,” he told each one. “Her ladyship wants you in the front drawing room.”

“Has she got the new title?” each one asked in so many words.

Finnley doubted the Lords of Chancery sat on Sundays, especially not this day after the king’s death. “Assemble in the drawing room. Her ladyship will tell us.”

When they all were assembled, lined up neat as could be in a straight line, fidgeting and smiling in expectation, Finnley joined them at the far end.

Alicia surveyed them like a general reviewing her troops.

“This morning I attended church services most of which marked the passing our dear king. That gave me time to reflect on certain issues.”

Finnley smarted.
What was she about?

“As you surely know I am soon to receive word of whether or not the Lords of Chancery have designated me the new baroness of Bentham.”

“Oh, ma’am,” Sweeting declared, her hands clasped together. “We’re hoping for you.”

“Yes, we are, my lady,” Preston said.

The others offered their own expectations.

“You are kind. I am grateful.” She sniffed and walked to the mantel.

Finnley frowned. What was coming was not good news.

“I want to thank each of you for your service to me. Many of you have been here for years and worked commendably for me and my departed husband. I want you to know that my appreciation will come in the form of a bonus paid to you at the end of this month.”

Finnley didn’t want money from her. Not a bonus. Not anything but her sweet person in his arms. He bit his tongue to refrain from blurting that out here and now.

She paced before the fire. “We must observe a few traditions of mourning. Please see to a large bunting placed above the door, Grimes. Mrs. Gordon, please buy enough black cotton and make for each of the staff suitable black armbands. You shall need to wear them for a few months, I do believe. I’m not certain how long that might be. But I’ll ask about and let you know.”

“Will you wear your black again each day, ma’am?” Preston asked.

“I will. Bring all of it out of the back closet, Preston. I foresee the need for full mourning for me. I am not of noble lineage. Nonetheless, I think it fitting for my station that I wear weeds for a few weeks in honor of George’s passing.”

She took stock of each of them, Finnley at the last. Her gaze lingered in his.

“By the end of the month, I shall close this house.”

No.

The others gasped.

“I will retire to the Ranford country house in Kent. There I will take staff. Preston, I’d like you to come with me. Mabel too. Mrs. Sweeting, do tell me if you wish to move and bring the scullery maid Dora with you. Grimes and Connor, the same. Mrs. Gordon please do come with us if you like or I will give you a character reference. Mr. Finnley?”

“Yes, my lady?” He could predict her next action. She was going to sack him.

“The house in Kent is very small. I will have no need for a butler. Of course, I will give you a wonderful reference and ask about town to learn of any vacancies.” She gave them a warm smile, all except Finnley. For him, she had a blank expression. “Thank you. You may return to work.”