In Bed with the Duke (28 page)

“The servants at the palace heard what was said, realized what he intends, and they delayed him while one of the stableboys rode to warn us.”

So the servants in the palace hated and feared Jean-Pierre, and dared what they could to thwart him. And they dared even more to protect the Reaper?

Yes. Probably only a few knew the truth, but those Moricadians who did would help if possible. “Why is Jean-Pierre coming?” Emma asked.

“He’s searching for the Reaper. He heard you’re a
curadora
and that you’d canceled two parties this week, so he became suspicious.”

Emma pushed her hair out of her eyes. “How do you know this?”

“Mr. Brimley has his ways.”

“Our esteemed butler has some sort of network? Never mind. What are we going to do?” Emma looked down at the still-sleeping Michael.

“Mr. Brimley says he’ll take care of everything. But he sent me after you. You need to come in, change and clean up, and be ready to tell the story he has concocted.”

“Yes. I will.” She slid out of bed and ran with Elixabete to the house.

Tia grabbed Emma’s hand as soon as she walked into the house and tugged her toward the stairs. “Mr. Brimley says I must help you to look calm and radiant.”

“All right.” Emma already thought she looked calm, but perhaps after a fearful night of caring for Durant, she looked less than radiant.

They rushed to her bedchamber. Tia removed Em-ma’s crumpled dark blue gown. Emma washed her face and hands and pinched her cheeks to bring the color up. Tia pulled a light blue gown over Emma’s head—“Mr. Brimley specifically said you were to wear the light blue gown; it turns your eyes a trustworthy blue”—and buttoned it. Emma loosened her hair and ran a comb through the tangles, and sat to allow Tia to form it into a soft swirl at the base of her neck. “Mr. Brimley said it should look slightly mussed.”

Apparently, Brimley had thought matters through.

They rushed back toward the staircase, but before they reached it, Tia stopped her. “Wait here.” She tip-toed toward the gallery. “Is it safe?” she called softly toward the top of the stairs.

Elixabete was on guard. “Yes. Come on.”

Now they all raced down to the main level, then down more stairs to the lowest level.

The kitchen was hot, and crowded with sobbing serving girls and grim- faced footmen. Cook had her apron pressed to her mouth. One of the scullery maids was passed out on the floor while another fanned her with a paper fan. A path opened to let Emma through, and Brimley called, “Miss Chegwidden, I have need of your services.”

For all the seeming madness that permeated the room, Brimley’s voice was calm, as always.

But it also seemed to make the serving girls sob harder.

Emma hurried toward the long wooden table where he was seated . . . and slowed as she took in the scene.

All around him were rags and towels covered with blood.
He
was covered with blood, his formal white shirt and collar splattered with it as if he’d stood too close when Cook wrung a chicken’s neck.

A meat cleaver rested beside his right hand.

“If you would, I requested that your medical bag be brought here for your use, for this is bleeding a little more than I expected.” He lifted his left hand. “Additionally, we haven’t a lot of time to make this look as if it happened earlier.”

Brimley’s little finger had been severed.

E
mma examined the finger. It was a clean cut, done decisively, leaving only the joint closest to Brimley’s hand.

The footman, Henrique, held the medicine bag open for Emma.

She removed a thin, clean rag, wrapped the rag around the base of the finger, and tightened it to form a tourniquet. “Mr. Brimley, what happened?”

Before Brimley could respond, Cook took the apron down from her mouth and started talking. “He comes down, calm as can be, and announces we’ve got to have a serious injury to show, because that grandmother-murdering bastard, Jean-Pierre de Guignard, was on his way to find the Reaper. And we Moricadians, we know what’s what out there in the dowager house, but we didn’t realize Mr. Brimley did. Once we figured out he knew, we thought . . . well, we thought . . . He’s so good at assigning work, and we thought he’d decide on which one of us should do ourselves an injury.”

Emma gazed at him, aghast that the Moricadians knew about Michael, aghast that Brimley knew about Michael, aghast at the deed Brimley had performed to save them all. “You picked up the meat cleaver and cut off your own finger?”

He steadily gazed back. “I would never ask my staff to do something I would hesitate to do myself.”

And this was why English butlers were the backbone of civilized society.

“Get me icy cold water,” Emma told Cook. “Mr. Brimley, do you still have the rest of the finger?”

“Yes.” He pulled a bloody handkerchief from his breast pocket and offered it to her.

“We’re going to put it back on,” she said.

“Won’t it rot?” One of the skinny message boys was wide-eyed and gruesomely fascinated.

“Probably,” she told him, “but it’s an effort worth making. If it doesn’t succeed, we can always amputate later.”

“If you put it back on, how will that prove anything to that baby-killing swine Jean-Pierre de Guignard?” one of the gardeners asked.

“We’ll unwrap it very carefully and show him.” She plunged Brimley’s hand into the basin Cook placed beside them. “All of you act as if this Jean- Pierre is worse than the prince.”

“De Guignards are all devil’s spawn. But this one has eyes so light they’re almost white.” Cook shivered, a huge mound of flesh quivering like jelly. “He’s shooting his own people in the palace. He’s a spooky one, he is.”

“Everyone!” Brimley twitched as if he wanted to clap his hands to get their attention. “De Guignard will be here at any moment. Get this mess cleaned up. Put the bloody rags in the trash right here; don’t throw them in the rubbish heap outside. Should he look for them, we need them close as proof that this happened. I appreciate you young ladies crying over my little finger, but it was, after all, only a little finger, and I am, after all, only British.”

In a choked voice, Tia said, “Not anymore, Mr. Brimley. Now you’re one of us.”

The maids started wailing again.

His hand twitched. “I appreciate the sentiment, but enough of that! If you must cry, go to your rooms. We must appear to be back to normal. Now, scatter! Go do your jobs, and if you can’t, when de Guignard appears, stay out of sight! Remember, the Reaper’s safety depends on
you.
”

Within a minute, the kitchen was empty except for Cook, her three assistants, and the two scullery maids, all working in harmony on their preparations for the evening meal. One of the assistants was sniffling, for which Cook rewarded her with a slap on the cheek. One of the maids came over to the table with a bucket of sand, wet rags in hand, ready to scrub away the crimson stains. She took one look at the stump of Brimley’s finger, still slowly oozing blood, turned away, went to the slop bucket in the corner, and unloaded her dinner.

Emma sympathized and dried his hand.

“I should have thought of a tourniquet ahead of time,” Brimley said. “Of course, we did want to maximize the bloody display.”

“We didn’t have to use yours. There are animals aplenty in here, Mr. Brimley,” Cook called from the stove.

“I should have thought of that, too,” he said.

“Perhaps you were distracted by your intentions.” Emma carefully placed the severed finger back onto the joint. “I’ll sew it later when I have time. For now, we’ll wrap it.” Which she did, taking care that the two parts would touch within the bandage.

Henrique ducked in the door. “De Guignard is riding up the drive.”

Brimley nodded. “Young man, remember what I’ve taught you. You are a proud representative of the Fancheres, and as such, you move slowly and with dignity.”

Henrique returned the nod in exact imitation of Brimley’s stately manner, turned, and paced up toward the foyer.

“Henrique will go far.” Pride rang in Brimley’s voice. “Now, Miss Chegwidden, if you would go to the library, seat yourself in an obvious location, and appear to be reading, I believe that would be the correct strategy.”

“You should be in bed, Mr. Brimley,” Emma said.

“I find my legs are surprisingly unsteady”—and he did look surprised—“so if Cook will fix me a cup of tea, I believe this placement will have to suffice for our confrontation.”

Emma stashed her bag under the table, cast a long glance at the bandage around Brimley’s finger—she hated leaving it in such an unfinished state—and proceeded upstairs to grab a book at random and take her place in the library.

Just in time—Henrique opened the front door and intoned, “Please come in, Mr. de Guignard.”

Jean-Pierre came in, his boots stomping fiercely on the marble floor. “Where is she? Where’s Miss Chegwidden?”

Emma watched out of the corner of her eye as he stormed past, hat pulled low, black cape fluttering behind. He didn’t look like the devil’s spawn.

“She’s in the library, sir, and if you will allow me to announce you—”

She heard his cloak crack as he whirled around, and she looked up with simulated surprise.

Jean-Pierre stood in the doorway, examining her up and down, and Cook was right—his eyes were pale, with dark pupils in the center that looked like holes. “Miss Chegwidden?” He didn’t remove his hat.

“Yes, but I’m not acquainted with you, sir,” she said.

“I’m Jean-Pierre de Guignard.”

“Prince Sandre’s cousin?”

“I’m flattered that you’ve heard of me.” He couldn’t have made his sarcasm and contempt clearer. “What are you doing?”

She turned the book over and glanced at the spine—she was holding something called
When the World Was Young: A History of the Chosen Ones
—then looked at him as if concerned about his powers of observation. “I’m . . . reading?”

“I was told you were taking care of someone who was hurt in this household.”

So Brimley’s report was right. “I did. I am. Our butler, Mr. Brimley, was injured this morning. At this moment, he requires none of my services.” She put down the book, rose, and paced toward him.

He smelled of absinthe. He’d been drinking, and in her experience, drink made a man unstable and explosive.

She kept her tone firm. She maintained eye contact. She did not retreat. “Why this cross-examination, Mr. de Guignard? What is the problem?”

“Show me this injury you stayed home to tend.”

“As you wish. This way.”

Henrique moved into place, and led them down the stairs and into the kitchen at a pace so solemn Emma hid a grin and Jean-Pierre snarled, “Hurry up!”

“There’s no rush,” she told him. “I don’t believe Mr. Brimley will be going anywhere soon. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

The kitchen, when they entered it, smelled, sounded, and looked exactly as the kitchen of a château should look—pots bubbling on the stove, Cook yelling at her underlings, supper well in hand.

But in the trash can, Emma was glad to see, bloody rags peeked up, and the scullery maid still hadn’t removed the stains from the table.

Brimley sat exactly where Emma had left him, drinking a cup of tea. He looked up inquiringly when they walked in. “Sir!” He tried to rise, then sank back down. “Pardon my dishevelment. I never expect to receive guests in the kitchen.” He glared balefully at Henrique as if he were at fault.

Henrique bowed. “I apologize, Mr. Brimley. Mr. de Guignard insisted he see you at once.”

“I was told you were injured.” Jean- Pierre’s eyes glowed with frustration.

“I’m afraid in a misguided attempt to show Cook the correct way to cut up a chicken, I removed my little finger with the meat cleaver.” Brimley held up his bandaged hand.

Jean-Pierre walked close. “Your finger looks fine to me.”

“That’s because I have hopes that it will reattach. If you insist, I can unwrap it. . . .” Emma started to move toward the table.

“Never mind. I can do it myself.” Reaching out, Jean-Pierre ripped the bandage away.

Blood spurted.

Cook screamed.

Two squeamish scullery maids fainted.

With the first moan Emma had heard, Brimley doubled up in pain.

“Mr. de Guignard!” Emma ran to Brimley, pulled rags out of her bag, and attempted to stem the flood. “Have you lost your mind? What have you done?”

Jean-Pierre examined Brimley’s finger, then tossed it back on the table. “It’s true then. Pardon me, Miss Chegwidden, for doubting you. And you, Mr. Brimley”—he bowed slightly—“my apologies for the pain caused. I was just doing my job.”

When he had walked out, Brimley said faintly, “As was I.”

“I would say you did your job above and beyond the call of duty,” Emma told him; then to Cook, she said, “Get me some strong young men. We need to put Mr. Brimley to bed.”

To her surprise, the strong young men immediately appeared—gardeners, for the most part. Maids and footmen trickled in. Henrique and Elixabete took their places among the crowd. By the time Emma had the bleeding under control, the kitchen was as full as it had been when she had first entered. She exchanged a bewildered glance with Brimley, then turned to face them.

“If you, either of you, ever need anything, you ask any Moricadian,” Cook said, her voice hoarse with sincerity. “We will do anything for you. It will be our honor to save your lives as you have saved our hero, and our country.”

And as one, the maids curtsied and the men bowed to Brimley and to Emma, heartfelt tributes that left Emma blinking back tears.

For the first time since she had left England, she was at home.

A
lthough Brimley stoically objected, he was swiftly taken to his room on the servants’ level and placed on his bed. Emma sewed his finger into place, bandaged it again, gave him a sleeping powder, and told Henrique to make sure someone was with him at all times.