The Butler Did It (15 page)

And Willie? She'd secretly marveled at the notion that Willie could keep from drowning in his tub, let alone ever have been Minister of the Admiralty, never imag
ining the laughing young randy who'd lured her onto the Dark Walk for some slap and tickle (and a lot more!) would one day turn so dull, and pompous, and so distinctly without humor.

By the time the last of them had limped off, Fanny had believed herself well rid of them, even Dickie Harper, who she'd once seriously considered running off with, leaving Geoffrey and an infant Samuel to fend for themselves.

Now Dickie had misplaced his hair and found a very unnecessary expanse of belly, and had squinted at her over his spectacles to say, “The years haven't been kind to you, Fanny, have they?”

Ha! Had he looked at himself?

Old. They were all dead old. In fact, one of her letters had gone to a widow, as the hopeful target had turned up his toes only last week, having, so Florizel had told her, suffered some sort of apoplexy while attempting to climb onto the seat of his curricle. The Widow Carstairs. Now there was a woman in for a nasty shock as she read through the notes of condolence delivered to her door this day. She'd probably be wishing she'd buried old Georgie upside down.

“Uh-oh, you're smiling,” Emma said, entering the drawing room. “That doesn't bode well for the gentlemen.”

Fanny grinned at her granddaughter and patted the cushion beside her. “Sit, sit. I have good news.”

“We're soon to have a second parade? This one a few
years younger, I should hope. Were they very upset at your threat?”

Fanny's smile disappeared. “You know? How do you—my letters. Gel, did you read my letters?”

“Nonsense, Grandmama,” Emma told her, pleating the skirt of her gown with her fingers. “I had Mama read the tea leaves this morning, and she saw your entire terrible scheme there.”

“Your mama wouldn't see a purple pachyderm in her dressing room,” Fanny said, sniffing. “I should have known I wouldn't be able to fob you off with some farradiddle about having asked my old beaux to drop by and then they offered to help ease my dear granddaughter's way into Society.”

“You might have, as I'm convinced your spelling is not up to writing more than those letters. Memoirs would be totally beyond you.”

“True enough, although a good child wouldn't be so rude. Are you going to cry rope to your mama on me? Let me know, please, as I wish to be on the other side of the sea when she starts screaming.”

“I won't tell her, I promise,” Emma said soothingly. “I even approve, except for threatening the marquis. You shouldn't have done that. I already had him half agreeing to allow us to stay here.”

Fanny looked at her granddaughter and grinned. “You think so, do you? Why? What did you say that had him half agreeing?”

“Oh, I mentioned how I could apply to the newspapers and tell our tale of woe. You'd mentioned that as a good threat, remember? And, well, I mentioned Lady Jersey. I really didn't like doing that, as I can't find it in myself to like the woman. So, you see, the marquis was very close to seeing the advantage in allowing us to remain under his roof.”

“Close, my dear, but not there. I am the one who pushed him past the brink. And I did it with a passel of crammers that I couldn't believe the man would swallow, but he did. Riding bare breasted with his father, pretending I was Eleanor of Aquitaine? I may have had my fun, but I never made a spectacle of myself.”

“So his father didn't do anything so terrible?”

“Mad Harry? The man invented outrageous behavior. Wenching, dueling, drinking himself into a stupor. And his temper was legendary. It was dueling that finally got him. Straight through the heart, I believe. His lordship, the one here now, I mean, couldn't have been more than a babe when it happened. Youngest marquis ever I heard of, I think.”

“Oh.” Emma found herself feeling very sorry for the Marquis of Westham. But not sorry enough to have them all pack up their belongings and take themselves home. She was softhearted, not softheaded. “I told him you wouldn't say anything about his father, or write your memoirs. He seemed mollified, although he is still very angry with Thornley.”

“Couldn't blame the man. So, it sounds as if you've been speaking with the marquis at some length. What do you think of him? I say he's a well set up young man, if a bit starchy. Seems to be reining himself in, you know, in a way Mad Harry never attempted, let me tell you. But I see hints of some life in those wicked blue eyes of his, and none of the meanness Mad Harry had in spades. You could do worse.”

Emma felt her cheeks growing hot, and turned her face away from her grandmother. “I would not consider the marquis, Grandmama. He is quite above my touch and, even if he wasn't, he loathes us, individually and collectively. He's made that abundantly clear. Repeatedly.”

Fanny shrugged. “Very well. Not the marquis. I already have three very eligible young gentlemen prepared to meet you this evening, and they will be only the beginning. Especially when it's learned that the Marquis of Westham is your guardian.”

“My…my
guardian.
Nonsense!”

“Really? We're under his roof, ain't we? If you aren't going to set your cap for him, all the better. It will give you more to choose from and, believe me, gel, once word gets out that Westham's your guardian, along with the ones I've scared up, we'll be knee-deep in suitors before the week is out. You'll have your pick of this year's litter of eligible bachelors.”

Emma sat there for several moments, trying to digest
everything her grandmother had said. “But…why would I become more eligible if the
ton
thinks the marquis is my guardian?”

“Later, dear,” Fanny said, hopping to her feet. “I think I just saw Sir Edgar heading up the stairs. I want to assure him again that we're as welcome as the posies in May, so that he can thank the marquis next he sees him.”

“But—” Emma sat back against the cushions and watched her grandmother trot out of the room, her gray head at least a foot ahead of her toes, as if she was in a powerful hurry to get where she was going. “I don't understand,” she muttered to herself. “Although I'm fairly certain the marquis does, and that he doesn't like it, not one bit.”

 

M
ORGAN SAT
in his private study on the ground floor of the mansion, his fingers steepled in front of his nose. Anyone peeking in the doorway might have said
sulked
rather than
sat,
but probably not to his lordship's face.

So he sat, and he thought, and he marveled.

Less than a day in London, and he'd acquired a menagerie.

And, he would admit only to himself, a new interest in life. Some excitement, which had been sadly lacking these past five years.

Fanny Clifford was amusing, in her own way, rather like an aged, slightly demented wood sprite. He was tempted to confer with her again about Mad Harry, a man
he couldn't even remember. His mother refused to speak of her dead husband, and the older servants only whispered when they thought their young master wasn't listening. Morgan knew he wanted to learn more about his father; surely there had been more to him than a roving eye and a nasty temper.

Daphne Clifford and her son he dismissed as being of no importance, although he was convinced he'd be hauling the boy out of one briar after another for the next month or more.

Which brought him to Miss Emma Clifford, who would be extremely grateful for any assistance in riding herd on the boy. If he were out to ring up points with the young lady, that would be important to him, even an avenue to pursue.

He recalled those moments in the alcove. He should have kissed her, rather than silencing her with his hand. He deserved a kiss, because he was the most generous of men not to have tossed them all out on their ears this morning.

Her eyes had gone so huge. Her body had been so soft against his.

He really needed to think about a visit to Covent Garden, where he could find himself a convenience to assuage these feelings that had begun to surface the first moment he'd glimpsed those haunting gray eyes.

But first, he had to get through this evening. Dinner with the menagerie, which unfortunately included that
Norbert woman, and then his return to Almack's. He'd been there only the once five years ago, and had found the assembly rooms overwarm, the refreshments insipid, and the company depressing in the extreme. All those giggling debutantes; all those turbaned dowagers.

If the patronesses could have greeted him at the door with a sign to tack on his back, stating his name, social rank and annual income, he wouldn't have felt more like a piece of meat being offered up for sale.

What had Perry said? Oh, yes: “Give me a penny, Morgan, no more, and I'll strip to the buff right here. That ought to help the ladies make up their minds.”

They had avoided Almack's after that, not because Perry had actually stripped, but because Morgan had been sorely tempted to hand over that penny.

And now he was going back. Not just because he'd been blackmailed into it, but because he'd already listed Almack's among the tortures he would be forced to endure in order to seek out his bride, the mother of the next generation of Drummonds.

When he found her, she would be the opposite of Miss Emma Clifford. She would have an unexceptional family, not a harum-scarum collection of idiots and blackmailers. She might not raise him to great passion, but she would also not ignite his temper. His mother would approve, he'd retire to the country once more, and he would enjoy the even tenor of his days.

“God, I need a drink,” Morgan said to the empty
room, pushing himself up out of his chair to head upstairs to the drawing room, because there was only brandy in his study, and he thought it better to stay with wine if he wanted his head clear for the evening.

He opened the door to the hallway just in time to hear a short maidenly squeak, followed by a giggle, followed by a slap…and immediately followed by the sight of a young housemaid racing toward him, her head turned to look behind her, her more-than-ample bosom bouncing as she ran.

He watched that amazing bosom for a full second, before realizing he was about to be run down.

Morgan grabbed at her arms, which brought her up short, and peered past her, down the hallway, to see the footman named Riley stepping out into the hallway from what might have been a closet, his grin wide as he used both hands to adjust the powdered wig on his head.

“Oh, laws,” the girl in his arms said, and Morgan let go of her. She dropped into a quick curtsy and then began to cry.

“Did he hurt you?” Morgan asked, glaring at Riley, who was no longer smiling. The thought sprang into his head that here was a chance to punch someone, and his head seemed to like the idea.

“Oh, no sir, he was just…we was just…”

“Never mind,” Morgan said. “What's your name, girl?”

“Clara…Claramae, my lord,” the blond housemaid said, dropping into another quick curtsy. Dear Lord, but
the chit was blessed with a fine bosom. Perhaps even overblessed.

“Ah. And you would be co-conspirator with Riley here?”

“Oh, no sir, m'mother said I weren't never to do that, not lessen I was wed first. It was just a kiss he was stealing, my lord. I'm a good girl, I am.”

Morgan bit the insides of his cheeks, then said, “Very well, you may go now. Not you,” he added, as Riley turned to head off in the opposite direction.

“M'lord?” Riley said, pulling down at his livery jacket. “Would there be something you'd be wanting?”

“Yes, but as it would probably get me hanged, I'll forgo the pleasure. Are you prepared to wed that girl?”

Riley blinked, then swallowed down hard. “Wed her, my lord?”

“Yes, not bed her, wed her. A simple change of one small letter, but a shift in your life that would appear to be something you have yet to contemplate. Well?”

Riley frowned. He was smart enough to know that being stupid was often his best asset. “Well what, sir?'

“Never mind. Tell me, is young Clifford returned from his travels?”

Riley relaxed slightly, because now at least he had an answer. “Been home this hour and more, m'lord, all right and tight. And may I make so bold as to say that it's pleased and chock-full of thanks I am for your kindness, m'lord, to our guests, and to us belowstairs most
especial. To the guardhouse, that's where I thought we'd be going.”

“And in return for my kindness, Riley?”

“Sir,” the footman said, drawing himself up to his full height. “My pleasure is to serve you, m'lord, and similar.”

“How above everything wonderful. I shall sleep so much more peacefully for that,” Morgan drawled. “Not just a servant, but my own loyal slave. Good. And here is what you will do for me, Riley. You will stick to young Clifford like a barnacle on a hull. You will keep him out of trouble, if you have to tackle him as he attempts to climb the stairs of a gaming hell or any other den of iniquity—any bad place, Riley,” he added when the footman frowned. “He goes nowhere without you, and you report to me upon your return every thing he has done. Agreed?”

“You'll be wanting me to cry rope on Mr. Clifford, m'lord? That don't seem sporting.”

Morgan sighed, and dug into his pocket to pull out his purse. “How about now? Your worries assuaged now?” he asked, after two gold coins had changed owners.

“Sleeping like a babe in arms, my worries is, m'lord.”

“Good. And keep your hands off that girl, and any other servants under my roof. Otherwise, you will be walking crooked for a week. Do you understand that?”

Riley's complexion began to resemble his powdered wig. “Yes, m'lord,” he said, then bowed, and walked
away with such alacrity that one could believe he was being prodded from behind by a sharp sword.