The Scoundrel Takes a Bride: A Regency Rogues Novel (23 page)

Mrs. Welch slapped the table with her large, worn hands and cackled. “Oh, Lady Sophia,
you are still the sprite I remember from long ago. I’m mighty glad for that. We all
worried, you see, when Lady Afton …”

Mrs. Welch peered down at the scarred table and
brought her fist to her lips, rubbing her knuckles gently back and forth. “I’ll just
shut my mouth, Lady Sophia, and have Daisy fetch your morning tea.” She laid her hand
on the tabletop and pushed herself to her feet, then snapped her fingers once in the
kitchen girl’s direction.

“Mr. Bourne,” Mrs. Welch said with solemn formality. “If you would be so kind as to
accompany my lady to the jade drawing room? Daisy will be there directly with a tray.”

“Please, Mrs. Welch.” Sophia reached across the table as if to grasp the cook’s hand
to keep her from leaving. “You’ve not upset me with talk of my mother. In fact, I
was rather hoping you would be willing to share what you remember about her—and me.
It was all so long ago, and I’m afraid most of my efforts have been aimed at forgetting
Petworth.”

“And why wouldn’t that be the case?” Mrs. Welch asked, her sober countenance softening
a touch. “Such a tragedy, it was. But let us speak of the happy times, yes?”

Nicholas watched Sophia smile appreciatively and return her hand to her lap. What
a show the woman was putting on, he thought with admiration. She meant to question
the cook right there, over tea and shortbread. All the while pretending to want nothing
more than fond memories and touching stories.

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable upstairs?” Mrs. Welch asked hesitantly as she smoothed
out her white apron.

Nicholas looked at Sophia, unsure of whether a change in venue would affect her plan.

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Sophia replied. “It’s rather warm and inviting in the
kitchen. And there’s a pleasant hum of activity. So very different from the main floors.”

Mrs. Welch snapped her fingers again and Daisy jumped, nearly spilling the hot water.

“Your mother made the very same observation, my lady,” Mrs. Welch commented as she
oversaw Daisy’s efforts with the tray. “Oh, she loved life above stairs, do not misunderstand
me. Still, there were many times she could be found down here, lingering after this
or that errand.”

The kitchen girl carried the laden tray to the table under the watchful eye of Mrs.
Welch and set it down carefully. “Shall I pour, then, ma’am?”

“No, you shan’t, you daft girl. Go on now and see if Jonah has returned with the supplies
from town.”

Mrs. Welch watched as Daisy turned a tidy curtsy then practically ran for the door
that led to the outer yard.

“She’s sweet on Jonah, so we should not be disturbed,” she explained, a twinkle in
her eye as she settled into her chair once again. “How do you take your tea, Lady
Sophia?”

“A splash of milk is all,” Sophia replied easily, and smiled graciously when the cook
handed her the tea.

“And you, Mr. Bourne? How do you take your tea?”

Nicholas glowered dramatically at the woman. “I take my tea and pour it out in the
nearest field, Mrs. Welch.”

The cook tsked at his humorous reply and returned the pot to the tray. “As clever
as ever. Do you remember, Lady Afton called you her crow? ‘Smart as the day is long,
crafty and cunning, and far more entertaining than any play could ever hope to be.’ ”

Nicholas noticed a brief shimmer of distress in Sophia’s eyes, though it passed just
as quickly as it came. “Is that right?” he asked Mrs. Welch.

“I remember,” Sophia offered, looking kindly at the cook. “She had pet names for us
all.”

Was this really going to happen, then? Nicholas asked himself. A cup of tea, a biscuit
or two, and a tragedy
resurrected as though they were discussing the price of hay?

“That’s right, Lady Sophia,” Mrs. Welch chimed in, a fond expression lighting her
features. “Young master Langdon was a buck, master Dashiell her red fox, and you,
my lady—”

“Were her swan,” Nicholas interrupted, the image of Lady Afton looking down at Sophia
as she named her flashing in his mind’s eye. “Beautiful and loyal, with a nasty bite
when provoked.”

Sophia smiled wistfully, as though picturing the exact image. “Yes, I do remember
now,” she said, lifting the dainty china teacup to her mouth and sipping. “Mrs. Welch,
you mentioned that my mother spent a fair bit of time below stairs?”

“Yes indeed,” the cook answered, looking about the kitchen. “She was very involved
in the day-to-day workings of the manor, of course. And careful to keep up on the
servants. She knew everyone’s birthdays, all about our families—and more than once,
all about our sufferings. A finer mistress I’ll never find—nor a finer woman, I’d
wager. And you can bet every last person in service to the Aftons would say the same.”

Nicholas watched as Sophia tipped her head in thanks for the cook’s appreciation.
It was nothing they had not heard before—nor did not know to be true from their own
time spent in Lady Afton’s presence. But hearing it from Mrs. Welch, more than fifteen
years after Lady Afton’s death, was profoundly touching.

Nicholas rose abruptly, desperate to be away from the memories, if only for a few
minutes. “I need to speak with the butler. Please, continue,” he urged the two. “I’ll
only be a moment.”

He walked to the door and stepped across the threshold, momentarily disoriented. He
ground his teeth
against the flood of melancholy emotions, his hands curling into fists.

He wrestled the grief with iron control and started down the hall, peering into what
was clearly the housekeeper’s office before continuing on. At last, he found the butler
at the end of the hall, sitting behind a neat desk and consulting a series of sums
in a ledger. “Good day,” Nicholas said cheerily, walking into the man’s office.

The butler snapped to attention and quickly rose from his chair, quill still in hand.
“Mr. Bourne, I did not see you there. My name is Mr. Watson. What might I do for you?”

Nicholas had hoped Watson would be unavailable, preferably upstairs, so that he might
have a moment’s peace. Clearly, that was not meant to be. He glanced about the neat
room, noting the nearly empty bottle of brandy sitting on a side table. “I was wondering
if you might have some brandy sent up to my quarters,” he asked.

“Of course, Mr. Bourne,” the butler replied, walking around his desk and over to the
side table. “In fact, I was just going to return this to the storeroom. I’ll fetch
you a new bottle and I’ll send it up at once.”

Mr. Watson picked up the brandy and turned to Nicholas, waiting for him to leave.

“I will take care of this one, Mr. Watson, if you don’t mind.” Nicholas held his hand
out.

Mr. Watson did not even bat an eye. He simply handed over the bottle and bowed, then
left the room.

So why did Nicholas feel … what? Embarrassed? He pulled the cork from the amber-colored
bottle and lifted it to his lips.

Guilt, perhaps? He tipped the bottle up and drank, savoring the almost instant numbing
quality of the smooth brandy as it slid down his throat.

God, this business was grueling. All he wanted was to lay hands on Lady Afton’s murderer,
not sort through everything he’d spent years trying to forget.

When the bottle was empty, he returned it to the side table.

That would be enough. At least for now.

17

Sophia had forgotten how much she liked Mrs. Welch. As she watched the animated woman
share stories of Lady Afton with her, she could almost allow herself to enjoy being
back in the house she’d once lovingly called home.

But the pain Petworth clearly caused Nicholas made Sophia heartsick.

She promised herself that it would not be in vain.

After Nicholas had abruptly left to find Mr. Watson, Sophia encouraged the cook to
talk about Lady Afton’s affinity for event planning. Their reminiscing had led naturally
to a discussion of the house party during which her mother had been killed.

Of course, there had been nothing natural about the seemingly meandering conversation.
Sophia worked hard to guide and manipulate Mrs. Welch’s emotions and fondness for
chatter for her own gain, even though it had felt dishonest.

She sipped her second cup of tea and listened intently to the woman’s words. Witnesses
so often left out important details when first interviewed; their nerves and the shock
of seeing a crime affecting their ability to be thorough in remembering precisely
what they saw.

In some ways, the time span between her mother’s death and the present could work
to her advantage. Mrs. Welch was not agitated nor upset over the death of her
employer. She’d been given more than enough distance from the horrific event to recover
from the shock—very unlike the witnesses Sophia had interviewed in past cases.

But with the benefits of time came drawbacks. Nothing about the day was fresh in Mrs.
Welch’s mind. And at what Sophia guessed to be fifty-plus years of age, the cook could
not be relied upon to have the sharpest of memories.

Still, there did not seem to be any more reason to be pessimistic than there was to
have hope.

“Do you recall what play the acting troupe was planning to put on for the house party?”
Sophia asked, accepting a biscuit from Mrs. Welch.

The cook returned the plate of shortbread to the silver tray. “I’m afraid I don’t,
my lady. I can tell you that they recruited players from your parents’ guests—which
would have been quite fun to see, I suspect.”

“Oh my, yes. That would have been terribly entertaining,” Sophia replied, matching
Mrs. Welch’s smile. “And who were the unlucky souls?”

The cook squinted her eyes as she considered the question. “Oh dear, it’s been such
a long time, my lady,” she replied, drumming her fingers upon the wood table.

“Of course, Mrs. Wel—”

“Wait! I remember—at least one gentleman.” She slapped her hand on the table and cackled
with satisfaction. “He was an unlikable sort—made me feel as though someone was walking
across my grave every time I saw him.”

“And his name?” Sophia pressed, careful to remain calm.

Mrs. Welch’s eyes squinted again. “Oh, now that I can’t tell you. I’ve never been
good with names, I’m afraid. But his being picked for the play was talked about by
the staff. Seemed an odd choice, considering
how little anyone appeared to like him. Oh, if Mr. Reynolds were alive, he’d surely
know.”

Mr. Reynolds was
not
alive. And Sophia felt as if she were right back where she’d started in London, with
hardly enough to go on. She folded her hands in her lap and swallowed the disappointment,
intent on finishing the interview so that she might seek out another member of the
staff.

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t wish the man’s resurrection on anyone,” Sophia offered, earning
a chortle from the cook.

“Nor would I,” Mrs. Welch answered honestly. “You might remember the man. If you saw
him, that is.”

It seemed a rather obvious statement to Sophia, but she nodded her head to be polite.

“Have you forgotten about your sketches?”

Sophia pushed her empty cup and saucer away. “My sketches?”

“You have, haven’t you?” the cook asked disbelievingly. “My lady, you couldn’t be
parted from your art supplies—not even for bath time, if I recall. Why, you even drew
my likeness. I had it framed, it was that good. Would you care to see it?”

Sophia stared blankly into her empty cup and tried hard to remember, fragments of
lines and shading, color and brushstrokes appearing, then regressing back into the
darkness. “No, thank you, Mrs. Welch, it won’t be necessary.”

“Just as well, I suppose. Your favorite subject was your mother. Seeing those old
sketches would only upset you more.”

Sophia was confused by the cook’s words. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry, my lady,” Mrs. Welch offered, smiling apologetically. “It’s hard for me
to keep my finger on
what you know and what I think you know simply because I remember it. If you understand
my meaning?”