The Lady In Question Page 3

  “It’s fortunate that you have help, but isn’t it a little odd that these servants just magically appeared on your doorstep?”

  “There was nothing magical about it. No doubt the previous servants notified the service and they were simply waiting to send anyone until I had returned.” Delia shook her head. “And I don’t mind in the least, given the state of the house. Besides, their references were excellent.”

  “I met the butler when I arrived. He seems rather old.”

  “And therefore has a great deal of experience. He will serve for the moment,” Delia said firmly. The last thing she wanted or needed to worry about was hiring servants. “Besides, he came highly recommended.”

  “Well, that’s something, I suppose.” Cassie started to open the door, then paused and met her sister’s gaze.

  “Delia, what was it like?”

  “It?”

  “It. You know exactly what I mean by it.” Cassie studied her cautiously. “With him.”

  Realization struck Delia and her face burned. “Oh, that it.”

  “Well?”

  “It was” — Delia struggled to find the right words — “interesting. Rather enjoyable, really…”

  “Was it as painful as they say?” Cassie’s tone was casual, but curiosity shone on her face. “The first time, that is?”

  “Not really. It was odd and a bit uncomfortable, but…”

  “And after that?”

  Delia was not about to admit, even to Cassie, that there had been nothing beyond a first time. Nor would she ever tell her it was not quite as wild and glorious as she had expected. She drew a deep breath. “All in all, I’d say the experience had a great deal of potential.”

  “Potential?” Cassie raised a brow.

  “Potential,” Delia said firmly.

  “Potential,” Cassie murmured. “That is interesting.” A few moments later she kissed her sister on the cheek and took her leave.

  Delia lingered at the parlor door long enough to watch the new butler, Gordon, see her sister out, then closed the door and slumped against it.

  It was exceedingly hard to be an outcast in one’s own family. She regretted that, but little else.

  Even now, Delia knew if she could indeed turn back the clock and live once again the days that had led to today, she would make the same choices. Oh, she would do what she could to prevent Charles’s death and do what she could as well to build affection from what started as nothing more than passion, but she would not change her actions.

  For all of her twenty-two years, she’d known it was her lot in life, as well as her sister’s, to look as lovely as possible, to learn those skills that would serve them well as the proper hostess and mistress of a household and, of course, to make excellent matches. What real choice was there other than marriage for the daughters of Lord William, William Effington, the brother of the Duke of Roxborough?

  The sisters had on occasion through the years discussed, or rather bemoaned, whatever quirk of fate that had decreed them female with no true purpose in life save to wed and breed well. They quite envied their brothers and male cousins, who were free to explore the world and have grand adventures and lead exciting lives. With age, they’d discovered there was a certain amount of adventure offered in the flirtatious smile cast by a handsome lord, the promise of excitement to be found in the meeting of the admiring gaze thrown by a roguish gentleman across a crowded ballroom. Adventure and excitement that had not truly tempted Delia before Charles.

  In hindsight, she wondered if rebellion had always simmered unacknowledged beneath her calm exterior, some reckless unknown need for excitement or adventure, and wondered as well if the realization that she fast approached an age when she could no longer avoid a suitable marriage, with or without affection, had simply brought forth that part of her nature. Charles had offered the excitement and adventure and, yes, danger she didn’t know she yearned for until she met him.

  Regardless of the outcome, this had been the grandest adventure of her life.

  Now she simply had to live with it.

  Chapter 2

  The door closed behind the Effington woman and he breathed a silent sigh of relief.

  Blast it all. What did he know about being a bloody butler save that he should be at once completely indispensable and virtually invisible?

  Anthony Artemis Gordon St. Stephens, the new Viscount St. Stephens, had been in countless awkward and dangerous situations through the years, but none quite as irritating as this one. He could handle himself under the most dire of conditions, but the behavior of a properly trained butler was not in his repertoire. Perhaps if the servants of his childhood in his father’s house had not been quite so well trained he would at least have been more aware of their activities, although he doubted it. He had not been overly perceptive as a child.

  He stepped away from the door and started toward the back hall.

  At least Miss Effington — no, Lady Wilmont — was not experienced enough as the mistress of a household to note his lack of training. At least not yet. Surely his purpose here would be accomplished by the time she realized there was something distinctly odd about this particular servant.

  Without thinking, he scratched the back of his head, then remembered to brush from his jacket the dusting of power the action had dislodged. Powdering his hair to achieve the impression of age was almost as annoying as the false mustache, eyebrows and spectacles he sported to complete the illusion of age, or the small wads of cotton stuffed between upper teeth and jaw to distort his face and remind him constantly to alter the pitch of his voice. Besides, the blasted powder itched.

  It was, in truth, Wilmont’s fault. If he had stuck to the plan and followed proper procedures, Tony would not be in this position in the first place. Not only had Wilmont unexpectedly wed Philadelphia Effington, but he’d uncovered valuable information far and above his current investigation. Pity, both his reasons for marrying as well as this newfound information, allegedly detailed in a notebook, were lost with him when he died.

  Tony pushed aside the regret that stabbed him every time he thought of Wilmont’s death. One would think he would have become used to death during the war. Or perhaps it was a sign of humanity that one never became used to death, especially the death of friends.

  “Gordon?” Lady Wilmont called from the parlor door.

  Tony adjusted his spectacles, nearly as annoying as the mustache, gritted his teeth and turned back to her. “Yes, my lady?”

  “Would you join me in the library for a moment?”

  “Certainly, ma’am.”

  She swept across the foyer and opened the library door a step before him. Damnation. He should have done that. He’d never realized servants had to be quite so quick on their feet, especially necessary in a household like this, where the staff, besides himself, consisted of Mrs. Miller, who served as both housekeeper and cook, and John MacPherson, the footman, neither of whom was any more servant than Tony. Tony could certainly see where an additional footman or two and one or more maids would come in handy, especially given the chaos in the house upon Lady Wilmont’s return. The place had definitely been searched. Still, for now, Tony, Mac and Mrs. Miller would have to serve.

  However, Tony would have to do much better. It would not serve to be dismissed before he was ready. Of course, Lady Wilmont should have known better as well. Still, what could he expect from a woman who’d married a man she’d known less than a month? A woman who obviously had no sense of proper behavior. Such a woman was either incredibly stupid, unbelievably naive or impossibly romantic.

  Probably all three.

  Lady Wilmont seated herself at her husband’s desk, folded her hands nervously on top of an untidy stack of papers and drew a deep breath. Tony stopped before the desk, clasped his hands behind his back in his best butler stance and waited. Finally she glanced up at him with a tentative smile, her eyes wide and a rather seductive shade of blue. Odd, he hadn’t thought of her eyes as seductive before n
ow. It was probably no more than a strange quirk of the late afternoon light in the library. The same light that was responsible for turning her fair hair into a golden halo around her head. Ironic, as he had no doubt she was a far cry from anything approaching angelic.

  “Gordon, I have a confession to make.”

  His muscles tensed. “Yes, my lady?”

  “I don’t quite know how to say this.” A look of helplessness crossed her face and he knew, with an instinct that had served him well in the past, this confession had nothing to do with his purpose here. He steeled himself against a surprising stab of sympathy. Whatever else she might be, she had lost her husband, and one could only assume she would not have married Wilmont if she had not harbored some affection for him.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s just…” — she waved her hand over the papers — “all of this. I haven’t the faintest idea what to do about it.”

  “Forgive me, my lady, but I’m not certain I understand,” he said slowly.

  “This has all been awaiting my return and must be dealt with at once. There are bills and statements of banking accounts and documents about interests Lord Wilmont held and property he owned and heaven knows what else, and” — panic sounded in her voice — “I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “Perhaps Lord Wilmont’s solicitor could —”

  “No, no.” She brushed off his suggestion with an impatient gesture. “I met with him yesterday and, well, I didn’t like him. No, that’s not entirely accurate. I didn’t” — she thought for a moment — “trust him, I suppose. I know it sounds foolish, obviously Lord Wilmont trusted him, but there was something about him…”

  Whatever else the woman’s failings might be, she had excellent instincts. About this, at least. For reasons of security, Wilmont’s solicitor, Mr. Edmund Danvers, handled Tony’s financial affairs as well as those of the other men he worked with. In truth, the man was as much a part of the department as Tony himself, but Danvers was a strange sort and Tony had never quite gotten over his own discomfort with him. He didn’t entirely trust him either.

  “Perhaps your family could —”

  “No.” Her chin lifted slightly and there was a spark of defiance in her eye. “I would much prefer not to involve them in anything regarding my late husband.” Her gaze dropped to the papers on the desk and her voice was resigned. “Besides, they are not especially fond of me at the moment.”

  The tone in her voice softened something within him and he had the strangest impulse to offer her comfort. He pushed the thought aside. He was here to protect her and, with luck, learn what she knew, if anything, of her husband’s work and what he had found — nothing else. Besides, he was to be her servant, not her friend.

  “Surely under the proper —”

  “Gordon.” Her gaze caught his. “Are you aware of my circumstances?”

  Of course he was aware of her circumstances. Who in London was not? Even disregarding his own connection to Wilmont and his personal knowledge of the events of six months ago and the past few weeks that went well beyond the woman’s own, he would have to have lived on a deserted island in the South Seas not to have heard of the scandalous marriage of this particular member of the Effington family.

  Even so, he chose his words carefully. “I am aware that you recently lost your husband.”

  She scoffed. “Come, now, Gordon. I may know little about putting the finances of a household in order, although I daresay I can plan a proper dinner party or musical evening or arrange flowers effectively. Admittedly, relatively worthless skills.” She smiled wryly. “But I do know servants talk and they usually have as much information as to what goes on in the world as everyone else, if not far more.”

  “I have heard rumors, my lady. I paid them no heed.”

  “Then you are the only one. Unfortunately, while the tale has probably grown in the telling, the facts are indisputable. My marriage was somewhat abrupt and…incautious on my part. On his too, no doubt. And unfortunately he lost his life soon afterwards.” She paused for a moment as if remembering, or perhaps regretting, the events that had brought her to this point. Then she drew a deep breath. “I find myself quite alone, Gordon. My family has not precisely disowned me, but it may well be some time before their attitude, or more precisely my mother’s attitude, eases and I am once more welcomed into their bosom.” She smiled again and he wondered idly how that smile might light her eyes when it wasn’t so wry. “I must pay the piper for my sins, you see.

  “And I must deal with my situation as well.” She shuffled the papers before her and selected one. “I have been reviewing your references.”

  “Is there something amiss, my lady?” There shouldn’t be. His references were perfect. Totally false, but perfect. Wrought from the skillful hand of Mr. Alistair Pribble, there was not a man alive who could tell one of Pribble’s fabrications from the genuine article.

  “Not at all. However this one, from the manager of a Lord Marchant’s estate…” She looked up. “I don’t believe I recognize the name.”

  “He was exceedingly old, my lady, and without issue.” The lie rolled smoothly off his tongue. “Nor was he active in society. As such, it is not surprising that his name is unknown to you.” Particularly as Lord Marchant did not now exist, nor had he ever.

  “I see.” She studied the paper. “This notes you are exceptionally good with figures and managed the household accounts when in his lordship’s employ. It says his lordship trusted you implicitly.”

  “Does it?” he said without thinking. Damn Pribble anyway. The man was a genius when it came to forging documents or producing facsimiles of important papers, but he had a nasty sense of humor. It was well known in the department that Tony had no head for numbers. With a great deal of effort, he was competent but nothing more. This was his own fault, though. He’d never thought it necessary to actually read the references Pribble had provided. Then again, Tony had never realized the duties of a butler were quite so complicated

  “Yes, it does,” she murmured, still perusing his references.

  “That was some time ago, ma’am,” he said quickly. “I daresay my faculties are not as astute now. I’m certain I have forgotten any number of things.”

  “Nonsense, Gordon,” she said firmly, and looked up at him. “Numbers are one of the few things in life that are immune to change. One plus one always has been, and always will be, two.”

  “I understand that, my lady, but —”

  “I realize you are not as young as you once were,” she said in a kindly manner, “and I know you have not long been in my employ, but I have not noticed anything that would lead me to believe your hiring was a mistake in any way.”

  “You haven’t?” Apparently she was not especially observant.

  “You seem entirely competent in your position.”

  “I do?” Not observant in the least.

  She nodded. “Indeed you do. Furthermore, I believe your age and, more importantly, your experience will be a great asset to me as I adjust to running a household and, in truth indeed, a new life, completely on my own.”

  “Surely your family —”

  “As I said, they cannot be counted on at the moment,” she said briskly. “So we shall carry on on our own. Now then, Gordon, I do not plan on turning over the finances completely to you.”

  “You don’t?” He fought to keep the relief from his voice.

  “No, I too am good with figures. However, this is all quite complicated and I need assistance in the sorting of it.” Her brows drew together in frustration. “I find it terribly confusing and the more I try to instill some semblance of organization, the more I seem to flounder. I need your help in making sense of this, putting everything in some reasonable order. Once that is accomplished, I’m certain I can manage alone.”

  Impertinent creature. She had a great deal of nerve taking over Wilmont’s affairs. It was most annoying to watch this interloper, this female, take over his friend’s life. Stil
l, a small voice in the back of his head noted, it was very much her right to do so. She might well be an interloping female, but she was also, for whatever reason, Wilmont’s wife.

  That too was a question without an answer at the moment.

  “Gordon?” She tilted her head and gazed up at him, a tenuous smile playing on her lips. Again, he thought it must have been nothing more than the light that made her lips look so red and rich and inviting. “I realize this is not part of the duties you expected to —”

  “I shall lend whatever meager assistance it is within my power to provide.”

  He really had no choice, given Pribble’s references. Besides, this perusal of Wilmont’s personal and financial papers might turn up something of benefit, although that was unlikely. Whatever else Danvers might be, he was an excellent solicitor and unquestionably loyal to the department. If there was something amiss, Danvers would have reported Wilmont without so much as the blink of an eye.

  “Excellent.” Relief rang in her voice. “I shall be eternally grateful, Gordon. Now then, I think we can begin —”

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but you wish to begin now?” Years of training kept the panic from his voice. “It’s late into the afternoon and I should think a task like this would best be started in the morning.”

  “Perhaps under other circumstances, but…” For no more than a instant, that annoying helpless note crept into her voice. Then her tone hardened. “This will just grow more confusing the longer I put it off. I would much prefer to deal with it now. Besides, I have little else to occupy my time.

  “But you’re right: it is growing late and I anticipate working well into the evening. Could you ask Mrs. Miller to prepare a light meal” — she glanced at the clock on the mantel — “in a few hours or so, say around seven, and serve it in here?”