Her Ladyship's Man (4 page)

Unaware of Mrs. Musgrove's thoughts, Drew was busy issuing orders to the footmen. "James, you and William go help with the luggage," he said, peeking through the lace curtains as the postillion leapt down from his perch to open the coach door. "We wouldn't wish to keep our employers standing in that wind, would we?"

"No, Mr. Davies," the footman answered, giving his cravat a final tug before he and his companion went scurrying out the door to carry out their instructions.

"The rest of you take your places," Drew commanded with a snap of his fingers. "I am sure Lady Melanie will want to inspect you once she has rested, but in the meanwhile I want you all on your best behavior. It is imperative that the earl and his family suspect nothing. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Mr. Davies!" they chorused, assuming their positions on either side of the wide front door. Only
Mrs. Musgrove remained at Drew's side, her work-roughened hands twisting nervously in her clean apron.

"This is all so upsetting," she fretted, shooting him a worried look. "Will it go well, do you think?"

Drew stood straighter, feeling the familiar burden of command settling across his broad shoulders. "If I have anything to say in the matter, Mrs. Musgrove, it will," he said, his voice deep with promise as he leaned forward to open the door for the Terringtons.

"Good afternoon, Lord Terrington, Lady Melanie," he said, executing one of the deep bows Halvey had taught him. "I am Davies, His Grace's butler. Allow me to welcome you to Marchfield House."

"Very good, Davies, thank you," the earl said, surrendering his greatcoat, hat, and gloves to Drew. "Hope you have a bit of tea prepared; my daughter and I are quite famished, eh, my dear?" He shot Melanie a questioning look over his shoulder.

"That sounds fine, Papa," Melanie said, giving the butler a cursory smile. She was rather surprised to find him so young and attractive. Her eyes moved past him, noting the apple-cheeked woman with round blue eyes who stood at his shoulder. The housekeeper, she decided, noting the set of keys dangling from the woman's thick waist.

Drew caught the direction of Lady Melanie's gaze, and hastened to perform the necessary introductions. "This is Mrs. Musgrove, my lady," he said, allowing himself to relax slightly when it became obvious that the Terringtons accepted him. "She is the duke's housekeeper, and I am certain she will be happy to assist you in settling in to your new home."

"Indeed I will, my lady." Mrs. Musgrove shot Melanie a look of warm approval. "If you and the other lady will follow me, I shall take you to your rooms."

While the ladies were being shown their new rooms, Drew escorted the earl and his assistant to their quarters. "I took the liberty of placing Mr. Barrymore across from you, in case you might have need of him during the night," he told Terrington, his carefully hooded eyes watching the older man sharply. "I trust this meets with your approval?"

"Yes, Davies, that is fine." Drew was interested to note that it was Barrymore who answered him. "Also, I was wondering if it was possible for a small study to be available for us? Something private, you understand?"

"Of course, Mr. Barrymore," Drew murmured, deciding to put them in the duke's private study. Among its more interesting features was a secret door that would allow him to enter or leave the room unobserved, should the need arise.

He flicked a glance at Terrington, noting the way he kept his dispatch box clutched protectively in his arms. He knew from his days with the Diplomatic Corps that a diplomat was held personally responsible for the papers in his care, and he was intrigued with the care the earl was exercising. Such caution would seem to rule out any possibility that the papers had gone astray through idle carelessness, which meant collusion was definitely involved. He made a mental note to inform his lordship about the hidden safe located in the master suite, a safe to which he, of course, would have a secret key.

The earl had been placed in the largest suite, lavishly decorated in dark green and gold, while Bar
rymore's rooms were much smaller, and less opulently appointed in shades of pale green and soft yellow. He half expected the younger man to protest such modest accommodations, but to his surprise the assistant seemed well pleased with his new situation.

"Ah, a view of the garden," he said, opening the French windows and stepping out onto the stone balcony that overlooked the back of the house. "How very pleasant. Once the flowers begin blooming, I can leave my windows open and pretend I am in the country. Thank you, Davies." He gave Drew a polite smile.

"You are most welcome, sir." Drew inclined his head in a perfect imitation of Halvey at his regal best. He found the other man's graciousness to be disarming, and was determined not to allow himself to be charmed. Although Barrymore's conduct had more or less been foresworn, he was still too intimately connected with the Terringtons to ignore. If nothing else, he could prove a valuable source of information. With that in mind, he gave him an inquiring look. "Also, sir, I was wondering whether or not you were traveling with a valet? If not, I would be happy to assign one of the footmen to assist you."

"Oh, no, I have my own man," Mr. Barrymore assured him, pausing in front of the mirror to run a hand over his artfully arranged curls. "Indeed, I cannot imagine life without Grisby. He has a sister here in London, and I gave him two days of holiday so that he could visit her."

"That was very kind of you, Mr. Barrymore," Drew said, thinking he would have to run a check on the valet as soon as he was able. "If that will be all, I will be returning to my other duties. Should
you wish anything, you have only to ring for the footman." And with that he departed, eager to find out what Mrs. Musgrove had been able to learn of Lady Melanie and her companion.

In her own chambers, Melanie quickly dismissed both Mrs. Musgrove and Miss Evingale, determined to steal a few minutes of uninterrupted peace. After pausing long enough to wash the dust from her hands and face, she began exploring her new surroundings, her delight increasing with each discovery.

The bedchamber was almost twice the size of her rooms at Terrington Court, and a definite improvement over any of the rooms she had lived in during her travels with her father. The furniture was dainty and feminine, carved out of polished fruit-wood so rich a color it seemed to glow with golden light. The walls were covered in a delicate shade of blue that was almost silver, a shade that was reflected in the richly woven Aubusson carpets that stretched across the parquet floors. The counterpane on her bed was fashioned out of soft rose moire satin, matching the heavy drapes that framed the tall windows gracing the far wall. All in all, it was the most beautiful room she had ever seen, and she felt a warm thrill of pleasure that it should be hers, even for so short a time.

When she had delayed the inevitable for as long as she dared, she decided to go in search of Miss Evingale. She found her companion comfortably reclining on a blue and cream flowered chaise longue, her nose already buried in one of her Gothics. When Melanie asked if she would care to go down for tea, the older woman shook her head briskly.

"Oh, no, my lady, I could not bear to look at food just now," she said, her blue eyes wide with dis
may. "If you have no objections, I think I shall remain in my rooms and recover my poor strength."

Melanie, who never objected to Miss Evingale's absence, was only too happy to grant her approval. "That might be for the best," she said, giving her a sweetly solicitous smile. "You do look rather pale, now that you mention it. But are you sure you wouldn't like even a small cup of tea? I can send the maid up with a tray."

"Well, perhaps a cup of tea would settle my nerves," Miss Evingale agreed weakly, rubbing a hand across the leather spine of her book. "My lady, may I ask you a question?"

"Certainly, Edwina." Melanie began inching her way toward the door.

"What do you think of Mr. Davies?"

"Mr. Davies?"

"He is rather young to be a butler, don't you think?" the older woman asked eagerly, her eyes beginning to take on a familiar sparkle. "And so very handsome. Such lovely brown hair, and those brooding hazel eyes! He cannot really be the butler, I am sure of it."

Melanie knew she would regret asking, but she felt she had no other choice. "Well, if he's not
really
the butler, then what is he?"

"An impostor!" Miss Evingale replied with dramatic relish, her eyes shining with pleasure.

"Ah, not unlike your friend, Mrs. Crumbly." Melanie had learned long ago that scolding Miss Evingale for her silly fancies only made her cling to them more stubbornly. "We shall have to take care we don't sample any of his fruit tarts while we are here."

"Oh, he's not the villain! One has only to look upon his noble countenance to know that!" Miss
Evingale reproved her sternly. "He is a hero if ever I saw one, like dear Lord Fulton in
Lady Pamela's Terror
. You remember, my lady, his villainous uncle seized control of his inheritance and he was forced to act as butler in his own household. I wonder if Mr. Davies has an uncle." She laid a thoughtful finger on her thin lips.

"You shall have to ask him," Melanie said, wondering why she simply didn't dismiss Miss Evingale and be done with it. Certainly no other employer she could think of would tolerate such freakish behavior in a companion, which, she admitted with a disgusted sigh, was precisely why she kept the silly creature on. However would she survive if she turned her off?

Her father and Mr. Barrymore were waiting in the front drawing room which the footman called "The Duchess's Room," and while they discussed the latest news from America, Melanie busied herself pouring their tea.

"It's all a hum, mark my words," the earl said, accepting his cup from Melanie. "The Americans are our brethren, they won't make war on us."

"That is what our fathers thought, and only look where it got them," Mr. Barrymore replied, taking a delicate bite of his cucumber sandwich. "No, the Americans are set on this war, I am certain of it. Had you visited their Congress and listened to the debates, you would know I am right. They are like a pack of angry wolves; they sense the coming battle and they hunger for it."

"That seems a rather odd expression, Mr. Barrymore," Melanie said, shooting him a troubled look from beneath her thick lashes. "How could anyone 'hunger' for a war? From what I have seen, it brings nothing but death and destruction; why
should anyone want to bring about something so dreadful?"

"For profit, my lady," Mr. Barrymore expanded, leaning back against the delicately striped chair. "Wars have helped make many a fortune, and the Americans are as eager to line their pockets as any man. And, of course, they have long coveted our western territories. A war would give them the perfect opportunity to seize anything they could."

"But only the War Hawks, Senator Calhoun and his group, are openly hostile toward us," her father protested, his brows knitting in a troubled frown. "The senators from New England are most eager to avoid a conflict, and I know President Madison is not averse to a peaceful resolution. I am hoping to convince Castlereagh to send a new delegation. Although," he admitted with a heavy sigh, "I fear he may not listen."

"I'm afraid I must agree with you, my lord," Mr. Barrymore said with a sad shake of his head. "The viscount must first listen to his own party, and we all know how they feel on the subject of negotiations."

"But another war would be ruinous just now!" Melanie protested, setting her cup down with an angry clatter. "Especially a war which could so easily be avoided. You must not give up, Papa," she said, turning to her father. "You must make them listen to you!"

"Ah, if only I could, my dear, if only I could," the earl murmured unhappily, wondering if he should tell her about the missing documents from his pouch. He had managed to keep the disappearance secret from her, but he knew it was only a matter of time before she learned the truth.

So far the Foreign Office had taken no overt ac
tion, but he felt his recall from Washington was caused by more than the Crown's desire to remove nonessential personnel from a potential battleground. For a brief moment he wondered if he ought to take her in his confidence, but in the end he decided against it. Barrymore was right, he brooded, it was best that Melanie remain innocent of the undercurrents around her. For all her sharp tongue and quick mind, she was still only a female, and the less involved she was, the safer she would be.

Chapter Three

M
elanie rose early the next morning, eager to assume her domestic responsibilities. Although Lady Charlotte would be acting as her father's hostess, she saw no reason why she should relinquish all authority merely because society had decreed it so. The marchioness wouldn't be arriving for several days yet, and she was determined to have the household well under her thumb before then.

After a hasty breakfast she and Mrs. Musgrove set out to tour the elegant town house. They started in the drawing room where she and her father had taken tea, and when she asked why it was called the Duchess's Room, the housekeeper was happy to explain.

"Well, my lady, 'tis called that in honor of Lady Amanda, the fourth Duchess of Marchfield," Mrs. Musgrove said, a pleased smile on her face as she ran her hand across the back of the gold brocade settee. "She decorated it when she came into this
house as a new bride. It was always her favorite room, and when she died the old duke, God bless his soul, refused to change the room by so much as a cushion! The present duke and his lady like it as well; Lady Jacinda receives all of her guests here. She says it's like sitting in a pool of sunlight."

"I can see why she would think that," Melanie replied, giving the yellow and gold room an admiring look. "From the little I have seen, the house is quite lovely. I wonder how they can bear to let strangers stay here, although I am most grateful that they did," she added with a rueful laugh.

"Oh, but this is the first time, my lady," Mrs. Musgrove told her as they turned to leave. "This house has been the Marchfield home for well on seventy years, and none but a Marchfield has ever had the running of it! Why, you could have tipped me over with a feather when His Grace told me he had given you and your good father permission to stay here. And then Mr. Halvey leaving on top of it . . . well, things were at sixes and sevens, I don't mind telling you!"