My Lady Below Stairs (3 page)

At least Australia's supposed to be warm this time of year.

There was a cream-colored envelope on the ledge of
the easel.

Roskin ripped it open and read the missive silently.
Bottlesby continued to murmur, “Oh, dear. Oh, dear.”

Roskin’s neck heated. By now it must be the same shade of scarlet as the sealing wax the blasted girl
had used on the letter.

“It's official. She's run off with Brunello,” Roskin
said.

Bottlesby turned to go. “I'll form a search party.”

Roskin caught him by the arm. “You'll do no such thing. We have no idea where to look, and we must proceed with discretion. If we raise a hue and cry, it will make no difference, even if we should find her in time. The damage will already be done in the minds of the
ton.
”

“Oh, yes, quite. I take your meaning, sir.”

Bottlesby bobbed his head like a sparrow, but truly, he had no idea. Scandal might be weathered if one were well
connected, which Lord Somerville was. Or well moneyed, which he was not. But worse than scandal, the impending betrothal would certainly be called off. If that happened, Lord Somerville faced financial ruin.

And Humphrey Roskin would face ruin of his own.

It should have been so easy. When Lord Somerville
had introduced him to Lady Sybil, Roskin had been quick
to name her a marketable asset.

He revised his assessment in short order.

Lady Sybil might be fine to look upon, but her acerbic tongue and mettlesome temper quickly overbalanced her
attributes. She belonged on the London stage, not before
a gentleman's hearth.

Yet Roskin had managed to wangle a match for her with Viscount Eddleton. A wealthy young gentleman with excellent prospects, since his uncle, the Duke of Pemworthy, was languishing in the last stages of consumption and had no son to inherit his title. Eddleton
might be called "His Grace" before the next Season was out.

Arranging the match would smooth over Lord Somer
ville's suspicions and secure his enduring goodwill.

And his daughter's enduring wrath. Sybil despised
having her fiancé chosen for her.

“We haven't much time.” Roskin dragged a hand over
his face, causing his jowls to droop more than usual. Lord Somerville was driving in from his country house to escort his daughter to the annual Christmas Ball hosted by the Marquess and Marchioness Hartwell.
There'd be hell to pay when he discovered Roskin hadn't
been able to keep Sybil from folly. “If the lady doesn't appear at Lord Hartwell's ball, she may as well not ever
show her face in London society again.”

“Then Lady Sybil must attend,” the scullery maid declared. “I assume you wish me to go in her place.”

“Splendid,” Mr. Bottlesby said, a tight-lipped smile slicing his face like a spade mark across a potato. “Now
it's only for tonight, you understand.”

Roskin's head jerked at that. “Maybe not. Who knows
when we'll find the real Lady Sybil? This pretty decep
tion may stretch into weeks.”

Or months. Or years.
If Sybil really wanted to run off with her artistic lover to Italy or some other outlandish
place, they might never find her.

And good riddance!

“You'll have to accept Lord Eddleton's suit,” Roskin
said. “He's planning to propose to Lady Sybil tonight.”

The girl went pale as chalk. “I thought I'd only have to dance a few sets and make small talk. Then maybe plead a headache and leave early. I couldn't possibly fool Lady
Sybil's fiancé.”

“I don't see why not. They've never even spoken. This
is an arranged match,” Roskin explained.
His
arranged match, and no one, least of all a scullery maid, was going to muck things up. “The paperwork's been drawn up.
The proposal is merely for form's sake.”

“Still, a woman wants to accept her own proposal of
marriage,” Jane said. “I don't think—”

“We don't need you to think. Good God! It's a wom
an's featherheaded thinking that's got us into this mess!” Roskin said, mentally cursing the absent Sybil. “You only
need do as you're told.”

Jane stood straighter and looked him squarely in the
eye.

Blast and damn!
She did favor Lady Sybil out of all
knowing. The resemblance was uncanny.

“No.” Her voice was quiet but firm.

“No?” Roskin's brows shot skyward.

“No,” she repeated, louder this time.

“If you don't do as I say, then I will make it my business to see that a certain head groom celebrates Christmas by losing his position.” Jane Tate's face crumpled. The barb hit home, but Roskin might as well drive the nail in deeper. He glanced at the upstairs maid for confirmation. “MacGarrett's the name you mentioned,
wasn't it? Ian Michael MacGarrett?”

Agnes nodded miserably.

“In his lordship's absence, I have the authority to release him from service without delay,” Roskin threat
ened. “And without character.”

A working man with no reference was branded a thief
or a layabout in the minds of possible employers. MacGarrett wouldn't find a position anywhere in the
city. Not a reputable position anyway. A man might turn to anything if his stomach knocked against his backbone
long enough.

“Well, girl, what's it to be?” Roskin demanded.

Jane's eyes blazed at him. “I'll do it. What choice do I
have?”

“None at all,” Roskin admitted. “See to it, then. You, girl.” He pointed to Agnes. “Step lively and do what you can to turn this sow's ear into a silk purse.”

He strode toward the door with Bottlesby dogging his
steps like a Lancashire heeler after a ram. When he
stopped suddenly, the butler hastily stepped back to keep
from running into him.

“The only ones who know of this are we four in this room,” Roskin said. “If the particulars of this little deception come to light, I shall know whom to blame. And
whom to punish.”

The door banged shut behind them.

“I think this will do, don't you?” Bottlesby said.

“Possibly. Flashes of genius strike the most unexpected of noggins. At least, we'll know tonight whether
your scheme will work,” Roskin growled. He really didn't
want to have to develop a taste for boiled kangaroo.

“
As soon as Mr. Bottlesby and that odious Mr. Roskin left Lady Sybil's chamber, Jane rounded on Agnes.

Trust me, Janie. I'm your friend, Janie. The day I peach on you is the day the sun won't rise.” Jane singsonged an imitation of Agnes, her voice rising in pitch
and quivering with fury. “How could you?”

Agnes dabbed her eyes with the corner of her apron. “How could I not? They blamed me for her ladyship running off. As if I could stop her from doing anything
she jolly well pleased! But they were going to give me the
sack anyway and at Christmastime, to boot! A manger might be well and good for the Lord Jesus, but I don't relish bedding down in one myself. Your secret was the only thing I could think of to save my skin.”

Agnes sobbed in misery. Jane's anger sputtered out
when her friend's slim shoulders began to shake. She put her arms around Agnes to comfort her.

“There, now. Don't take on so.
I'm
not going to sack
you.”

The waterworks dried up instantly.

Jane chuckled. “Agnes, you put the players on the Drury Lane
to shame.”

The lady's maid grinned impishly and shrugged. “A girl has to use what the Good Lord gave her, don't she?
You forgive me, Janie?”

Jane rolled her eyes. She might be exasperated by Ag
nes from time to time, but she could never stay mad at
her for longer than a gnat's breath.

“Now, we need to figure out what to do next,” Agnes
began.

"No,
I
need to figure out what to do next, and I've had more than enough help from you today.” Jane paced the sumptuous room. “What would Lady Sybil do?”

“That's easy.” Agnes struck the same quasi-classical
stance as Lady Sybil in her scandalous portrait. “Pose in the altogether like a light-heeled trollop for some foreign
devil and then run off with him at a time most inconve
nient for the rest of us.”

“That's not very helpful.” Jane slanted a sidelong look at Agnes.

“It certainly weren't,” Agnes agreed, misunderstand
ing her completely. “Folk of quality have no consider
ation at all for them what work for a living, do they?”

Jane sighed. “No, they don't. Well,
this
Lady Sybil may as well follow suit. I'm going to have a bath,” she
decided.

“But I've already drawn a bath for her ladyship today,” Agnes complained.

“Lady Sybil is feeling eccentric and wants another
one,” Jane said.

“Well, I suppose you will need one before the ball,”
Agnes admitted with a frown. A bath was the most back-
breaking chore for an upstairs maid. “Come, then. You
can help me haul out the cold water.”

Jane laughed. “You seem to forget that you promoted me to Lady Sybil. I can't be seen doing anything that she
wouldn't do at the ball tonight, so I may as well start
right now.” She flopped onto the bed and lay back on the
cool, rumpled sheets. “It's terribly chilly in here, Agnes.
Close the window and lay a small fire, there's a good girl. Wouldn't want to catch my death taking a bath in a cold room.”

Agnes stared at her as if she'd suddenly sprouted another head. Then, grumbling under her breath, she did as Jane bid. After she dipped out the first bucket of icy
water, she bobbed a mock curtsey to Jane.

“Will there be anything else,
milady?”
she sneered.

“As a matter of fact, there will.” Jane propped herself
up on her elbows and grinned wickedly at her friend. “Cook sent me after the eggs, but no one's seen hide nor hair of me since I came back into the house with you.
While
Lady Sybil's
having her second bath, be a love and
fetch the eggs in my place, won't you? Cook is making meringue for dessert today. I'd hate to miss it.”

Agnes glared at her.

“You know, you might be able to reheat the bathwater with the steam leaking from your ears,” Jane said with a suppressed giggle.

“Now you've gone and made me miss the real Lady
Sybil,” Agnes said as she turned to go.

“Agnes, wait,” Jane called after her. “This is serious. You have to treat me
exactly
as you would the real one. Even when it's just the two of us. This house has its own eyes and ears. You've told me that often enough. If we can't make the house staff believe I'm her ladyship, this will never work and Mr. Roskin will see you get your
chance at that manger bed yet.”

And Ian Michael will be dismissed without character.