The Butler Did It (11 page)

“We stay for the Season,” Fanny said after a long, tense silence.

“For the Season,” Morgan agreed, feeling five long years of learning to control his temper shredding into tatters.

Fanny pushed herself out of the chair and stood up. “And you'll host a party or two for little Emma? Perhaps even a ball? Yes, I do think that a ball would be nice. Just the thing.”

Regaining control, Morgan said coldly, “Oh, I seriously doubt that, madam.”

“I don't. Did your mother—dear woman, how is she?—ever tell you about the time Harry and I rode our horses into a certain rural ballroom? It was a very
private
costume party, you understand, with only a few select guests, and I was Eleanor of Aquitaine. You re
member? She rode with her husband, straight into battle.
Bare-breasted.
I imagine she thought it would rouse the troops. Ha! Bound to rouse something, right, boy? Anyway, and then Harry and I dismounted and—”

“Perhaps even a ball,” Morgan said, knowing he had lost. He had to protect his mother. Digging up Mad Harry, or at least his rather lurid reputation, could not be considered a balm to an old woman's scabbed wounds, those inflicted by that same deceased husband.

“I think pink bunting in the ballroom, as well as perhaps a fountain? And only the best musicians.”

He turned and glared at Fanny. “You are an evil woman, Mrs. Clifford.”

Fanny shrugged. “Nonsense. I've only asked for your house for the Season. I didn't demand you court Emma, as you seem set against it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go tell the servants to stop their packing. Luncheon will be served in two hours, my lord. Mrs. Norbert gets testy if she isn't put to the trough with regularity.”

“The devil it is. I haven't yet had my breakfast.”

Fanny smiled. “Yes, you have. And it wasn't easy to swallow it down, was it? Oh, and this conversation remains private, my lord. As far as my family is concerned, I will simply be entertaining many old acquaintances as they drop by to see me. If you want, I'll tell you what I would have written about each of them?”

“No, thank you,” Morgan said. “It's bad enough I'll know why each of them is here.”

“Ah, this younger generation. Too lily-livered by half for my tastes. Now, as I'm convinced you were not nice, go apologize to my granddaughter.”

Morgan laughed, at last. “Never.”

“Really? Then there was the time dearest Harry and I—”

He held up one hand, then opened the door for her. He followed her into the hallway, watching her move off toward the stairs and what had to be her chamber before he headed for the drawing room once more.

If he had any sense at all, he'd tell Wycliff to pack them up again and run, his tail between his legs, all the way back to Westham. But he'd be damned if he was going to let one reprehensible old lady and the rest of Thornley's gaggle of guests defeat him.

Besides, somebody was going to pay for his upset-ment, his inconvenience, his dilemma born of his servants' ingenuity, and compounded by Mrs. Clifford and her memoirs.

And he knew just the person. It could only be hoped she was still in the drawing room.

 

S
IR
E
DGAR UNLOCKED
his door when Fanny Clifford knocked on it, then stood back to let her into the room—leaving the door open, as was proper. It was probably also safer, when the gentleman's guest was Fanny Clifford. He might not be a genius at understanding women, but he recognized a kindred spirit when he met one.

“Not yet packing, Sir Edgar? Good, because we aren't leaving, unless you really want to go. If you do, I'd consider it a kindness if you'd please take Mrs. Norbert with you.”

“We aren't leaving?” Sir Edgar moved to stand in front of the closed door to his small dressing room as Fanny began circling the perimeter of the room, picking up a folded map of London on one table, sliding her gnarled fingertips over the surface of another. “How?”

“The marquis was made to see reason, of course, and was kindhearted enough not to throw us all out into the street,” Fanny said, walking around the bed, to stand at its side, leaning back against the mattress. “You know, Sir Edgar, I understand why my family and I are here, and everyone knows why that Norbert person is here. But no one knows why
you
are here. Do you plan to go into Society?”

Sir Edgar wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. This woman was trouble, and about as subtle as a hammer falling on his head. “I
am
in Society, Mrs. Clifford. Perhaps not on the grand scale you wish for your granddaughter, but I have friends here.”

Fanny was on the move again, now backing toward the small table holding the water pitcher and bowl. “Really? We're much of an age, Sir Edgar. We may have some of those friends in common.” She stopped moving and glared at him. “Name some.”

“I see no reason to—now what are you doing?”

Fanny had turned her back to him, and had lifted up the bar of lye soap. “So
that's
the smell I've been smelling. I know London can be dirty, Sir Edgar, but is such a harsh, smelly soap really necessary?”

She turned to face him, and the bar of soap clipped the handle of the pitcher.

“Watch out, you're going to—well, now look what you've done.” Sir Edgar grabbed a towel from the top of the dresser and went to his knees, sopping up the water that had spilled when the pitcher toppled to the floor. “Madam, will you please
leave.
”

“Certainly. No need to fly up into the boughs, Sir Edgar. It's only water.” Fanny pocketed the small key she'd nipped from the table when the unwary man knelt down and, humming under her breath, left the room.

 

E
MMA BLEW HER NOSE
and stuffed her handkerchief back into the side pocket of her gown. She stared out the window once more, looking at the children walking with their nannies, the ladies taking the air, the gentlemen bounding onto the seats of their curricles as they were off somewhere. Bustling, bustling. The sun shone for the first time in an eternity, and London was coming to life.

Just as she was leaving it.

It wasn't fair, that's what it wasn't.

She had planned for so long, had even located an advertised set of rooms in Mount Street, when Grandmama Fanny had waved the small notice in the newspa
per in front of her and they'd written to the address in Grosvenor Square.

The rental price was ridiculously low for an address in one of the most exclusive areas of Mayfair, and the marquis's crest on the letter they'd received back not a week later had served to make her grandmother do a fairly creditable jig in their small sitting room at Clifford Manor.

“I should have known something wasn't right,” Emma told herself, seeking recourse to her handkerchief once more and dabbing at her tear-wet eyes. “But I was greedy, and I wanted a few more gowns. This is all my fault.”

Where would they go? Home, she was afraid. Yes, she had threatened the marquis with Lady Jersey, but that had been an empty threat. And there was no money for another lease (she'd bought the gowns), and certainly very few, if any, acceptable addresses left in Mayfair at this time of the Season.

So they would go home. Back to Clifford Manor.

And all her dreams would die along the way.

“Oh, I
hate
him!” she said, stuffing the handkerchief away once more. “I hate him, hate him,
hate
him!”

“Now, why am I sure that the man actually responsible for this mess, the so-ambitious Thornley, is not the object of your vehemence, Miss Clifford? And, in that case, would you suggest I begin sleeping with a pistol under my pillow, as I understand Lord Byron did on occasion?”

Emma's eyes opened wide at the sound of the marquis's voice—and at the mocking tone she heard in it.

“Why are you always where I don't want you?” she asked, keeping her back to Morgan.

“I'm afraid I don't have any answer to that, Miss Clifford, other than to say that if you were not in my house, you wouldn't know where I was. Why aren't you upstairs, packing?”

Emma turned to face him. “I…I was simply taking a few moments to compose myself. You needn't dog my every step, my lord, your pocket watch open in your hand, to be sure we vacate in the allotted time.”

“There could be another solution,” Morgan said, crossing to the fireplace and standing beside the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back. He felt more in charge now, standing as master of his own house…and if he could find a way to lock the old lady in her rooms until the King's birthday, he'd feel ever better.

“Another…another solution?” Emma cocked her head to one side and looked at him. “And what would that be, my lord?”

He unclasped his hands and brought one forward, lifting it to his gaze, to pretend an inspection of his fingernails. “Some might offer you a liaison, in return for your lodgings.”

His head bent, he lifted his eyes to peer at her from beneath his brows.

“You…I…you'd—you mean
me?
”

Ha! At last, a point to him. “You flatter yourself, Miss Clifford. I meant Mrs. Norbert, of course. I must confess that I find myself simply captivated by her myriad charms.”

Emma's eyelids slitted. “Let me be the first to inform you that you're not amusing anyone save yourself, my lord.”

Perhaps not, Morgan agreed silently, but she was right on one thing, he had amused himself. Besides, he certainly had Miss Clifford's full attention now, and had gotten them past the rather depressing “why” of his continuing to house this motley collection of people under his roof for the Season.

“This is how it will be, Miss Clifford,” he pushed on, now that he felt he had the advantage. “As your residence here is already a known fact, and Thornley assures me that we'd be caught out if we poisoned the lot of you and buried your bodies in the cellars, we will be sharing this household. The division, however, will not be equal. My study will be, of course, out of bounds to all of you, as will be most of the house. You will have your rooms, use of this drawing room, and the dining room unless I need either, at which time you will take your meals in your chambers. At all times and in all ways you will be circumspect, as well as quiet and unobtrusive as the proverbial church mouse. Understood?”

What did the man think they were going to do? Hire a convenient traveling band of gypsies to dance on the tables? Emma wanted to slap the marquis's face for his
insults (there were so many from which to choose), and storm out of the room. Still, much as she loathed the fellow, it would appear that something she'd said earlier had finally registered with him. But what? The threat of Lady Jersey, no doubt. Maybe she would speak to the woman after she'd married.

Regardless of how or why it had happened, she should be polite, because she had won, and a crowing victor is never appreciated.

“Will there be anything else, my lord?” Emma asked, taking up her former seat on one of the couches, because her knees were threatening to buckle beneath her.

“Anything else I can do to frustrate you, you mean? Oh, madam, allow me to list the ways.”

Morgan made for the drinks table, intent on pouring himself a glass of wine, then decided against it. It was just going on noon, and he'd been drinking wine since, he felt, the crack of dawn.

So he stopped, turned and struck a pose. Like many of his contemporaries, he had studied Beau Brummell on his first visit to London, and he and Perry Shepherd had spent a rollicking hour one evening, deep in their cups, standing in front of a mirror, doing neat pirouettes and placing the heel of one foot against the instep of the other, dropping one hand against a hip, stroking the underside of their chins with the other as they composed their features into a look of pensiveness, or haughtiness or, as Perry had joked, acute dyspepsia.

Ah, youth. He hadn't thought of that evening in five long years. Maybe it was good, being back in London. It most certainly outstripped sitting at an early dinner table, listening to his mother describe her latest aches and pains.

“Your lordship? Is something wrong?” Emma asked.

“Wrong? No, of course not,” Morgan said, dropping the pose, just in case Perry had been right about the acute dyspepsia. “I was merely collecting my thoughts.”

Emma bit the insides of her cheeks, but as that had never worked before to silence her tongue, the exercise was doomed to failure now. “You wish me to beg a thimble from Mrs. Norbert, my lord? To collect them in, I mean.”

All right, so maybe another glass of wine wouldn't come amiss. Morgan poured one for himself, not asking Miss Clifford if she wanted him to ring for lemonade or some other insipid drink. Did Thornley keep hemlock in the kitchens?

“I sense that it is time to sum up, before we actually come to blows, Miss Clifford. This is my house, my home. You and your family, to the world, are my invited guests, as your grandmother and my late father were acquainted in their youth and your grandmother applied to me to help introduce you to society.”

Emma held up a hand. “What did my grandmother say to you? She said something to you, didn't she?”

Morgan looked her straight in the eye. “I have not yet had the pleasure of conversing with the woman. Now,
please, Miss Clifford, pay attention, as this is our story. Being a generous, good-hearted fellow, I could not decline your grandmother's eloquent plea—not to mention your distasteful threats, and we won't. That said, you, all of you, are grateful to me, your kind benefactor, and will speak well of me in pubic. Glowingly, in fact. In private, you may tell me to go to the devil, just as I will wish you and your family on the far side of the moon. Is that clear?”

Emma nodded, keeping any other thoughts to herself, thoughts that ran along the lines of: He's lying in his teeth.