The Butler Did It (13 page)

Morgan jumped, and would have toppled over the railing if he hadn't been holding on with both hands. He turned to Emma. “Do
not
do that again, Miss Clifford,” he said, tight-lipped.

“I'm sorry, my lord,” Emma said, stepping past him to take a peek of her own. “My, distinguished looking, isn't he? Who is he?”

Morgan told her.

“Oh. Him.” Emma felt herself coloring. “He should have come bearing buckets of gold coins, or at least three strapping grandsons.”

“Why? What did he—no, don't tell me. I see you're dressed for an outing, Miss Clifford. May I ask where you're going?”

Emma tied her bonnet strings, as she had left them hanging when she'd spied out Morgan leaning over the banister like a child on Christmas morning. “Nowhere, my lord. I just wish to take the fine air in the Square for an hour. Mama would have joined me, but she's still lying down, recovering from her exertion of the morning.”

“Yes, screaming at the top of one's lungs probably does take a lot out of a person.”

Emma glared at him. “My mother is very delicate.”

“Browbeaten would be a better explanation, I'd think, stuck between you and your grandmother.”

“This is a very large mansion. I'd rather you'd ignored us, my lord,” Emma said, peeking over the banister once more, straight down to the foyer. “I think it's safe for me to sneak out now. Excuse me, my lord.”

“Wait, I'll go with you.”

“It's only the Square, my lord. I don't require a chaperon.”

“I was thinking more of making my own escape, Miss Clifford, and I am not beneath using you as my excuse. Come on.”

He grabbed her elbow, she shook off his hand, and they fairly raced down the stairs to the first floor…just as the knocker went on the ground floor and the front doors were opened yet again.

Morgan peered over the railing. “Good grief. Quick, come here,” he said, grabbing Emma's elbow again and unceremoniously pulling her around the corner and into
a shallow alcove where they now shared space with a statue of Venus. As a matter of fact, Morgan would probably wear the bruises for a week, where his back had slammed into the goddess's unclad front.

Emma found herself smack up against Morgan, chest to hip, as he put his arms around her and warned her to be quiet.

She put her palms on his chest, to try to keep her balance. Goodness, but he was solid. “Why? Who is it?”

“The bloody King,” Morgan said, knowing he sounded in awe. Not in awe that the King had come to call, but in awe of a little old woman and the power she held over the most exalted personage in the land. “Please tell me you don't know anything about him.”

Emma shook her head. “I don't think so. Grandmama said she knew him well, and I did see his name on one of the messages, but I never thought— It's really His Royal Highness down there?”

“And coming up here, so be quiet,” Morgan whispered, pulling her deeper into the alcove.

“Why? I don't understand. I've practiced my curtsy for months. I'd really enjoy meeting him.”

“And I don't want him to think I know why he's here, damn it,” Morgan said. “Listen, I can hear him on the stairs. Shut up.”

She tried to push herself free. “Shut up, is it? You are as rude as I said you were, my lord. I will not shut up. I'd much rather peek around the corner and see—”

Would the cursed woman for the love of heaven
shut up!

He took one hand off her hip and clapped it over her mouth, which seemed to serve to open her gray eyes wide enough that there was the distinct possibility they might just pop straight out of her head.

“Mmm…mmmph…
mmmmmph!
”

He moved his face within inches of hers. “Quiet,” he warned yet again, then, while still holding her close with his other hand, sort of sidestepped the two of them to the edge of the alcove.

Those wide eyes looked left, and Morgan looked along with them, to see the new King, dressed in the finest clothes he couldn't pay for, composing himself outside the closed doors to the drawing room. An ounce more lace on the man's cravat or at his cuffs, and he'd look like a wave, crashing against the shore.

“Mmmph?”

“No,” Morgan whispered, now cheek to cheek with Emma. “Not yet.”

“Mmmph!”

Thornley opened the doors to the drawing room and His Royal Highness waited until he was announced, then dragged his well-corseted bulk out of sight.

At which time, Emma brought the heel of her soft slipper down on Morgan's instep, which didn't really hurt him. Still, he took his hand off her mouth. “You—you
madman!
Unhand me at once.”

Morgan found himself reluctant to do so. This was
nice. She smelled good, she felt good, and he was mightily tempted.

But then sanity caught up with him. “Of course, Miss Clifford,” he said, stepping back and bowing to her. “That was a close-run thing, wasn't it. Shall we go now?”

“I'm going, my lord,” Emma said, stepping past him. “However, if you attempt to follow me, I shall stand here and scream
fire
at the top of my lungs, right before you are forced to introduce me to His Royal Highness.”

She would, too; Morgan could sense that this was no empty threat. “Have a pleasant stroll in the Square, Miss Clifford,” he said, bowing again, then went off to relive the past few minutes—mostly those having to do with how close he had come to silencing her with his mouth, rather than his hand.

 

“F
LORIZEL
!” Fanny exclaimed, hopping up from her position on the couch (one lordship to the left of her, another to the right of her), and dropping into a deep curtsy (which she was then helped out of by the lordship on her left and the lordship on her right). “Your Majesty, it has been an age. Don't you look splendid!”

“Fanny, my dearest.” The new King maneuvered his overdressed bulk in her direction and bowed over her hand, turning it at the last moment, to press a wet kiss in her palm.

Good old Florizel. He'd never clapped eyes on an older woman he didn't like, although he usually liked them more “cushioned.”

Fanny's laughter trilled through the room as the gentlemen performed their bows, none of the three of them actually meeting the Prince Regent's eyes.

“How many more, Fanny?” His Royal Majesty asked as Thornley, proud but never flustered (at least, not after the events of this morning, after which he might never be flustered again), returned with another tray of refreshments, having sent a footman running to the kitchens directly from the foyer.

“How many more what, Your Majesty?” Fanny asked, sitting herself beside the prince, which left two of the lordships to wander about the room, looking for somewhere else to settle themselves, as Sir Willard rivaled the prince for bulk, and adding another body to the facing couch could prove perilous.

“Naughty men in London, of course,” the prince said, winking at her.

“Never you, Your Majesty,” Fanny said, winking right back at the grand Florizel—who, rather than being a mere shadow of himself as he moved on in years, had seemed to have expanded in every direction. “Have I ever hinted otherwise?”

“No, my dear lady, you have not, and I thank you for your kind invitation to come see all those who were naughty. And I'll want details, now won't I? Oh, not while you're here, gentlemen, so gasping in outrage will gain you nothing. Be proud—you were
real
men! Yes, even you, Boswick, mind-boggling as that is.”

The other three men in the room muttered unintelligible sounds and slowly sank deeper into their seats, which made Fanny laugh again.

Bless dear Florizel. She knew she could count on him. Because now they knew, now they all would know. Nothing traveled through Mayfair with more speed than the whispered words, “Don't dare breathe a word of this to anybody, but…”

Cross her, refuse to fall into line with what Fanny Clifford wanted, and she would run to the new King to tattle, and it would be all the worse for them.

“Tea, Your Royal Highness?” Fanny asked, and the head of the Admiralty raced to play mother.

Ah, she thought, settling back against the cushions, one gnarled hand on the King's plump knee, being back in Society was
such
fun!

 

D
APHNE
C
LIFFORD
, recovered from her earlier upset, just happened to be dressed in a new gown, and just happened to be walking down the hallway (actually, she'd been lurking behind a potted plant, but who's quibbling?) when Thornley appeared at the opposite end of the corridor, having moments earlier left the drawing room.

“Madam,” Thornley said when he spied her and realized he had no avenue of escape handy. “May I be of assistance to you in any way?”

Daphne spent a flustered few seconds mentally listing the ways, and then said, “No, no, Thornley. I just
wanted to see you, and tell you that I harbor no ill feelings toward you for…well, for what happened. We seem to have come right, in any case, and I am entirely sure you are blameless in the matter.”

Thornley bowed. “Thank you, madam, but I fear that I am
entirely
to blame. His lordship, however, has proved most forgiving, for which I am eternally in his debt. That you might also forgive me would remove the remainder of the sting I feel at my truly unforgivable transgression.”

In truth, Daphne had pretty much lost the thread of that sentence around the word “eternally.” She'd been much too busy wondering if Thornley's lovely mix of silver and black hair would be soft, or stiff, to the touch.

“Is there anything else I might get for you, madam?” Thornley asked when he realized that Daphne wasn't going to speak.

But she was thinking. What could he get for her? A book of poetry, perhaps, that he would read to her in the seclusion of the music room? Perhaps a single flower, that she could delicately sniff as he read? That would make for a wondrously romantic scene, just like something she'd read in one of Fanny's marble-backed novels.

“Madam?” Thornley inquired again, realizing that Mrs. Clifford's faded gray eyes had become somewhat unfocused as she looked up at him. He felt so protective of her he could barely stand it!

“Um…? Oh. Oh, no.” Daphne smiled quickly, revealing her dimples, and then frowned. “There is nothing, alas, that you can do for me, Thornley. Excuse me.”

He watched as she picked up her skirts, turned on her heels and ran back down the hallway.

Thornley tipped his head to one side and hoped for a glimpse of dimpled ankle as she ran.

 

S
IR
E
DGAR
, still wearing the remnants of the worried expression that had put a crease between his eyes the moment he'd realized he'd misplaced the key to his dressing room, stopped just inside the tavern and waited until his eyes adjusted to the dimness.

As for the rest of it, all that had transpired at the mansion in Grosvenor Square earlier today, he was quite unconcerned. Things always had a way of coming right, or going terribly wrong. That was Luck, and Sir Edgar was intimately acquainted with Luck, mostly of the unfortunate sort. That he'd had a bit of a “win” this morning, concerning his lodgings, could only be considered a welcome omen of better luck to come.

If John Hatcher had actually shown up, that is.

“Hoo! Over here, Sir Edgar!”

Sir Edgar winced, not wishing his name to be called out, or remembered, and hastened to the corner where John Hatcher sat, two empty bottles already lined up on the table and pouring from a third.

“Been reading about them alchemist monks of yours,”
Hatcher said even before Sir Edgar could sit down. “All dead, you know. Whacking great lot that says about how smart they were, what?”

Smiling indulgently, Sir Edgar slipped into his chair and said, “Ah, but good sir, perhaps they merely transported themselves to another plane.”

Hatcher chewed on this possibility for a few moments. “You mean they could have taken themselves off somewhere? Plains, huh? I would have thought a mountaintop. You know, perched there naked under their robes, long white beards, spouting words of wisdom nobody understands. That sort of thing.”

Sir Edgar opened his mouth to explain but quickly thought better of it. The ignorance of others had always been his staunchest ally. So he signaled for a bottle and glass, and remained silent.

After a few moments, probably spent contemplating how cold one would be, perched on a mountaintop sans one's drawers, Thatcher leaned close and whispered, his breath sweet with wine, “Did you bring it?”

Sir Edgar looked around the room a few times and noticed a rather plainly rigged out man sitting alone at a table in the dimness of the opposite corner of the common room, apparently watching them. The man looked away when Sir Edgar raised an eyebrow to him, and he dismissed the fellow as being of no consequence.

The man looked nothing more than a fairly well-dressed clerk, and Sir Edgar knew clerks. Dull, unin
spired men, usually younger sons with no prospects, showing a penchant for dressing in muddy browns, and having to turn the cuffs and collars of their shirts, to hide the fraying as they attempted to hold on to some semblance of being a part of the Quality. He had nothing to fear from a clerk.

Sir Edgar reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, purple velvet bag. “I have it right here,” he said unnecessarily, as Hatcher was already staring at the bag, bug-eyed.

“Give it over.”

“Now, good sir, you must understand that this is
all
that I have, and it took years—years, sir—to achieve even this small success. And I have promised no miracles.”

“Yes, yes, I remember. Years. Miracles. You already told me all that. Give it over,” Hatcher said, reaching for the bag.

Sir Edgar deftly kept the bag out of the man's reach. “You've told no one?”