The Butler Did It (17 page)

“Lady Jersey,” Morgan interrupted hastily. “It is my greatest hope that you will graciously offer Miss Clifford here permission to dance.”

Sally Jersey turned to look up at him, smiling. “A waltz is next, my lord. Do you wish permission for that, as well? You don't think that's a little fast? Of course, you do. But I don't. I love the waltz, just adore it. Miss Clifford?” she asked, turning back to Emma. “Do you waltz? Or has that lovely dance not yet made it to the hinterlands? Lord knows our fashions haven't quite made the trip, have they? Not that you don't look just fine but, between the two of us,” she said, leaning close to Emma, “your mother's ensemble needs some updating. No turban? For shame.”

“Thank you so very much, my lady,” Morgan said quickly, as he watched Emma's eyelids narrowing even as her jaw seemed to set itself in a line that all but screamed: “Everybody down! The battle is about to commence!” He took Emma's hand in his. “Shall we dance, Miss Clifford?”

“Bring her back when you're done, my lord,” Lady Jersey called after him. “I'll have eligible gentlemen all lined up to scribble their names on her dance card. It's what I do, you know. Of course, you do.”

 

“W
HAT AN INSUFFERABLE
, arrogant,
mean
person.”

“And redundant,” Morgan added, stopping once he'd gained the dance floor. “Is she redundant? Of course, she is.”

“Don't try to brighten my mood,” Emma said as she walked into Morgan's light embrace, as waltzing did much resemble an embrace, even if the space between their bodies was kept to a prudent two feet. “I didn't like her the first moment she opened her mouth, and my opinion of her has not risen one small inch. How dare she insult my mother that way? No turban. Is
she
wearing a turban?”

“Of course she's not.”

Emma glared up at him. “Please resist this urge you seem to have to attempt to be amusing. No, she doesn't wear a turban. And she's the older, you know. Mama is three years her junior, but she promised not to say any
thing because her ladyship says she has her consequence to consider, while Mama has no consequence at all. Why, if I were a man—”

“I would look dashed silly, out here on the dance floor with you,” Morgan said, sweeping her into another turn.

She moved with a fluid grace, even as she glowered at him. “I suppose you will persist in thinking that you're hilarious, or that you're diverting me from what I really wish to do, which is to go back over there and—”

“Your steps are fine, Miss Clifford, and you bend to my lead quite graciously, but if you do not soon lose that scowl and begin to pretend you are enjoying yourself, I shall leave you here to die of embarrassment.”

“You wouldn't dare. And it's not as if you're enjoying yourself. You're dancing with me out of protest, you know it, as do I, so don't pretend, or ask me to pretend with you. I see no reason to—”

“The entire roomful of inquiring eyes are on us, Miss Clifford.”

“And don't interrupt me again. Sally Jersey is a vile, vicious—what did you say?”

“Ah, ah, don't stumble now, Miss Clifford. You were doing so well. Remember, your behavior reflects on me, your guardian.”

All thoughts of Sally Jersey and turbans flew straight out of her head. He was saying again just what her grandmother had said. “My guardian? Never.”

“I beg to disagree. Sally Jersey is even now racing through the assembled guests, spreading that very news.”

“Well, I won't have it.”

“I don't want it, either, Miss Clifford, but there you are. Now, stop scowling.”

This was good, arguing with him. Arguing with him kept her mind away from thoughts of holding his hand, of having his hand pressed against the back of her waist, of laughing with him, for he really was rather funny, once he unbent himself enough to smile. But his smile unnerved her, cut into her resolve. As long as she argued with him, she could refuse herself permission to think about him at all. For full seconds at a time.

Emma kept her feet moving, how, she didn't know. “People actually are being told that I am your ward?”

“It would be their natural conclusion, yes. Do you know, Miss Clifford, after my initial horror, I began thinking about that part. You, as my ward. You, subject to my approval. Why, your suitors will have to apply to me before they can hope to court you. One of them will actually be asking me for your hand in marriage.”

He swept her into one last turn, then kept hold of her hand as the music faded away. It was a good thing the dance was done, because Emma was fairly sure her feet had just gone numb. “You…you will be
in charge
of me?”

“In charge? Yes, I like the sound of that. And you really should call me
my lord
more often. Respect, you understand. Indeed, it would behoove you, Miss Clifford,
to be very nice to me. In private as well as in public. You see, when you get right down to it, I have your life right here, in the palm of my hand.”

He held out his hand, and she glared at it, then winced involuntarily as he slowly and deliberately closed that hand into a fist.

“I didn't see Thornley as we left, my lord,” she said as he guided her back to her mother. “Have you killed him yet?”

Morgan looked sideways at her, slightly confused by this shift in topic. “No, I haven't. Why?”

“Because then I shall have the pleasure, that's why,” she said, tugging her hand free and sitting down next to her mother.

“You forgot to curtsy,” Morgan told her as he bowed. “Appearances. My reputation. Be nice, Miss Clifford.”

And then he walked away, a new spring to his step, a smile on his face. He felt good. Vindicated, although he didn't know why that particular term had crept into his mind.

He just knew he was enjoying himself, watching Miss Emma Clifford with her hackles up, clearly not enjoying herself half as much as she must have supposed when the voucher first arrived at the mansion.

His smile lasted until he'd found himself a convenient post to lean against, at which point he turned, cast his gaze in the general direction of where he had left Miss Clifford, only to realize that he couldn't see her.

He couldn't see her because there had to be at least a dozen young fools surrounding her, vying for her attention, clamoring to scribble their names on her dance card. Why, one gentleman—his shirt points ridiculously high—was actually holding that dance card over his head, and other idiots were jumping up, to grab at it.

Disgusting.

This undue attention was thanks to her conniving grandmother, no doubt. That could be one reason. Or Sally Jersey had gotten out the word that the Marquis of Westham was sponsoring Miss Clifford for the Season, complete with a fat dowry.

Or it could be that the rest of London's gentlemen were not blind, and they all had realized that Miss Emma Clifford was one of the most beautiful, fascinating women to have ever set foot in Society.

Suddenly Morgan's evening wasn't feeling quite the success it had earlier.

 

“H
E'S FINE ENOUGH
, I suppose, but we'll never be much of a success with only the one,” Cliff said, hanging a small but vicious looking set of spurs from his bedpost.

He wasn't quite sure how it had happened. One moment he was contemplating his bleak future, and the next he was carrying home a cage with a gamecock in it, all his mama's pin money gone for the bird and a cage and a bag of feed. And these spurs. They truly were fine spurs. Sharp, too.

Cliff sucked at his fingertip, the one he'd cut on one of the spurs when he'd tested its point.

Riley, who had finally succeeded in shoving the angry gamecock back into its wooden cage, stripped off his heavy gloves and sat back on his haunches. “And I'll be telling you again, Cliffie, Leaky Ben said as how this one here is his best cock. If we lose with him, he'll not be trusting us with the rest, he won't. He wouldn't be selling us any of them, exceptin' that his missus says she'd done with him unless he finds himself another line of work, as it were. Now don't you go leaving him out of his cage again, all right?”

Cliff, looking slightly abashed, and still with his finger in his mouth, said, “I just wanted to pet him. I named him Harry.”

“Saints alive, you don't name a fine fighting cock Harry. Killer. That'd be more the like. But you don't name him nothing. You poke him with a stick, if you do anything. How's he gonna fight, if he thinks he's a part of your bloomin' family? Named him Harry? You're a looby, Cliffie.”

It did not occur to Cliff Clifford that this servant was treating him as an inferior. It did not occur to him because Cliff Clifford was young and inexperienced, and Riley had impressed him all hollow when he'd dragged him along twisted alleyways, to Leaky Ben's tumbledown hovel.

To Cliff, Riley was a man of the world. Even better,
together, they would become rich. Rich, followed by independent, followed by not having to take orders from a gaggle of females who still thought he should be in leading strings. Ha! He'd show them!

“It smelled pretty rank inside Leaky Ben's,” Cliff said now, “so I couldn't stay too long. Not long enough to count all the cages. How many cocks does he have?”

Riley stood up and grinned. “I always been wanting to say one, but then I've always thought it amusin' that a man could go round braggin' that he had twenty cocks. One's all a good man needs, if you take my meaning.”

Cliff giggled, because he was of an age and inclination that found such coarse nonsense amusing. Besides, he had gotten himself laid down and taken care of a few nights ago by Stutterin' Betty, and if it had only taken five minutes and one pound six-pence of his allowance, it still had made a man of him.

Riley pointed to the wine decanter Cliff had ordered up to his room, and the younger man nodded his permission.

Riley was enjoying himself, he was. Hobnobbing with the gentry, calling Mr. Clifford Cliffie, just like they were great chums, drinking wine instead of penny-a-pint gin from his favorite pub in Piccadilly. It was a bloody portent, that's what it was, a portent of great things to come. A better life. Cock of the Walk, that's what he'd be soon.

Or had it never occurred to the young looby over there that he'd be going back to the country at the end
of the Season, forced there by his mama, while Riley would be left behind, with his cockfighting business bringing in money hand over fist?

“Twenty-five, he's got. Two dozen even, plus Harry here,” Riley said when Cliff repeated his question. “But we start with the one, and when Leaky Ben sees how well we do, he'll let us have the rest. We fight 'em, giving Leaky Ben half our winnings until we pay him the blunt he wants. From then on, Cliffie, we're swimming in the deep end of the gravy boat, all by ourselves.” He lifted his wineglass in a salute. “Ah, 'tis a great day this, boyo.”

Cliff picked up the cage by its handle and placed it in his small dressing room, closing the door on the beginnings of his fortune. “And you're sure Claramae won't cry rope on us when she comes to take care of my room?”

“I'll handle Claramae,” Riley said with a wink. “Got the girl fair eating out of my hand, I do. Now, first contest for us is tomorrow night, down off Threadneedle Street, in the cellars of the Cock and Woolpack.”

Cliff nodded. “Um…what exactly do we do?”

Riley rolled his eyes. “All right, listen up. You brings Harry in, see, whilst I come in separate, and see you, and make a big to-do about what a fine cock you got there. I say I want to wager some blunt on him, and you take the bet. Don't be letting anyone else take the bet, because between us we don't got the blunt for it, and if Harry here gets kilt, we'll be in big trouble.”

“Gets killed?” Cliff stole a look toward the closed door to his dressing room. “But…he'll be wearing spurs. He won't get killed.”

“Right,” Riley said, rolling his eyes once more. Heaven preserve him from idiots. “But the cock he fights will have his own spurs, don't you know. They ain't being thrown into the pit to dance with each other, Cliffie. This is a dangerous business, this is.”

“Oh. Right,” Cliff said, knowing it was too late to rethink his commitment to going into business for himself. “I understand that. And, after Harry wins, what do we do next?”

“Why, we fight him again. And this time, others will be bettin' on him as well. Harry wins, we start getting rich. We gets the rest of Leaky Ben's cocks, and we get richer.”

Cliff nodded. “Where…where are we going to keep the rest of the cocks?”

Riley grinned, spread his arms. “It's a hulking great pile, this is. There's lots of rooms nobody even thinks to use.”

 

E
MMA STOOD
with her back to the outside wall as she hid on the balcony, longing for a respite from smiling, and chatting inanely about the weather, and having her toes trod on by gentlemen who obviously found it beyond their scope of achievements to both dance and converse at the same time.

She'd been introduced to, and danced with, Lord Boswick's brother's second son, a rather spotty faced grandnephew of Sir John's, Lord Beattie's grandson (doing her best to keep her expression blank when he'd introduced himself as “Beany's off-shoot,” as it had been Lord Beattie's note from her grandmother that she had read before Riley had taken it back again).

That these “swains” were dancing attendance on her on orders from their elders did nothing to encourage Emma that she was making any splash of her own, on her own.

But then there were the rest of them. Seven, by her last count, who seemed to owe nothing to her grandmother's machinations.

That had been lovely, except that two of them had been almost embarrassingly pointed with their questions about the marquis, and the fact that he was her guardian. She had at first wondered if the odious man had actually picked out the worst of the worst in the ballroom and sicced them all on her, but it hadn't taken her long to realize that there was another truth—one that was even worse.