The Butler Did It (19 page)

That was new, only five years old.

“What next, Perry?” Morgan said, pushing himself away from the pillar, to bow to his old friend. “You pull out a glove from somewhere in that ragtag rig-out some tradesman talked you into, and slap my face, challenge me to a duel?”

“A duel?” Perry smiled, and the scar pulled slightly at his cheek, which did nothing to mar his handsomeness, but only made him look rather rakish. “Good God, man, why on earth would I do that?” He spread his arms. “And I'm hardly dressed for it, although my tailor might take
umbrage with your description of my ensemble and challenge you to darning needles at dawn.”

“It's a nasty scar, Perry,” Morgan said, knowing he had two nasty scars of his own, but not so visible.

“On the contrary, my good fellow, I'll have you know that this little beauty mark has been the making of me. The ladies adore it, you understand. In point of fact, I also believe myself to be quite dashing. But, then, I always have thought that,” he said, leaning closer to Morgan. “Now, stop scowling, man, and greet your old friend with more than an insult.”

Morgan relaxed, but only slightly. “I've missed your idiocy,” he admitted. His smile faded. “But the fact of the matter, Perry, is that I damn near killed you, and you damn near killed me.”

“Oh, hardly
killed,
Morgan. We neither of us had the aim for killing. But I've been meaning to ask you something about that argument we had. A question that's been niggling at me for years.”

“Ask me what? Why I left London? I would think that would be perfectly clear. I was not fit to be with civilized people, not with my violent temper. Not when that temper had almost cost another man his life, and had cost me a friendship I'd treasured.”

Perry looked at Morgan for a full minute, then began to laugh. He laughed so hard, and so long, that several heads turned in their direction, only to look away again as they encountered Morgan's expression.

“That's it?
That's
why you left? Always said you were a hotheaded skipbrain,” Perry said at last. “Blister me, Morgan, we were both so drunk we were reeling. Your temper be damned, tempers had nothing to do with our duel. We were idiots, more than three sheets to the wind, and we did a stupid thing. As I think I've already said, we couldn't have killed each other, not the way we were reeling and blinking and—was that you or me?—casting up our accounts all over the grass as the seconds conferred. Hell, man, we were so deep in our cups we were lucky to have pinked each other at all. Which leads me to my question, if you're done being a jackass. I mean, you should be. You've had five years.”

Morgan felt the weight of his guilt sliding from his shoulders, and only then realized how heavy that guilt had been. “You're mad, do you know that? You should hate me. I swung so wildly, I could have taken your eye.”

“And I swung so wildly after
you
swung so wildly and ended with your back to me, that I'm willing to wager you had to travel home to Westham on your belly. It was your backside I got, wasn't it?”

Morgan grinned. “I sat on pillows for a month, damn your hide. I only admit to the shoulder wound, thank you, even if it was self-inflicted, as I fell on my blade.”

“A pair of bloody fools,” Perry said, polishing his quizzing glass with the lace on his cuff.

“Very bloody, as I recall it. Your cheek was laid open
to the bone. Now, what did you want to ask me? I think we've covered all the most embarrassing details.”

“Save one, my friend. What
was
that girl's name?”

“You don't remember, either?” Morgan asked, chuckling.

Perry laughed, then sobered. “All I remember, Morgan, is Jarrett Rolin, who acted as your second. He and Freddie were supposed to be the cool heads that talked us out of that stupid duel. Freddie told me later that Rolin refused to discuss a calmer settlement. He was laughing at us, old friend, and prodding us on to fight, just so that we could amuse him more. If we had died, either or both of us, I imagine he would not have been able to control his mirth. Sadly, I didn't figure that out until I was sober once more, nursing my wound, and you were gone, but that's what Rolin did.”

“Yes, I know. I also came to that conclusion. Our good friend, our mentor in the ways of the world, I believe he called himself back then. There would have been no duel if I hadn't listened to him. Although I blame myself, because I
did
listen.”

“We were so raw, so gullible, so ready for his praise and guidance, the bastard. He's still here, you know, welcomed everywhere, and still playing his nasty little games. I think he sees all of Society as his puppets, and he holds the strings. Personally, I cut a wide berth around him, hoping one day he'll meet someone who pulls
his
strings. I want to be there to watch, see how he reacts when he becomes the butt of the joke.”

“Well, don't look for him around me. I've already encountered him this evening, and made it clear that I want nothing to do with him.”

“Not good, Morgan, not good, although, having played with you, with me, he probably won't come back to play again,” Perry said, shaking his head. “The man has looks and a powerful family name, and he has found life to bore him in the extreme. He got the pair of us easily enough, fuzzy-cheeked fools that we were, and when he became bored with us, probably because we were too easy to be a challenge, he set us against each other, just to watch what would happen. Mostly, I've decided, he only wants what he cannot have. Unfortunately, as far as I can see, he has yet to find anything, or anyone, he cannot have.”

Morgan looked across the dance floor to see Miss Clifford going down the dance floor with a safe enough looking young gentleman. He wondered if she would become Rolin's next quarry—because of her beauty, because of her “connection” to him—and decided that would never, never ever happen. He would not allow it, even if she was hell-bent on destroying herself.

He took Perry's arm. “What do you say we find ourselves a corner and two glasses. Then you can tell me why on earth you're here. You can't be on the lookout for a wife. Not you. I remember your sentiments on that subject.”

“Too true. Bracketing myself is the last thing on my
mind, now or ever. I came here to find you,” Perry said as he lifted two glasses of inferior wine from a servant's tray and walked alongside Morgan.

“I beg your pardon? I'm only back in town for a single day. How did you know that I—oh, God.” Morgan closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “Sir Willard Humphrey, former Minister of the Admiralty. He's your uncle, isn't he?”

“Always the sharp one, Morgan. Yes, Uncle Willard summoned me this afternoon, all atwitter. He told me all about this blackmailing old biddy, and then set me out to romance the granddaughter, mentioning that the chit was residing under your roof, of all places, that you were back in town. Hang Uncle Willard's indiscretions, I thought, and hang the chit. I need to find my friend.”

“I'm glad you did. So, you're to be your uncle's sacrificial lamb, Perry? Would it help to say that none of this is my fault, that you are looking at a truly innocent as well as oppressed victim? Oh, and if you remember Thornley, I should probably tell you that if he turns up missing, I will be the one responsible.”

Perry handed one glass to Morgan, then pounded his friend on the back. “I'm supposing this is going to be a long story, and one I can't wait to hear. Then you can point me out to the Clifford girl, and I can prostrate myself at her feet, as per my orders. What's wrong with her, by the by? Horse teeth? A squint? Spots?”

Morgan sort of sucked on his lips as he pointed out
onto the dance floor. “See the dark-haired one? Pearls in her hair?”

Perry lifted his quizzing glass to his eye just as Miss Clifford gracefully tripped past, smiling broadly at her companion in a rousing Scottish reel. “Good God, what a sweet morsel! Bless you, Uncle Willard, bless you. I see I shall soon have to desert you, Morgan. To gallantly sacrifice myself for mine uncle, you understand.”

Morgan, so happy to have encountered his friend again, so happy that they were friends again, had to fight back a sudden urge to plant a facer square on that friend's grinning mouth.

 

T
HORNLEY WALKED
through the halls of the mansion, doing his nightly inspection of the premises. He made mental notes that the maids were to pay particular attention to his lordship's bedchamber tomorrow, as well as redistribute the remainder of their guests to the third and fourth floors, away from the marquis, who couldn't possibly wish to encounter them with any regularity.

That would take Sir Edgar and Mrs. Fanny Clifford up one flight, along with Mr. Clifford, putting all of his tenants where he could count their noses without having to chase all over the mansion to find them.

Although Mrs. Fanny Clifford, spry as she was, might have some difficulty with all those stairs, which would
keep her downstairs, on the first floor and in the drawing room most of the day. Thornley mentally wiped the slate in his mind, keeping Fanny in her current room.

As long as she would remain on that floor, he might as well leave Sir Edgar there as well. Only Mr. Clifford would be moved, first thing tomorrow morning.

Miss Clifford and her dear mother were already on the third floor, which was very proper, as they were both unmarried ladies, and should not be sleeping just down the hallway from his lordship. Not that his lordship would be interested in the two older ladies, and he didn't seem at all attracted to Miss Clifford.

Yes, that would work. Having mentally rearranged and then rearranged his guests again, Thornley felt safe in heading downstairs and inviting Mrs. Timon to join him in his small parlor for a glass of sherry. The dear woman was delighted to be back in harness, as it were, released from the confines of the kitchen and given a full staff to bully and direct, as well as menus to plan, sheets to order washed, and silver dragged out to be polished—all by somebody other than her.

Thornley was slightly concerned for Claramae, who was not best pleased with the idea of sharing her attic room with another maid, but he had settled that by suggesting that, as she was acting as lady's maid in any event, she could sleep on the cot in the dressing room Miss Emma and her mother shared.

It had been a long day. A distressing day, but every
thing seemed to be in order now. Except for one small problem—and there he was now.

“Riley, stop right there.”

The footman did as he was told, for Thornley's voice brooked no argument, and turned to see the butler advancing on him down the hallway. “Top o' the evening to you, Mr. Thornley. You'd be wanting something?”

Thornley stopped two feet from Riley, tucked his hands behind his back and looked down on the smaller, younger man. “What's that smell? You smell like a barnyard, Riley.”

Riley bobbed his head, his quick Irish mind working nineteen to the dozen. “Yes, Mr. Thornley, and I was just going off to wash myself up of the stink. Plucking chickens in the kitchens I was, to help Claramae.” He winked at Thornley. “Kind of sweet on her, Mr. Thornley.”

Well now, there was a bald-faced lie, because Claramae had been released from all duties save some light cleaning and serving the Clifford ladies. Riley, tripping about town at Mr. Clifford's heels, couldn't know that. But Thornley did. His expression did not change, although he began rocking back and forth on his heels as he gazed penetratingly at the footman, who was smiling at him as if he believed himself to be the most amenable, most open and honest creature in the world.

“At midnight, Riley? You were plucking chickens at midnight? In your full livery?”

All right, so it wasn't easy to gull Mr. Thornley, but
Riley was willing to give it another shot. “It's late for such work, I know, Mr. Thornley, but I was that busy, trailing after Mr. Clifford just like his lordship told me to do. I'm to stick to him like mustard plaster, sir, so says his lordship. Leaves me precious time for cozying up to Claramae, but I do the best I can. Sir.”

“We're fully staffed now, Riley,” Thornley reminded the footman. “I could let you go and not notice the loss. I could have let you go two weeks ago, and not noticed the loss.”

“And don't I know it, sir. Thank you for keeping my miserable self, sir,” Riley said, inwardly stringing up Thornley by his toes, over a pit of vipers. “Sends money home to my sister every quarter, I do, and she and the kiddies depends on that something fierce. Keep you in their prayers, they do, every night. You'd tear up, sir, to hear the bitty ones, praising your name.”

“Really? I might remind you that I do not appreciate being lied to, Riley, and you cannot play on my heartstrings with that piece of nonsense in any event. Now, where did Mr. Clifford go to this evening?”

“Like I'll tell his lordship, it was very tame tonight, what with me riding herd on the boy, keeping his toes on the straight and narrow and such. Just a few bottles cracked at the Oxford Arms, down in Warwick Lane. Interesting spot, the Arms, Mr. Thornley. They've got themselves a hearse there, willing to carry a body anywhere in England. We're thinking they must pack it with
ice from their own kitchens, don't you think, Mr. Thornley? Stables are right up against the London Wall, snuggled in there all right and tight. Mr. Clifford inspected the hearse up close, saying something about how his grandmother would fit in there right and tight. Amusing sort, Mr. Clifford.”

“I see. And did his lordship tell you why you're to report Mr. Clifford's activities to him?”

“No, sir. Just that I was to keep the young mister outta trouble. That's me, I can do that.”

“Yes, thank you, Riley. His lordship has set the fox to watch the pigeons,” Thornley said, then turned on his heels and went seeking Mrs. Timon, who had the key to the chest containing the headache powders.