The Butler Did It (23 page)

Besides, Fanny had already decided, Willie had turned so old, so dour. Why, when he'd visited her in Grosvenor Square he'd actually had the nerve to remind her that one day she'd face her God, and what would she say then about blackmailing old friends? This was the same man who had made love to her in the gardens of Carleton House? Pitiful, that's what it was. The man deserved to lose some of his money into her pocket, if for nothing more than the way her panniers had been bent all out of shape when he'd pressed her down against the grass.

“All right, but he will be the last one. Four is a very good number. I've always heard that.”

“And if we could only lure three, you'd declare three a very good number, wouldn't you, Edgar? But I've one more for you to consider. Five, Edgar, one for every finger on this greedy little hand of mine. Not as much profit involved, I'm sure, but why not take advantage of every opportunity.”

“Who else do you have in mind? And if you say our new King, Fanny Clifford, I want you to know I'll think you're Bedlam bait and wash my hands of you.”

“No, no, not Florizel. He doesn't have the ready, for one thing. No, I thought closer to home.” She pulled on her gloves as the footman opened the door of the coach, then looked slyly at Sir Edgar. “Olive Norbert.”

Sir Edgar sat very still for a moment, considering this. Olive Norbert, seamstress. Olive Norbert, spending some of her inherited blunt on pretending she was a real Mayfair lady. Olive Norbert, who didn't seem too bright, but did seem to enjoy money. This could work. Indeed, he was mildly surprised he hadn't thought of it himself.

“How will we approach her?” he asked as he and Fanny climbed the few stairs to the front door of the mansion.

“Why, Edgar, I would have thought that was obvious. You're to romance her, of course.”

Sir Edgar's step faltered, and he nearly fell. “Ro-romance her? Olive Norbert?”

“I have every faith in you, Edgar,” Fanny said, slipping her arm through his as Thornley stood at the open door, to welcome them home.

 

M
ORGAN FELT
about as welcome in his own house as a rat catcher showing up with his sack at the front door, all bright and cheerful and ready to work, just as the King was alighting from his carriage for a dinner party.

Fanny Clifford, thankfully gone all afternoon, had, however, trapped him this morning, in the music room, intent on setting a date for the ball he'd been blackmailed into hosting for Emma. And she'd gotten one, for Friday next, damn his own weakness.

And Wycliff wouldn't stop nagging at him until he'd told him what he wished to wear this evening, so that the valet could have it All Prepared for him, then went off to sulk when Morgan had chosen the midnight-blue over the bottle-green.

Thornley was always dogging his heels, as if ready to steer him away from any rooms where one of the “lodgers” might be taking their ease.

And, as it seemed that where Thornley could be found, Daphne Clifford also could be found there within moments, Morgan had retreated to his private study for most of the day, until he had ordered Sampson saddled so that he could follow after Emma and Rolin, like some sort of overly protective chaperon.

He was skulking around his own house, to hide from everyone. He was skulking around Hyde Park, to spy on Emma Clifford. He had gone so far as to take his evening meal in his bedchamber, because otherwise Miss Clifford would be sure to mention this afternoon's events, and everyone at the table (save Miss Clifford, whose grandmother would doubtless soon correct that lapse) would know he'd only been at the park to spy on her.

How had he been brought so low?

Now, here he sat—skulked, sulked, something-ed—waiting for Miss Clifford to keep their appointment, before all of them would head out,
en masse,
to the evening's entertainments. Oh joy, oh happiness abounds.

Morgan poured himself another drink, splashing wine onto the tabletop when there was a quick, solid rap on the door. “You may enter,” he called, snatching up a square of white cloth and covering the spill with it before turning to face Miss Clifford. “Good evening—Thornley?”

The butler bowed from the waist. “Miss Clifford sends her regrets, my lord, but she is otherwise occupied at the moment and will be unavoidably detained for some minutes yet.”

What a mouthful of clever evasion, Morgan thought, taking a sip of his wine. “What's going on this time, Thornley?”

“I…I'd rather not say, my lord. It is a matter of some confidence.”

“I hear that Newgate accepts prisoners at all hours of the day and night, Thornley. Shall we see if this is true?”

The butler stood up very straight. “Pardon me, but that would be blackmail, my lord.”

“Yes,” Morgan said, smiling. “There seems to be a lot of that making the rounds. Now, what's happening under my roof? It's a relatively new phenomenon for me, knowing what's going on in my own house, but we'll both strive to get used to it, yes, Thornley?”

“It's Mr. Clifford, my lord,” Thornley said on a sigh. “He and that rapscallion Riley seem to have disappeared, gone missing without telling anyone their plans.”

“Clifford didn't pin a note to his pillow, beg permission, perhaps leave a trail of bread crumbs? By God, Thornley, I'm shocked, I tell you. Astounded. What is the world coming to when a man of a bare nineteen summers has the audacity to untie his sister's apron strings?” He narrowed his eyes. “Miss Clifford, Thornley. Have her here in ten minutes, or I shall go find her myself.”

“Excuse me, sir, but do you really want to do that? We are speaking of Miss Clifford, are we not? Miss Emma Clifford?”

Morgan stared into his glass. She'd balk, he'd yell, she'd yell louder, and he'd be kissing her again. Damn. “All right, a half hour.” He glared at the butler. “And not a moment longer.”

“Yes, my lord,” Thornley said, and bowed his way out of the room.

 

T
HEY'D BEEN WALKING
for nearly a half hour, in streets Cliff Clifford decided were little more than mud, paved over with offal and two broken cobblestones. “That was a near-run thing, you know, getting Harry moved to my new chamber without Thornley being the wiser.”

“Ha! I have Mr. Thornley wrapped right around this little finger. This little finger right here,” Riley said happily, as he had broken their walk with a few quick pop-
ins at local pubs for a penny glass of gin, and was feeling quite mellow with the entire world at the moment. “They all kowtow to me, you know, being as how his lordship has picked me out for his special favor. Fair dotes on me, his lordship does.”

“Why?” Cliff asked, stepping around a particularly vile looking pile of garbage…that turned out to have arms and legs and a toothless grin, something he didn't want to think about just then. “What makes you so special, Riley?”

“Never you mind, I just am, that's all,” the valet answered quickly, because it wouldn't do for young Clifford to know his new friend was also his keeper. “And this would be it, the Cock and Woolpack. Ain't it grand?” he said, smiling up at the tall, narrow building.

“That's it?” Cliff was disappointed, to say the least. The dimly lit tavern seemed an insignificant site for the birth of his fortune. “It's rather small, isn't it? Are you quite sure?”

“Sure as I can be, Cliffie. Now, come on,” Riley said, hefting the cage with Harry inside, a hood over his head.

Cliff followed, fairly having to squeeze himself down the length of the narrow room lined with a few tables on one side, a long bar on the other, and what seemed to be a thousand dirty, sweaty bodies everywhere else.

Through a doorway they went, once a burly man guarding it said “Fightin' or sellin'?” and Riley responded, “Fighting and winning, boyo. Pay the man, Cliffie. Halfpence each.”

Once through the doorway, however, Riley handed Harry over to Cliff, saying, “I'll go down first and you follow in a minute or two. We're not together, remember?”

“Yes, but that man back there…he saw us.”

“And he don't go down the stairs, Cliffie boy. He minds 'em. Now, remember what I told you. First cock hits the pit, you hold up Harry and call out, ‘This one's mine. Who's to be bettin'?' Simple enough, right, and then I'll be taking it from there and you just keep yer yammer shut, doing your best to look country stupid.”

“And Harry? When do I let him out of his cage? He's been in there all day.”

“Hooded, trapped, and madder than a devil neck-deep in holy water, you're right about that. Look, when they're calling you out, saying they're ready, you put the cage down in the pit and wait for the man to tell you to open it. Then get that cage and yourself out of there fast as you can. The rest, Cliffie boy, is up to Harry.”

Cliff nodded as he squeezed a hand around the handle of the cage. “I'm sorry, Harry, but I have to do this. And then I'll get you something nice from the kitchens, when we get back, all right? That's a good Harry.”

“Oh, for the love of heaven, next you'll be kissing the blessed thing, and knittin' him little booties.”

“Will not,” Cliff said, stung.

He watched Riley trip off down the rickety stairs, then stood aside as a vile-smelling man carried three
cages past him. Finally, after counting to one hundred, he squared his shoulders and headed down the stairs.

 

“T
HORNLEY, WOULD IT BE
possible for you to have some refreshments sent up to the drawing room?” Emma asked, locating the butler hovering in the foyer as she descended the stairs, the man looking torn between knocking on his lordship's study door and bolting out into the street. Poor Thornley, he'd been under a considerable strain since his lordship had come to town.

“Oh, Miss Clifford, and with two minutes to spare,” Thornley said, coming very close to smiling at her. “Certainly, I'd be happy to. Refreshments? For the ladies?”

“Mrs. Norbert and my mother, yes. We've decided to remain at home this evening, and I'm afraid my grandmother has already taken to her bed, pleading the fatigue of a long day. She and Sir Edgar were gone for most of the afternoon, you know.”

They'd been gone for three hours and twenty-six minutes, to be exact, but Thornley didn't share that information with Emma. “Mrs. Clifford, your mother, that is, is she well? Claramae has already told me that all evening plans have been canceled.”

Had he sounded inquiring, rather than worried? Concerned, rather than half-willing to seek out Daphne Clifford and tell her never to worry, never to fear, for Thornley, her dearest love, was near. He was so ashamed of himself.

Emma bit her bottom lip, for Thornley's ears had gone red, and she wondered just how long it would be before her mother, her sweet mama, created the Scandal of the Season by running off to Gretna Green with a butler. And then she wondered, only briefly, why this didn't pitch her, the loving daughter, into an absolute panic. Maybe it was because her mother seemed so happy when Thornley was near.

Then Emma recalled her mother's earlier distress when she'd told her about the fortune hunters after the marquis's money. She couldn't tell the woman about Fanny's blackmailing scheme, but she had to give some explanation for her own unwillingness to go back into Society just yet. Could she say as much to Thornley? No, best to leave it alone, leave it all alone, and let these two silly people sort themselves out without her interference. Fanny's interference would be more than enough!

“Mama's fine, thank you, Thornley. She and Mrs. Norbert are selecting threads for a piece of embroidery, as a matter of fact, an activity Mama much enjoys.”

“Very well, Miss Clifford,” Thornley said, edging toward the door to the study, one hand already outstretched to the knob, as the tall clock in the corner of the foyer had just struck the half hour. “I'll see to refreshments at once.”

“Thank you, Thornley,” Emma said, and motioned for him to knock on the door. “We mustn't keep the marquis waiting, must we?”

So Thornley knocked, and Morgan bellowed “Enter!” and Emma, one hand in her gown pocket, wrapped around her sharpest hatpin, stepped inside the study. “Good evening, my lord. Excuse my tardiness, but we seem to have misplaced Clifford, and my mother was much concerned.”

Morgan looked at her from his stance in front of the fireplace, one arm resting negligently on the mantel. He'd tried out sitting behind his desk, then had taken up a more relaxed pose on the window seat for a few moments.

He'd tried standing in the middle of the room, his hands clasped behind his back, but had finally settled on the post of Master of the House at the mantelpiece—right after he'd slammed his palm against his forehead and warned himself that he was verging on becoming a thorough idiot. Never in his life had he been so unsure of himself. He was even unsure as to why he was unsure of himself, although he was certain that Miss Clifford was to blame.

“And has your brother been located, Miss Clifford? I should not sleep tonight, were he to be believed out there alone, with only Riley to protect him, babe in arms that he is. Why, I was no older than your brother when I was fighting in Spain, although that could not possibly have been more dangerous than cutting up a lark in Mayfair.”

Emma rolled her eyes, even as she spread the skirts of her palest yellow gown and sat down in the same chair she'd occupied the previous evening. “Oh, cut line,
my lord, you've more than proved your point. We are naught but silly women. And you could care less if Cliff has been knocked on the head and tossed onto a ship bound for New South Wales. In fact, I would think you'd be hard-pressed not to break out into a jig, if it were true.”

“It would make one the less housebreaker underfoot, I'll agree to that,” he said, crossing the room to seat himself in the facing chair. He felt more comfortable in the chair, because the chair was closer to her, and he liked being close to her.