The Butler Did It (33 page)

Cliff stood there and watched as Riley removed the tray of drinks from a giggling Claramae's grip, took her hand and then threaded the both of them through the oblivious gentlemen, disappearing into the hallway leading to the storage room.

“We going to fight these cocks, or what?” somebody called out, snapping Cliff back to attention. “Fifty pounds says the split-tailed brown will take your champion.”

Take Harry? Oh, Cliff didn't think so. And fifty pounds? They'd been fighting Harry at the Cock and Woolpack for two, and often less.

“Fifty?” Someone else called out. “Always were cheeseparing, Billy. One hundred—on the brown!”

“I'll match that!”

“And me, on the red!”

“Cursed lot of you are nothing but old women—I say a monkey on the brown!”

A monkey? That was five hundred pounds, wasn't it? And to lay all that on the brown,
against
his magnificent Harry! Casting his fears aside, Cliff took a
deep breath and called out, “Anyone else? Gentlemen, come, come, place your wagers!”

 

H
AZEL
T
IMON TUCKED
the rolling pin into her apron pocket and slapped away the reaching hand of a rather imperious looking lady (if not for the beak that resembled that of a chicken possessing an inordinate supply of Attitude), and pushed on through the throng with her tray. She wasn't about to stop, just to let some chicken-beak peck at her tray.

Because she had sighted Sir Edgar again, and she was not about to give up on the chase now.

Another gloved hand reached out to the tray, and Mrs. Timon turned on the pesky person, only to see Mrs. Daphne Clifford standing there, bottom lip between her teeth as her hand hovered over the tray, moving back and forth between the adorable tiny shrimp impaled with sticks and something that looked rather like it had already been chewed, then spread on a bit of toasted bread. Pitiful. That Gaston called himself a cook?

“Oh dear, oh dear, I can't seem to decide.”

Sir Edgar was making his way toward the stairs, obviously weary of avoiding Mrs. Timon, or so Hazel thought, and about to nip away with all her gold (it was all hers now, in her mind).

“Here,” she said, shoving the tray at Daphne. “Have what you want, then pass the rest around,” and took off after the no-good, thieving little gent.

“Oh, but—” Daphne said, frowning at the silver tray she now held. Surely this couldn't be right. She never passed trays, not even in her own home. But this
was
London, so perhaps things were done differently here.

Daphne, munching on a shrimp—she'd always liked pink—moved toward a small group of ladies at the edge of the dance floor and said, “Sally? Would you care for some shrimp or some…would you care for some lovely shrimp?”

“Daffy?” Lady Jersey goggled at the woman, simply goggled. “I…I—”

“Excuse us, Lady Jersey,” Thornley said, taking the tray from Daphne even as he grabbed her elbow and led her away from the for-once-speechless Silence. “Daphne, dearest, what are you doing?”

She bit back a sob. “Not what I should be, obviously. Oh, Aloysius, I'm So Sorry. Oh dear, I do believe I'm Going To Cry.”

Stopping only to deposit the offending tray on a small table beside the open French doors, Thornley steered Daphne out onto the long balcony that ran the length of the ballroom and pulled her out of sight. “Here, here,” he said, dabbing at her moist cheeks with the handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. “Nobody saw.”

“Just…just Sally, and all her Horrid Friends,” Daphne said, sniffling. “I don't like London anymore, Aloysius, I really don't.”

“Then we'll leave, and never come back,” Thornley said, tipping up her chin and dropping a soft kiss on her
forehead. “Not that his lordship would let me return, in any case.”

“Yes, Aloysius, thank you. Oh—they're playing a waltz. How dearly I'd love to waltz with you, Aloysius.”

He had not been born a gentleman, but he prided himself on being a gentle man. He also saw the end of his tenure here in Grosvenor Square and, although he would miss it, there were some things more important than being a butler. Stepping back from Daphne, he bowed deeply and said, “Mrs. Clifford, you would make me the happiest of men if you were to share this waltz with me.”

Daphne looked around, toward the ballroom, out over the dark, deserted gardens lit only by a few widely scattered flambeaux. “Here?”

“Sadly, yes. I am not so brave as to suggest we hazard the dance floor inside.”

“No, of course not. How silly of me. Sally is still in there.” Daphne dropped into a curtsy, even as she held out her hand. “I should be Delighted, Mr. Thornley.”

It began to drizzle, but neither of them noticed.

 

F
ANNY SMILED
at Archie, the earl now, although he'd been nothing more than a second son before old age had taken his father and older, childless brother, then frowned as she looked past his shoulder and saw her addlepated daughter-in-law whirling about at the far end of the balcony. With Thornley.

How bizarre. How inappropriate. How…very wonderful.

“Yes, yes, Archie, I do remember that,” Fanny said quickly, as the man laughed at his own telling of an incident in which Fanny, Archie, and a hot-air balloon had figured prominently. “But I'm so dry, Archie, so warm. Why, this drizzle even feels wonderful. Be a dear and fetch me a shawl and a glass?”

“Lemonade, Fanny?” he said, but winked as he asked.

“Only if you wish me to do you an injury. Wine, you old poot. Now hurry. My tongue is sticking to the top of my mouth. Go on…go on.” She turned him about, aimed him at the ballroom and gave him a small push.

Looking down the length of the balcony once more, she walked over to a place where that same balcony curved out into a roomy half circle, meant to be employed to gaze out over the gardens.

She propped her cane against the balustrade, placed her elbows on the cool stone and smiled at the romantic couple, then turned up her face to feel the cool mist of drizzle against her heated skin. If only she'd gone for happiness rather than convention, she would have run off with Georgie, the knife boy, and none of these past fifty or more years would have happened.

“Ha! First time for money and position, I say, and second time for love,” she muttered. “My Geoffrey was no prize, and neither was Samuel. So you do it, Daphne, you just go on and do it.”

A sound to her right, far in the distance, caught Fanny's attention. Was that a coach, back there in the mews? Yes, she could hear horses stamping, milling about. Certainly none of her guests would be so shabby as to clog the narrow mews path that way, and certainly no tradesmen called this late at night. Strange.

Wait…there was another coach, just behind the first one. Fanny leaned forward, squinting through the darkness. Who would be going out at this late hour, and with the ball still in progress? Was someone stealing coaches?

And then she felt a push at her back, and she was holding on to the balustrade for dear life as somebody worked to lift her, push her over the edge and down onto the flagstones below.

“Steal my Ed-gie would you? And m'gold!”

Fanny wasn't as young as she used to be, nor as nimble, but she was no die-away old weakling, either. She'd had brothers, and had wrestled with them. She'd wrestled with a few men, too, not to put too fine a point on it.

She gave a mighty push, then reached for her cane, managing to bring it up and back in a wide arc, where it collided quite soundly with Olive Norbert's head.

Without a sound, other than some heavy breathing and one or two moans, a macabre dance began, in sharp contrast with the graceful one at the other end of the balcony.

 

I
T WAS DARK
inside the closet that smelled of fresh linens and candlewax and, sadly, just a bit like burnt cloth, for
Claramae's last-moment attempt at maidenly reluctance had backed her up over the candle Riley had placed on the floor, and he'd spent a full minute stomping out the stubborn flames.

But now she was thoroughly kissed, and remarkably eager, bless her.

Riley's satin jacket was on the floor, and his breeches hung around his ankles.

Claramae had been reduced to her underslip, her pantaloons already gone the way of Riley's jacket.

He'd saved the best for last, even cracking the door open slightly so that he could see her in the light from the hallway.

He kissed her one last time, his palms itching for the feel of her warm flesh.

“Oh, Riley…” Claramae said on a sigh, as he skimmed those palms across her shoulders.

She turned around, putting her back to him, and he breathed heavily, blinking away the darkness, and watched as she slipped one arm, then the other, free of her the final barrier to his personal heaven.

Then she turned, chin high, and stood there, proudly naked to the waist, her magnificent apple dumpling shop free at last.

“Oh, Claramae…”

 

S
IR
E
DGAR
, hiding behind a rather low and ineffectual shrubbery in the gardens, having lost Mrs. Timon and her
rolling pin some minutes earlier, stood up, looked toward the balcony and said, “Oh, my God, Fanny!
Fanny!
” And he began to run.

 

“O
H
, A
LOYSIUS
, that was wonderful,” Daphne said, sighing as he brought her hand to his lips for a kiss before finally releasing her. The waltz had ended but, to Daphne, she still heard the chorus of angelic music.

Hmm…perhaps not quite so angelic. And not music, either.

Thornley put his hands on her shoulders and moved her aside.

“What is it? Aloysius? I believe I heard someone calling Mother Clifford's name.”

“It's…it's Mrs. Norbert, and she's—
oh, my God.
Stay here, Daphne. Stay here. Don't look!”

But she grabbed him, held him when he attempted to break into a run. “But what is it? I can't see that far, Aloysius. What's the matter?”

“Not now, Daphne, or I'll be too late.” And he was off, running down the length of the balcony.

 

A
QUARTER TILL MIDNIGHT
?

Emma quickly stood up and smoothed down her gown.

She'd enjoyed evading Morgan for a few minutes, teasing him by hiding herself amid their guests, but then she'd realized that Morgan was going to make the an
nouncement of their marriage, and she could either sneak off to her chambers and try to compose herself before that most important moment, or she could burst into silly tears as he spoke to those same assembled guests.

Maidenly nerves. How utterly surprising, considering how she hadn't discovered any such thing lurking in her mind as she'd nightly tripped down the stairs and into Morgan's bed.

So she'd escaped to her chambers, to compose herself, sip on a glass of lemonade, and—why, she didn't know—run over the proper forms of address for viscounts, earls and the like, and their wives and offspring, as well.

She wanted Morgan to be proud of her, pleased with her, and it was only as she had looked at the mantel clock and seen the time that she realized she'd been gone for over an hour. Not only was she being silly, but Morgan would be less than “pleased” with her if she didn't return to the ballroom at once.

Holding up her skirts, she tripped down one flight of stairs, then two, gaining the first floor, then turned to head for the rear of the mansion and the small flight leading up to the ballroom. She was faintly out of breath by the time she reached the bottom of the flight leading to the ballroom, and paused for a moment to compose herself.

“Good evening, Miss Clifford.”

Emma froze in place, looking toward the stairs, realizing that no footmen lingered there, as they were all busy serving the guests. She was quite alone, not even
sure anyone would hear her if she were to call out. Scream. No. She would not scream. She would not give the man that satisfaction.

“Mr. Rolin,” she said, not turning toward his voice. “I do not believe you were issued an invitation.”

“Yes, how shabby of his lordship to overlook me.”

“And how shabby of you to show up in any case,” Emma said, putting a foot on the bottom stair. “I'll see that you are escorted out.”

“No need, Miss Clifford,” he said, and his voice was directly behind her now. “You can show me out. After all, we're leaving together.”

She whirled to face him. “Stop it,” she said, stamping her foot. “Just
stop it.
I'm not afraid of you.”

“Really? You should be, Miss Clifford. I'm not a nice man.”

Emma felt her cheeks going pale. “Morgan!” she shouted, right into Rolin's face, then picked up her skirts, already turning back to the stairs.
“Morgan!”

Then something black was dropped over her head, she was lifted up, up, and over Rolin's shoulder, and he was running—running in the direction of the morning room.

 

M
ORGAN STOPPED
, lifting his head, as he actually thought he'd heard Emma, calling for him.

Ridiculous. Music was playing, people were speaking to each other at near shouts. And he'd thought he'd
heard Emma calling him? Did all men in love turn into fools?

Still, he looked toward the entrance to the ballroom and began to walk that way.

Behind him there was a loud crash, like that of doors being slammed back against walls, followed by a few of the ladies screaming, and he turned to see Fanny Clifford and Olive Norbert. They were locked together, and rolling across the dance floor as guests jumped back to give them space.

Morgan just stood there, trying to comprehend what he was seeing.

Fanny was on the bottom, and Mrs. Norbert, her horrible red gown ripped in several places, was about to punch the old woman square in the face.