The Butler Did It (35 page)

“Curse me, I've been hoodwinked,” Sir Willard muttered after a few moments, slamming the coach door shut.

“Tch, tch, Uncle,” Perry said quietly. “And woe to me. Had it only been real, I would have one day inherited so much more.”

“Shut up, you idiot puppy dog,” Sir Willard said, and slammed away from the coach, only to add, “And be in my breakfast room at eleven tomorrow, boy. I've got a job for you!”

Hatcher dropped the pieces of brick and got to his feet, mud staining his once pristine hose. “Six thousand pounds. I paid six thousand pounds—for bricks?”

Wycliff, just then happily stepping into the mews, holding a large black umbrella above his head as he picked his way across the flooded walkway, stopped, looked, listened for a few moments…then turned and went back inside. To unpack.

A moan brought Morgan back to attention, as he'd been busy covering Emma's soaking wet and now rather diaphanous bodice with his jacket, and he passed her into Perry's capable hands in order to grab the back of Rolin's jacket and haul the man to his feet.

Rolin took a wild swing—the mud dripping from his
face rather impeded his eyesight—and Morgan countered with a more clear-eyed punch of his own, sending the man back down into the mud.

“Get on your feet,” Morgan said, standing over Rolin, his legs spread, his fists jammed onto his hips.

“Don't, Morgan,” Emma said, grabbing onto his arm.

“Don't what, sweetheart?” he asked, not taking his eyes off Rolin, who was once again struggling to regain his feet.

“Don't challenge him to a duel,” Emma said. “That is what you were about to do, wasn't it? And you already know that a duel settles nothing. You said so yourself.”

“A duel? Don't be silly, sweetheart. I was merely going to hit him again.”

“Oh,” Emma said, considering the idea, and not able to locate any flaws. “I suppose I should say that you shouldn't.”

Morgan grinned at her. “Don't. Because I really,
really
want to.”

But Rolin—scratch a bully and find a coward—wasn't going to give Morgan the chance. His broken nose gushing blood, he pushed himself backward on his hands and knees, keeping Morgan in his sight until he decided he was far enough away to get up, turn and run away.

“Won't stop until he's completely out of England, I'd say,” Perry announced to the crowd. “Tch, tch, such a
shabby creature, trying to lope off with his lordship's affianced bride because she snubbed him. Shabby, I say, and quite ungentlemanly.”

He turned to whisper to Morgan, “Is that a word? Ungentlemanly? Never mind. Take your sweet but rather damp bride and be off, Morgan. I'll handle this. A pretty fib here, a whopping crammer there, and everything will be fine again.”

“You're going to blame everything on Rolin, aren't you? That's what I'd already decided to do. All right,” Morgan said, eager to get Emma away from all these interested eyes. “But what about him?” he asked, pointing to Hatcher. “What the devil was he doing?”

“Why, I thought that was obvious. Hatcher was making a jackass of himself, as usual. He's of no importance. Now, go on.” Perry turned back to what he had decided to call his audience. “Fie!” he called out loudly. “Fie and shame on Jarrett Rolin!”

“Rolin? Was that Rolin loping off?” Sir Willard asked. “I didn't know. What did he do?”

Lord bless the man, Sir Willard always asked the right questions.

Perry struck a pose, now that he had everyone's attention, and spoke in a clear, carrying voice. “What did he do, dear uncle? Blister me, I thought it would be obvious. Jarrett Rolin is responsible for this
entire
debacle. And I hear he's under the hatches, as well. He planned to kidnap the marquis's affianced bride, ravish her cru
elly, and compound his crime by holding the dear Miss Clifford for some enormous ransom.”

Several ladies in the throng uttered small squeaks of alarm…but only small ones, as they didn't wish to miss a word.

“Indeed, there is no end to the man's perfidy. All but ravishing one of his lordship's maids earlier, loosing gamecocks as a diversion so that he could make good his dastardly getaway, hiring that horrid red woman to accost the Widow Clifford, who had tumbled onto his contemptible scheme. I tell you, there is no end!”

“Yes, yes, come with me now, dear boy,” said Lady Jersey, with her maid behind her, doing her best to keep an umbrella over her ladyship's head, in case the night might once again turn wet. “That's enough for them to chew on a while. Tell me everything, and I will inform everyone else of the rest, do you understand? Of course you understand.”

“Indeed I do, my lady. And you'll have told them all before the cock crows tomorrow morning.” He lifted one brow a fraction as two brown gamecocks squared off right in front of the crowd. “Would you wish any cock in particular, my lady, or would one of these do? It appears we have plenty.”

T
HERE WAS NOT MUCH LEFT
to be done before the evening was at last over.

Wycliff, wearily lugging his portmanteaux up the stairs, suddenly found himself backed against the wall as Sir Edgar Marmington—carrying a portmanteau and sporting a rather large “egg” on his forehead—barreled down the stairs, yelling, “Out of the way! Out of the way!”

The valet watched after the man for a few moments, then began climbing once more, convinced he needed to lie down, definitely with a cold, wet cloth on his head. He'd left clean water in his lordship's chambers, so he headed down the hallway, to avail himself of it. Then he'd call for a bath for his lordship, who certainly looked in need of his loyal valet.

“Good evening,” Hazel Timon said as she approached down the hallway, smiling in a way that made Wycliff wonder if he'd forgotten to put his trousers on, or something. “Fine evening, isn't it?”

“Yes, Mrs. Timon,” Wycliff said, frowning as he no
ticed the rolling pin tucked up beneath her arm…and then he saw the banknotes she held in her hand. “Rather…um, rather a lot going on downstairs. Some fuss, I'd say.”

“I wouldn't know,” Mrs. Timon said, walking away. He could hear her, counting: “Twenty…sixty…one hundred. Ha! And I only gave the eighty.”

 

M
RS
. N
ORBERT
, her wrists firmly tied behind her with a golden rope taken from the draperies in the ballroom, was led away by two stout footmen, on her way to the guardhouse.

Fanny Clifford watched her go from her seat on one of the couches in the drawing room. She sat with her feet up on the table in front of her, Daphne's shawl covering her rather tattered bodice but, remarkably, still wearing her purple turban, minus its feathers.

“Why did she want to hurt you, Mother Clifford?” Daphne asked, handing her mother-in-law a cup of tea that the woman, for once in her life, gratefully accepted.

“She thought I'd stepped in front of her on her way to true love, Daphne,” Fanny said, then sipped the hot, sweet tea. “Ah, I was always one to put fear in other ladies, if they thought I was making a dead set at any man they fancied. I could tell you stories….”

“But you won't, will you?” Daphne said quickly. “Emma told me that you…that you…oh, dear. Just please say you won't.”

Fanny smiled but didn't reassure her daughter-in-law. After all, a person had to have a little giggle now and again, didn't she? So all she said was, “Daphne? Do you think you could find your dearly beloved and ask him if he has any more of those strawberry tarts left in the kitchens?”

 

“M
ORE TEA
, Miss Clifford?” Thornley asked, wringing his hands as he hovered over her in the morning room.

“Thank you, no, Thornley,” Emma said, snuggling beneath the afghan Morgan had found for her. “I'm fine, really.”

“Really,” Morgan said, wishing his butler on the other side of the moon. “You may go, Thornley.”

“Yes, my lord,” Thornley said, bowing. But he didn't go. “Um…my lord.”

Morgan looked to Emma, who smiled at him, then nodded.

“Yes, Thornley. Was there something you wished to ask me?”

 

“C
LARAMAE
?” Riley took two more steps into Mrs. Timon's private parlor, because he was certain he could hear Claramae in there, crying.

He'd searched for her, high and low, avoiding dark places, where she'd never go, but now he was sure he had run her to ground.

“Come in, Riley,” Mrs. Timon said, her tone that of a command rather than a request.

The first thing Riley saw was Claramae, dressed in a horrible plaid bathrobe. The second thing he saw was Mrs. Timon's rolling pin.

“It's getting hitched we'll be, Mrs. Timon, Claramae and me,” he said quickly. “Soon as soon can be.”

“Yes, Riley, dear boy,” Mrs. Timon said, all but caressing the rolling pin that had served her so well this evening. “I know.”

 

I
T WAS THREE
in the morning, and most everyone was in bed, save for Morgan and Emma, who had stepped onto the balcony outside Morgan's bedchamber, overlooking the gardens.

Morgan had dismissed Wycliff, preferring to bathe himself, and for once the valet did not immediately take on an injured air, but had quickly bowed himself out of the room, smiling in agreement.

At which time Morgan had swept back the curtains and Emma had appeared, looking longingly toward the large tub.

“As I understand your lady's maid is otherwise engaged, and hopefully once again clothed, allow me to assist you, Miss Clifford,” he'd said. “Perhaps even join you?”

“I don't know, my lord. Is it proper? The evening has come and gone, and you did not announce our betrothal.”

“True,” Morgan had said, helping her out of her sodden gown. “But I am assured that, between them, Perry
and Lady Jersey have already taken care of the formal announcement. “

“Still, I do believe I would like to hear just what you would have said.”

“Later, sweetness. First, let's get you into that tub. Your teeth are chattering.”

And so, after sharing the tub and, directly after, the bed, Morgan and Emma were now on the balcony, having decided to watch the sun rise on the first day of their betrothal.

“Morgan?” Emma prompted, leaning her head against his shoulder. “Your announcement, please.”

He slipped an arm around her and looked up at the faintly pink sky of dawn. “Lords and Ladies,” he began in a clear voice. “Friends. It is with great delight and a full heart that I have gathered you all here to announce that Miss Emma Clifford has made me the happiest of men by agreeing to wed my sorry self. I love her more dearly than I do my own life, and I would ask for your blessing.”

Then he tipped up Emma's chin, to look at her. “Was that soppy enough, sweetness?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, and Morgan drew her close for a kiss.

Their arms around each other, lost in each other, neither of them noticed a flash of red race by below the balcony, or saw the bent-in-half figure following behind, arms outstretched, or heard Cliff Clifford calling piteously, “Harry! Oh, please, Harry! I didn't mean it…”

 

S
O…WHO ALL HAD COME
to London? And what happened to them there?

The small but inventive staff has now quite dispersed; Thornley moving to his bride's home in the country; Mrs. Timon had happily shipped herself off to her newly rented seaside cottage; which left only Riley and Claramae, who had purchased a small shop in Piccadilly, where Riley kept a gamecock ring in the cellars, and Claramae sold hand-dipped candles.

The Interesting Family had also taken off in differing directions; Daphne now living with her Aloysius in the country house. Fanny had eloped to Gretna Green with Archie and was now a countess, Cliff was marching with his regiment in Dover (and hiding Harry in his rooms), and Emma, of course, snuggled delightfully at Westham, with her extremely happy and quite besotted new husband.

The two were picking out names for their firstborn, and hoping not too many of the
ton
had learned to count to nine on their fingers.

Perry, the “old friend,” remained in London, studiously avoiding his Uncle Willard, who sent round notes twice a week, demanding his idiot nephew's presence, “At once, damn you!”

Olive Norbert, sad to say, escaped the two footmen on her way to the guardhouse, and was last seen running down a damp street behind a small man carrying a portmanteau, screaming, “I see you, Ed-gie! Ed-gie, you come back here with my money!”

Oh, yes, one thing more.

Six months later, while sitting at his ease in front of a lovely café in Paris, Robert Anderson, late of Mr. John Hatcher's employ, happened to espy a natty-looking older gentleman strolling down the flagway arm in arm with the wealthy and notoriously stupid Comte de Beauville.

The comte was hefting a small velvet bag, and smiling like the loon he was.

Robert Anderson, not one to allow Opportunity to pass him by, hastily threw some coins on the table, got up and followed after them….