The Butler Did It (8 page)

“Couldn't exactly say, sir. Can…can I go now?”

Morgan let go of the boy's sleeve and looked down at his own bare feet. A lady? Visiting at this time of the morning? And how did she know he had come to town? And why had she
screamed?

He turned for the stairs, knowing he should finish dressing, but then he heard a very clear, well-modulated female voice say from the other side of the doors: “Mama, one more outburst like that and I shall be forced to send you to your rooms.
I
will handle the Marquis of Westham.”

Mama?
There were two ladies in his drawing room.

I will handle the Marquis of Westham.

The words danced around in Morgan's brain, their movement rudely pushing all his resolutions having to do with calm and coolness and self-control into a corner, and bringing a twinkle to his eye and a small smile to his lips. She would
handle
him, would she? Let her handle
this!

He buttoned his shirt—most of it anyway—and turned back to the doors, took a deep breath, and pushed them open hard enough to bang against the walls inside.

Seven pairs of eyes, inside the heads that had immediately turned toward the door, gaped at this wild man, hair disheveled, barely clothed, who had burst into their midst.

He gaped back. He had expected to see two women, not a small army.

Nobody spoke until a small, thin lady who'd seen her share of summers said, “Well, now
that's
more like it! A
real
man.”

“Mother Clifford!”

All right, Morgan knew that near shriek, the one coming from the younger woman, the plump one, dressed all in bilious green, currently sprawled on one of his couches and being fanned with a folded newspaper by a slick-looking young sprig who seemed to think red heels were still all the crack.

This lady was the screamer.

“My distinct pleasure, my lord,” a man dressed as a gentleman, right down to his dove-gray gloves, said, advancing on him, right arm outstretched. “Sir Edgar Marmington, my lord, at your service, and may I say, my lord, you have a splendid residence. Simply splendid.”

Morgan shook the hand, not even thinking about what he was doing, because he'd finally seen the girl standing in front of the fireplace.

A vision. An absolute vision.

But, as he'd never given her a tumble, never even met the girl, these people couldn't be here, three generations of them, to demand he make an honest woman of her.

“Go away,” he said to the man, and stepped past him, moving deeper into the large room. He blinked. The vision in sprigged muslin was still there, as were the rest of his uninvited guests, unfortunately.

The dark-haired young beauty looked at him evenly, even accusingly, and suddenly Morgan was very aware of his bare feet and ankles.

Just as quickly, he was reminded that this was
his
house, and if he damned well wanted to trod through it barefoot, he damned well would.

“My lord,” Thornley said, hurrying up from somewhere—frankly, after clapping eyes on the beauty, Morgan hadn't looked around any further. He
had
been sulking in the country for a long time. “I can explain, my lord.”

“We ain't goin' nowhere, you hear me!”

Morgan attempted to look past Thornley's right shoulder, but that man stepped to his left, blocking his view. Morgan shifted to his left, and Thornley shifted to his right.

“Stop that,” Morgan commanded, and the butler bowed and stepped all the way to his right, exposing a rather squat, wide woman of indeterminate years, but with her rough edges certainly showing, advancing toward him.

“You look here, m'lord,” the woman said, wagging one short, plump finger at him. “I paid down good money for these lodgings, and I'm not budging no matter what this thieving bastard says, you hear me?”

Morgan turned to the thieving bas—er, Thornley. “You can explain this?”

“Sadly, yes, my lord,” Thornley said, bowing yet again. “May I suggest we retire to your rooms and I might do that as you prepare for the day?”

“He means get some clothes on, sweetie, but don't bother on my account,” the wizened little lady called out cheerily.

Morgan motioned for Thornley to move out into the hall. “Ladies, Sir Edgar,” he then said, bowing, “I will be back directly. Feel free to ring for refreshments while I sort this out. I fear there is some misunderstanding, because, for whatever reason, you all must be in quite the wrong residence.”

“The devil we are!” the coarse-looking woman said hotly. “And we were here
first!
”

 

W
YCLIFF WAS UNCEREMONIOUSLY
yanked from his bed, to go stumbling across the dressing room until he ran up against his lordship's dressing stand and held on with one hand while he removed the satin mask with the other.

“My lord?” he said, blinking furiously. “Oh, my lord, you tried to dress yourself?” He spread his hands and
shook his head, as if to say
See? See what happens without my services?

“Never mind that,” Morgan said, stripping off his shirt, popping two buttons loose from their moorings in the process. “Ring for hot water, man, and find me some fresh clothes. I will be downstairs, shaved and suitably clad in fifteen minutes, or you will be sleeping in the gutter. And, in that getup, I'm convinced you'll have an interesting night of it.”

Wycliff bolted from the room, whimpering, and Morgan turned to Thornley, who was in the act of picking up his lordship's discarded shirt. “And now—you.”

“My lord,” Thornley said, folding the shirt and holding it in front of him, almost as if to protect himself. “There is an explanation. You see…the mansion was empty.”

The pantaloons were launched into a corner, and Morgan stood there, stark naked. “It damn well isn't now, man. And find my underclothes. It's drafty in here.”

“Yes, my lord,” Thornley said, doing his best to keep his voice even, because he was fairly certain he'd detected a slight quaver there the last time he spoke, and it wouldn't do to show the marquis any weakness. He knew the Drummonds, and showing any of them weakness, man or boy, would be like covering yourself with cow's blood and strolling into the lion's den crooning, “Here, kitty, kitty.”

Wycliff reentered the room. Servants must be bustling
everywhere, for he already held a basin of warmed water at the ready.

Morgan sluiced water over his face and neck, cleaned his teeth, then submitted to Wycliff's mercies—that is, until he realized that baring his neck to a nervous man holding a razor might not be the most prudent thing to do. He grabbed the razor, staring more at Thornley than his own chin as he looked in the mirror attached to the top of the dressing table.

Although he did spare a moment to inspect his reflection, to notice that a small tic had begun to work in his left cheek. He was ready to explode, and he knew it, so he deliberately took a deep breath to calm himself.

“Go on,” he said, twisting his mouth to the left. “Begin at the beginning. The mansion was empty?”

“Yes, my lord,” Thornley said, trying to put a little more poker into his poker-straight spine. “You had fallen into that unfortunate duel with the Earl of Brentwood, and—”

“This is a recitation of your sins, Thornley, not mine,” Morgan said as he grabbed a warmed towel from Wycliff and scrubbed his face with it. There. He was back under control. Marginally.

“Yes, my lord. So sorry, my lord. But you did say to begin at the beginning.”

“I may have, not realizing that beginning, but now that I do, feel free to leap bravely ahead to the more relevant bits, if you please.”

“Very well, sir. At first, having the mansion empty save for us few left behind was, well, my lord, it was as usual, as we are accustomed to the household being quite bare for several months a year. Your mother and father often were of a mind to visit again for the Little Season, but with your injuries, and your parting words—something to do with never setting foot in this Hell's Den again—we slowly began to realize that we were destined to…well, sir, to do nothing.”

“And be bloody well paid for it,” Morgan said, buttoning his pantaloons as Wycliff stood ready with his shirt and waistcoat.

“Yes, my lord, and we're that grateful, my lord. But, as two Seasons passed, and we were left with nothing to do but tend to a few aging carriage horses and keep the spiders from taking over the rest of the mansion, it occurred to me that you may have meant what you said, that you'd never return.”

Morgan kept his chin high as Wycliff slipped a neck cloth over his head, then tied it himself, casually—his valet would have said sloppily. “And yet, here I am, Thornley. The world is chock-full of surprises, isn't it?”

“A stickpin, my lord?” Wycliff asked, holding out a velvet-lined box, the lid propped open to show a rather extensive collection of pins. “It might help.”

“No, thank you. I prefer to go into battle without ornament, if you don't mind. You may go now, Wycliff. And for God's sake, man, burn that nightcap.”

“My lord,” the valet said, snapping his slippered heels together and retiring to a corner of the room, making himself as busy as possible while his ears positively quivered to hear what Thornley would say next.

Morgan turned toward the mirror one last time, pushed at a lock of hair that had a tendency to fall forward onto his brow, then, satisfied that he at least looked sane, returned his attention to his butler. “Where were we? Oh, yes, my empty mansion.
My
empty mansion, Thornley.”

“For two years, my lord,” Thornley repeated, making them sound like twenty. “At which time I thought, isn't this sad? Isn't this a waste? And doesn't our dear Lord detest waste? And then there were the other servants, my lord. They were becoming sadly out of practice, and needed to work or else grow lazy.”

“Please, spare me these transports, Thornley, because I'm ahead of you. That horrible woman said she'd
paid,
didn't she? You rented out my mansion, didn't you? Turned the entire pile into a bloody hotel. I'm only surprised you haven't hung out a bloody sign. What do you call the place? The Absent Marquis? Good Lord, Thornley—are you mad?”

“I made up very strict rules, my lord,” Thornley said, quickly grasping at any straw he could think of and then plunging into the rest of his sad story. “You—I—allowed our guests only small teas and intimate gatherings, and then only very rarely. No balls, no routs. In exchange for
a modest rental fee, the tenants were allowed the permission to hint, always quietly, that they were in Grosvenor Square as the guests of the Marquis of Westham.”

Morgan did a mental recalculation of the “guests” he'd seen in his drawing room, including the one that looked, and sounded, like a washerwoman. He'd never thought himself a proud man, or vain, but apparently he was both. “They go into Society, with my name attached to them?”

“Not all of them, my lord,” Thornley said hastily. “Only the Cliffords, and Sir Edgar, although the fog of recent days has kept them at home, and they had no earlier invitations. They've only been in residence for less than a week, my lord. As for Mrs. Norbert, she seems content to stay inside, give orders, and eat her head off. Sir.”

“Well, then that's all right, isn't it?” Morgan said, his voice dripping sarcasm. “Thornley—I'm going to have to kill you. You do know that.”

“But we've been quite discreet, my lord. The first year there was only a very lovely widow with three daughters.”

What he didn't mention was that, after chasing the youngest and the estimable Riley out of a few corners, Thornley had set up a few more rules, and taken over not only running the household but directing the tenants as well. He was not just their landlord, he was In Charge.

“Did they marry well?”

Thornley was brought back to attention. “Sir?”

“These three daughters. Did they marry well?”

“Oh, yes, my lord, very well.”

“Did I provide dowries? I'm merely curious, you understand.”

Thornley tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a strangled hiccup. “No, my lord. Would you care to hear about last year's tenants?”

Morgan took a cheroot from a box on the dressing table and Wycliff jumped forth with a lit candle, to light it. “If I am going to remain in London, and possibly encounter any of these previous tenants, I would say yes. Wouldn't you?”

“We, um, I overreached myself last Season, my lord, thanks to the success of our first foray into…into…”

“Into using your master's mansion and money to line your own pockets? Or am I wrong, Thornley, and you didn't feed these people with my money? Candles, green peas, feed for their cattle, and God knows what else. There are what, five floors and fourteen bedchambers in this pile? And you filled them all, didn't you? Even mine?”

“Oh, no, my lord. I would never rent out the master's chambers.”

“How gratifying,” Morgan said quietly…and then he exploded. He couldn't help it, and he doubted anyone would blame him for the outburst. “My God! You rented out my
home!
Wycliff, has the top of my head blown off yet? I feel as if it should have, or will, at any moment.”

Wycliff, again, unable to recognize sarcasm, and never to be mistaken for a man overburdened with common sense, advanced with a brush in his hand and said, “Not blown off, my lord, but if I might suggest that I be allowed to brush at your hair? There is that one recalcitrant curl that—”

“I'll brush your damn skinny backside,” Morgan said, growled, actually, turning toward Wycliff, and the valet scampered back to his corner.

Thornley wanted the rest of this over as quickly as possible, and was already mentally packing his bags, knowing he and those bags would be out on the flagway before luncheon. “I was overly ambitious, my lord, I agree. Which is why there are fewer tenants this year. And very carefully chosen, I assure you, although Mrs. Norbert may have been a mistake.”