Barbara Metzger (18 page)

But there was the problem of his brother’s death. Lee hadn’t taken Senta into his confidence, which the meanest intelligence could assume meant that he wouldn’t like her knowing about the accident/suicide, much less her putting her nose into his affairs. But if it was murder, then he had to know. Senta couldn’t bear sitting over her embroidery while her husband’s life might be in danger.

Besides, everyone for miles must already know about Mona and the baby, with all the supplies Senta had been toting out to the grotto. She’d even raided the attic for infant clothes and a small cradle. Wheatley and his staff were very good about turning their backs when she piled load after load onto the gig, but they must know. And Private Waters’s dog begged at the kitchen door no matter how many scraps Senta put into the baskets of food. So their presence was no secret, and they could be in danger, too. In London, Mona could dress up as a lady’s maid so she wouldn’t be recognized as a foreigner. No one noticed servants or spoke to them anyway. And in London they could all help in the investigation into Michael’s death.

But Senta had promised to obey her husband. He hadn’t exactly ordered her to stay put, but he’d meant it. He wanted to be in London alone, to see about the blackmailers, and his business interests, and his Parliament responsibilities…and his old flirts. Senta had to go.

She put it to Sir Parcival. “Should I go to London or stay here?”

“Did I ever play there?” he wanted to know.

“How should I know where you played? I don’t even know what century you lived!” Today Sir Parcival was dressed in a loose plaid jacket, but she could not identify the tartan. His trousers were somewhat in the cossack style, with extra fabric everywhere. No, she doubted he’d set out after the Holy Grail in that outfit. His feelings were obviously hurt, so she added, “That is, many little boys sail their boats on the Serpentine, so it’s possible. I know they love to visit Astley’s Amphitheatre and the menagerie at the Tower. My little cousins were in alt when they visited last spring. They rolled their hoops in Grosvenor Square for hours. Does any of that sound familiar?”

“Just the square part.”

“But shall I go? Would it be a ninnyish thing to do?”

He listened carefully to all her reasoning, pro and con, then said, “Well, wise men say…”

“Yes? What do they say?” Perhaps her gudgeon of a ghost really knew some wiser heads.

“I can’t remember.”

*

Senta decided to go. Then she had to convince her entourage.

“I ain’t going.” Private Waters crossed his arms over his scrawny chest. “The man’d as soon send me to the Antipodes as give me the time of day. He wouldn’t listen afore; he ain’t going to listen now.”

“But he won’t have to listen to you. That is, he’ll have to listen to me. I’ll explain the whole thing, you’ll see. And you never meant to extort money from him, so he really cannot charge you with anything. I rather think he’ll be grateful to you”—and to herself—“for bringing this matter to his attention.”

She prayed it was so. She needed Private Waters with her as her excuse for coming to London in the first place. The evidence she could present, showing that his brother was a loyal officer, ought to outweigh Maitland’s anger at her presence.
Ought
was the pivotal
word here. Senta couldn’t begin to fathom the viscount’s mind.

“What’ll I do there? Can’t go on living on his charity, especially how his lordship thinks I crawled out from under a rock, just to queer his game.”

“You won’t be dependent on his goodwill at all, Mr. Waters. I have an enormous household account and a generous allowance.” She wanted this old soldier to think better of her husband, so she added, “Lord Maitland really is quite open-handed.”

Waters’s only comment was to spit between the gap in his teeth. Senta stepped back. “Yes, well, I can pay your wages myself. You can be my personal footman.”

“You having a footman with one foot, tagging behind carrying your parcels and delivering your notes, is sure to sit fine with his high-and-mighty lordship. I’ll do it.”

*

Mona wasn’t as easy to convince. London, in that
perro
Maitland’s house? Never. Besides, it wasn’t fitting for Lady Maitland to have an unwed mother in her home. She knew how things were in the
beau monde.
Mona was grateful enough for this time to rest from the journey; she would not ruin Senta’s good name.

Senta’s name would be mud if Maitland went through with the annulment, but she was not about to discuss that with Mona. Instead she reasoned that no one would have to know. They would simply call her a widow, Señora Vegas, who was acting as Lady Maitland’s companion. That way Mona could go about with Senta in society, looking for the two men who played cards with Michael Morville, then framed him for treason and killed him.

“It’s the only way we are going to clear Michael’s name,” Senta told her. “And think of the baby. You can’t keep little Vida living in a cave, for heaven’s sake!”

“But you will tell your husband who we are?”

“Of course. He has to know, in order to make his investigation, and to make some arrangement for your future. I know you are proud, and I know you would do your best to find work, but again, what about the baby? That kind of life is not what Michael would have intended for his child. Further, you would be dishonoring his memory, making him into a libertine who used women in the basest manner without taking responsibility for the outcome.”

“Not my Miguel! Never!”

“Then let his brother fulfil Michael’s obligations. Let Maitland look after you and Vida. It’s the only way.”

Mona nodded. “But what if this grand nobleman of yours rejects us? What if he says Miguel would never have promised to marry so far beneath him? What if he does not believe my precious
hija
is Miguel’s baby at all?”

“Then you and Vida and Private Waters, if he wishes, will always have a home at my parents’ house in Yorkshire. With me.”

*

That left Wheatley to win over.

“But, my lady, his lordship left very specific instructions that you were to remain here until his return.”

“Were those my husband’s only instructions?” Senta asked in her sweetest tones.

“No, my lady,” poor Wheatley had to confess, having said as much to Lady Maitland when she was first abandoned here. He’d been trying to make the master seem less of a blackguard, more fool he. “The master directed the staff to see that you had everything you wanted.”

“Thank you, Wheatley. I want to go to London.”

“But Maitland House is not up to our standards at this time. His lordship uses only a small portion of the rooms. The rest are in Holland covers or a state of deterioration.”

“I’ve driven past Lord Maitland’s London residence. The outside is quite grand. Do you mean to tell me that it is a hovel inside?”

The butler cleared his throat. “Not precisely. The late viscountess did not often visit the city once she started filling her nursery. Her husband, the previous Lord Maitland, took no interest in domestic affairs like seat covers and wall hangings, less so when his lady passed on. His lordship, the current viscount, also prefers the Meadows as his residence; he frequently patronizes his clubs when in the city, so never saw the need to refurbish the town house. Therefore, the Portman Square property has been without a woman’s touch for a long while.”

“Too long. That’s all the more reason for me to go, don’t you agree? Someone should see about restoring the place to its former glory, to do the family name proud. Why, his lordship is very involved in governmental affairs. How can he entertain his political friends in a ramshackle old barn of a place?”

Wheatley took a deep breath. “But there is almost no staff to speak of: his lordship’s man, the cook-housekeeper, a few maids, and perhaps two footmen. Not nearly enough to see Maitland House set to rights. I could send a staff ahead to ready it for your ladyship’s arrival if you wish.”

And warn the viscount so he could forbid her to come. “I’m sure a few days of discomfort without an army of servants around will not give me a disgust of the place. And they do have employment agencies in London, you know.”

The butler blotted beads of perspiration from his forehead. “Take on strangers at Maitland House?”

“No? Then you’ll come, too?”

Wheatley made one last try: “But his lordship had important business to transact in London. He will not appreciate the commotion of moving the household or renovating the premises.”

“Oh, we shan’t interfere with his lordship’s business at all. We’ll be so quiet, he won’t even know we are there.”

*

Senta was to ride in the crested carriage with her maid, led by outriders and postilions. A hired coach for Mona and her baby, Private Waters, his dog, and the new nursemaid followed. Another three carriages were required for the staff Wheatley insisted they needed. One fourgon held Senta’s trousseau. She’d bought the gowns, bonnets, and negligees for Lord Maitland to see; by heaven, he was going to see them. Of course, she could buy new clothes while in London, but Senta was determined to look fashionable while shopping, at least as fashionable as the demireps who would be hanging on her husband’s sleeve. Senta was
not
some dowdy matron come up from the country; she’d had two London Seasons and meant to look the part. Maitland would have nothing to complain about in her appearance.

Another coach held the china and linens Wheatley deemed necessary for civilized living, until the house was in order. Three wagons were following with enough produce from their own farms to feed an army on the march. Hams, chickens, mutton, smoked fish, sacks of vegetables, flour from the local mill, cheeses from the dairy, oranges from the conservatory, carefully preserved herbs, and Cook’s special spices. London could not provide anything near the quality of their own harvest. Cook had a carriage of his own, with his precious pots and pans.

“I thought you didn’t want to draw any attention,” Sir Parcival commented with that half sneer as they got ready to leave. “How you’re going to keep sixteen coaches a secret is a mystery to me.”

Senta looked over the crowded courtyard. “I count eleven.”

She couldn’t worry over her addled apparition. Not today. Today she was going to London, to her husband.

She got in the lead coach, leaving Sir Parcival shaking his head. He hunched his shoulders. “Then again, life’s a train of mysteries to me these days.”

Chapter Seven

“Bloody hell!”

Lord Maitland was drawn to the entry of his Portman Square residence by the sounds of commotion in the street. Only the commotion was not in the street, it was in his own hallway. Now he stood in his shirtsleeves, as his previously tranquil household was turned into a circus. There were footmen performing acrobatics with trunks, maids juggling parcels. There was even an animal act, an old dog most likely with a flea circus of its own.

“What the deuce?”

His cook, his own personal chef, whom he’d ransomed out of a prison ship, was shouting hysterically at a squad of helpers. He was shouting in French, naturally, which not a one of them understood. “Do not excite yourself over the unpacking, Jacques,” Lee told the man, “for you’ll be returning to the Meadows on the instant.”

“Non, non, monsieur, the food, it must be unloading before it spoils. Ice, I need ice,” he shouted.
“Tout de suite.”

Amid the turmoil Lee’s butler was issuing orders, directing traffic, overseeing the unloading of an entire
caravan of coaches parked up and down the street. The neighbors must be getting an eyeful.

“You don’t have to worry about the foodstuffs,” Lee told the cook in a controlled fury, “for you’ll be serving Wheatley’s liver and lights unless this whole mingle-mangle is straighted out and you are on your way back to the Meadows within the hour.”

Wheatley bowed. “I am sorry, my lord, but that will be impossible, with all due respect. The horses are tired, for one, and the staff at the Meadows has been given a holiday while the premises are being treated with a solution of turpentine and a bit of arsenic. Termites, my lord, I regret to say.”

‘Termites!” Lee exploded. “There are no termites at the Meadows! Who gave that bloody order?”

“Why, I did, of course,” Senta told him in her most dulcet tones, hoping her voice wouldn’t quaver and betray that she was shaking in her half boots. She took her hand out of her ermine muff and held it toward him.

In front of the hordes of servants there was nothing Lee could do but bow over the offered hand and kiss her fingers. “Lady Maitland, what a pleasant surprise.” Under his breath, he muttered, “You better have a deuced good explanation for this.”

He’d never looked so dear to Senta, with his shirt collar open and his sandy hair mussed, nor so intimidating. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and beg him to let her stay, but that wasn’t the way to win him over, she knew. She had to prove her loyalty. Well, she shouldn’t
have
to, she thought with a twinge of resentment. She was his wife, by all the saints. Still, given his unfortunate opinion of her, she had to earn his trust. Of course, disobeying his orders wasn’t the best way to start.

She pretended to survey the hallway while the servants swirled around them. Wheatley was right: the hangings were dingy, the wood railings were dull, the carpets were faded underfoot and threadbare in places.