The Butler Did It (31 page)

“There's more. Mrs. Timon is whistling, and even smiling. A good woman, Mrs. Timon, I've known her since I was in short coats, but she's one who has rarely been known to smile. And never known to whistle.”

“Sounds ominous,” Emma said, picking up Morgan's hand and moving it to her breast. She might as well not have bothered. “Oh, for goodness' sake, Morgan, just tell me everything. Riley, Claramae, Grandmama and Sir Edgar, Mama and Thornley, Mrs. Norbert and even Mrs. Timon. All you've missed is Clifford, and I'm already convinced he must be doing
something
you don't like.”

Morgan sighed. “All right, but I wasn't going to say it on my own. Your brother…your brother
smells.
”

Emma sat up quickly, leaving Morgan's hand hold
ing nothing…which was when he realized it had been holding something, and now missed that something.

“How dare you! He
smells?
”

“Not all the time,” Morgan hastened to clarify his words. “But…but sometimes, yes.”

“What does he smell like?” Emma asked, pulling her strap back up on her shoulder, no longer in the mood for lovemaking.

“What does he smell like?” Morgan considered this for a moment. “I'm not quite sure. A barnyard? A stable? No, wait a moment. He…he smells like
Riley.
”

Emma plumped up some pillows behind her and lay back against them, looking up at the burgundy canopy above her head. “You do know that you're making absolutely no sense, don't you?”

Having heard the words as he spoke them, all of them—emptying his budget of his every concern and complaint—he felt ashamed but no more enlightened. “Emma,” he said, turning on his side and beginning to inch down that same strap for a second time. “Do you ever feel there are things going on here that we know nothing about?”

“To be honest, Morgan, I suppose there are. But, as I, for one, wouldn't want anyone asking too many questions about what's going on
here,
do we really want to know?”

Morgan smiled. “No, I suppose not. Now come let me kiss you, sweetness. You've talked my ear off long enough.”

“I've talked
your—oh!
” Emma reached behind her and pulled one of the pillows free so that she could pummel Morgan with it as he halfheartedly attempted to hold her off.

Laughter died as he managed to get her over on her back and straddled her, his questing hands having at last located
both
straps of her nightgown and pulled them down, to reveal her breasts. “See here, look what I've found.”

Emma felt herself blushing. “Get off me, you great oaf,” she said, but she didn't mean it. He knew that by the way she reached up her hands to stroke his chest. “I vow I don't know why I put up with you, Morgan. Mauling me, without a word of love.”

Morgan frowned. He might be no more than a confused man suddenly in the mood for some lovemaking, but she had meant that last bit. “I haven't?”

“No, Morgan, you haven't,” Emma said, pushing at him, and he obliged by rolling off her. “You love my eyes, you love my mouth, you love my—well, never mind. But have you ever said that you love
me?
No, my lord, you have not.”

Morgan stabbed his fingers through his hair. “I could have sworn…I've
never…?
”

“Oh, for pity's sake, Morgan,
no.
And you're not saying it now. I'm beginning to believe you are marrying me only to have some of your own back on Jarrett Rolin, if I still believe he's as dangerous as you say he is.”

“If he could get his hands on you, he'd ruin you, just to spite me.”

“Yes, so you've ruined me first. Was it to spite him?”

“Now you're being ridiculous.”

“I know that,” Emma said, blinking back quick tears. “And, if you say you love me now, how will I believe you? I should never have said anything. I should have gone to Grandmama. She would have known what to do.”

“Oh, yes, I'm quite convinced of that. The woman is a veritable fount of knowledge,” Morgan said, pinching thumb and finger on the bridge of his nose. “Is that why you were late tonight? You weren't planning on coming to me at all, were you?”

Emma plopped a pillow on her belly and clasped her hands together on it. “I gave it some thought, yes.”

“But you're here,” he said, covering her hands with one of his own.

“Oh, don't be so smug, Morgan, it doesn't become me.”

He threw back his head and laughed at her words. “I do love you, Emma. Madly. Feel free not to believe me, for then I'd have to convince you.”

Emma bit back a smile. She was so silly, just like a female. She liked hearing the words, but she hadn't needed them, not really. “In that case, my lord, convince me.”

The pillow went flying. All the pillows went flying, as did their clothing a few moments later.

But this would be no mad rush into lovemaking. Mor
gan would take his time, prove his love as he worshiped her body, brought her pleasure.

This time when he dared to kiss the insides of her thighs she did not call to him to stop, nor did she push him away.

He found her with his hands, his mouth. Found her center, claimed it as his own.

Emma bit her bottom lip in an ineffectual hope of holding back her soft moans of pleasure. She lifted her legs around his back, reached for him as she raised herself, almost blindly groping for him. But her muscles wouldn't allow it; they had gone fluid, completely yielding, with all her mind, all her senses contracted to one intense ecstasy that was half pain, half glory.

So she lay back on the bed and surrendered herself completely to his mouth and tongue.

And then it was all glory. Wide and wild, with colors bursting behind her closed eyelids, with her breath caught hard in her throat until at last, at last, she arched her back and let herself go, rising almost out of herself, not floating back down until Morgan's arms enfolded her.

Emma clung to him, pulling him closer, closer, until he was buried deep inside her, and he was kissing her hair, her throat, saying over and over again, “I love you…I love you…”

 

“I
DID SO SAY IT
,” Emma whispered as she and Morgan took their places at the head of the curving staircase that led up and into the ballroom at the rear of the mansion.

“No, that was the echo of
me
saying it,” Morgan teased, squeezing her gloved hand in his. “In any case, say it again.”

“I love you,” Emma whispered out of the corner of her mouth, for she could see a small group of their guests approaching, herded along by Thornley. “Now behave yourself. And where's Grandmama? Shouldn't she be here, with Mama and Cliff?”

“I'd trade Cliff's presence for hers, yes,” Morgan said, earning himself the pressure of Emma's dancing slipper on his instep. “Ah, Sir Willard,” he then said brightly, grinning at Perry. “Forced to drag your reprehensible nephew with you, I see. Please, allow me the pleasure of introducing to you…”

 

“W
OULD YOU STOP
that fussing! I hear carriages arriving,” Fanny Clifford said, tapping her toe against the carpet as Hazel Timon, her tongue stuck against her cheek, did her best to pin a shockingly purple turban with three peacock feathers on the old woman's head.

“'Tis not that I ever do this, ma'am. Claramae is helping out downstairs, useless girl. I run the household, I am not a lady's maid,” Mrs. Timon protested, hands fumbling as she worked. She was about to be a very rich woman…so what was she doing here, playing servant to this cranky old besom? “There!” she said at last, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Only a little crooked.”

“Good enough, as I'm a little crooked myself these days,” Fanny said, frowning into the glass over the dressing table. “I still can't believe I was so bosky I fell down the stairs. All right, now all I need is to—damn and blast! My glove has ripped at the seam. Quickly, Mrs. Timon, fetch me another pair.”

Everything happens for a reason, God blesses the pure of heart, and foul deeds will Out. Ask Hazel Timon and she'll tell you, for she had lived with those beliefs all of her life—that last one never more so than when she returned from the bureau with another pair of kid gloves to see Mrs. Fanny Clifford stripping off her ruined gloves to expose gold-tipped fingers.

“Damn fool gilt paint. I told Edgar that…” Fanny mumbled, then lifted her head, sensing something wrong. Her gaze collided with Mrs. Timon's shocked expression. Shocked, then angry, to be followed hard on the heels by
incensed.

“Now, Mrs. Timon…” Fanny began, then frowned. “Wait a moment.
You're
not one of the investors, are you?”

“That
thief!
” Mrs. Timon screeched, throwing down the gloves and stomping from the room.

“Shame on you, Edgar. You men, you're all the same,” Fanny said, using the curved end of her cane to neatly corral and then fetch up the gloves. “Never happy unless you're deceiving some poor helpless woman like me. Well,” she ended, knowing her well-hidden purse was full to bursting, “maybe not me.”

 

“D
O YOU TRULY LOVE ME
, Sean?” Claramae asked as she rather boldly backed Riley into the butler's pantry. “Honestly and truly?”

Riley, once over his shock, lowered his eyes to the sinfully fetching low neckline of Claramae's best uniform, to look at what his own father would have called a prime apple dumpling shop. “Honestly and truly, Claramae,” he said, then reluctantly stepped away from heaven, and sweet temptation. “Mr. Thornley expects me back in the ballroom in another minute. Tomorrow, Claramae,” he promised her. “Everyone will be tired and lazing about, and we can meet tomorrow.”

“Oh, but I thought…”

“You thought
tonight?
” Riley tried and failed to withhold a whimper. “All these months you've been torturing me, and you'd be picking
tonight?
”

Claramae shrugged, which did magnificent things for Riley's view of her incredibly lush bosom. “I thought…well, I thought I was looking fine tonight, Sean,” she said, smiling up at him.

“And that you do, Claramae, no lie. But—” He looked over his shoulder, sure he'd be seeing Mr. Thornley bearing down at him at any moment. He took Claramae's hands in his own. “Later, dumplin'. Here, see this?” He pulled his brand-new cheap pocket watch from his livery and pressed it into her hands. “Do you know what half past eleven of the clock looks like?”

Claramae nodded furiously.

“Good. And it's my sweet dumpling, you are, and no mistake. At half past eleven of the clock, you bring your serving tray into the card room, and I'll meet you there.'

Her eyes went wide. “In the card room! You want us to do it in the card room? Won't all the gentlemen be there?”

“No, no, not in the card room. But there's a storage room at the back, and alongside that is a closet. Big, lovely closet, full of table linens and such. A nice, cozy closet, Claramae, if you catch my meaning. Put down your tray somewheres and sneak inside to wait for me if I'm not already there, all right?”

“Will…will it be dark?”

“I'll have a small lamp burning,” Riley said, his ardor nearly buried beneath his growing exasperation. “Just be there, all right? Because you are my sweet dumpling, aren't you?”

 

W
YCLIFF CLOSED
his portmanteau with a snap, and sat down on the edge of his narrow bed. Valet to a marquis, and shunted off to live in an attic. It was an insult, that's what it was.

But tonight, ah, tonight had been the worst. Black. His lordship had dared to toss the robin's-egg-blue satin to one side and
insist
on the black.

Why was he here, if his lordship wouldn't heed him? What was he doing, if he was only tolerated and not respected?

Horatio had warned him about the Quality. And his
brother should know, seeing as how he'd been tossed out of three fine houses in the past decade.

Better to listen to Horatio, and join him in the Midlands, where a valet was treasured, respected. Nothing like an upstart mill owner with money so new it sparkled to trust his valet with his clothing, his choice of accessories, every inch of his appearance and behavior.

Wycliff needed respect. He needed peace and stability. The Westham mansion was a madhouse! Old ladies drinking deep and singing bawdy songs in the hallways at all hours. Nothing but a trumped-up seamstress sitting at the table and walking, bold as brass, into a ballroom. That obnoxious, jumped-up little footman parading and preening because
he
was valued,
he
had been made companion to Mr. Clifford.

Well, enough, and more than enough! Let his lordship fend for himself; he certainly seemed to believe himself capable. For tonight Wycliff was leaving Grosvenor Square. He would walk to the White Horse Cellar in Piccadilly, pass the remainder of the night in the public taproom, and then board the early coach headed to the Midlands.

But, first, he probably should nip downstairs and lay out his lordship's dressing gown….

 

M
RS
. T
IMON GOT UP
from her knees, holding on to the one small chest that hadn't required a key to open it and then inspect its contents.

A tin of gilt, some gold-stained rags and brushes. All
the proof she needed to brand Sir Edgar a low, conniving criminal. She relocked the dressing-room door with her set of keys, then the bedchamber door, and raced down the servant stairs to hide the chest in her small sitting room just off the kitchens.

“Mrs. Timon!”

“Mr. Thornley,” she said, turning to face the butler, attempting to pretend she wasn't holding the small chest.