The Butler Did It (6 page)

“I'd hand over my hat and cloak, but I have a fondness for both, and wouldn't wish them clutched in your greasy paws. New, aren't you? What is your name, boy?”

“Ri-Riley, sir,” the footman managed to choke out before looking at the chicken leg and quickly hiding it behind his back. This was the Quality standing before him, and Riley knew it. A very tall and broad and intimidatingly male bit of the Quality. “You…you'd be standing in the foyer, sir.”

“Indeed, yes, how observant of you. But we'll soon correct that, won't we? Kindly rouse Mrs. Timon and tell her I wish refreshments in the drawing room in half an hour. She need not bother to cook anything. Cold meat and fruit will do. And a loaf, one with seeds, as I much prefer that.”

“You…you're wanting…”

“Magnificent! So heavy, too. It could fall.”

Morgan looked to Wycliff who, for all his fine promises that he was a valet of much experience and familiar with the workings of a great London house, serving an
exalted master, was now standing, mouth agape after his exclamation, apprehensively staring up at the remarkable chandelier brought from France fifty years previously by an earlier Marquis of Westham.

“Here now, I can see the fog swirling up the stairs, Riley,” Thornley called out as he looked over the curving banister. “Close the door, boy, and stuff those rugs against it again. Must I be everywhere at once? It isn't enough that young Mr. Clifford is—
my lord?
”

Thornley's heretofore unblemished record for being in the right place at precisely the correct time suffered a serious blow as, if he'd been in the right place at the correct time at this moment, he would be in deepest, darkest Africa, trying to hide himself from the marquis.

“Thornley,” Morgan called out, smiling up at the man. “Good to see you again, my good fellow. Been a little slack at the post, have you?” he asked, gesturing to Riley, who was still trying to figure out what to do with the chicken leg.

“My lord, I—I—” Thornley all but stumbled down the stairs, stairs he would never otherwise employ, unless in the performance of his duties. “It's…it's so good to see you again, my lord.”

“Good to see you as well, Thornley. I know it's late, nearly ten, isn't it? I would have been here much earlier, save for this cursed fog. And, by the look on your face, I see I also should have warned you of my arrival. But you've always run this pile with such efficiency, I
didn't think it would matter. Beds aired and ready, I'll wager?”

Riley, now that the chicken leg was safely deposited in the sixteenth-century china vase that also held a few large umbrella sticks, had begun to pay attention. Slowly, and with increasing horror, the footman picked up all the bits and pieces of information that had been sent to his brain over the past few moments, and assembled them in something approaching order…to be immediately followed by sheer panic.

Wycliff had closed the door and kicked the rug back into place to keep out the fog, and was now gathering up his lordship's things, which left Riley with nothing more to do than hold out his hand, a move his terrified brain would not even entertain. No coin for his troubles, not tonight, and no place to put his head tomorrow night, either, unless it would be on moldy straw, in the local guardhouse.

He looked to Thornley in mute appeal.

Thornley was looking at Morgan.

And Morgan was beginning to think there might be something very wrong.

“Thornley? I'm tired, and would like to go to my rooms for a moment. I've already asked this boy here—what's your name again, boy? Riley, was it? I've asked him to have Mrs. Timon prepare something and have it ready in the drawing room once I've had myself a bit of a wash. I feel as if I've brought half the road dirt in here with me. So…?”

Morgan put out an arm, gesturing at the staircase, which Thornley still stood in front of, his long arms outstretched, one hand pressed against the wall, the other gripping the newel-post. “Thornley? I'd like to go upstairs.”

Thornley blinked, something he hadn't done in more than a full minute, and looked to his right and left. “Forgive me, my lord,” he said, dropping his arms to his sides. He should begin attending church again. God was punishing him for his sins of omission, that's what it was. And for thinking about Daphne Clifford's knees. “It's just that it has been so
long,
my lord. You…you resemble your late father more greatly now. In fact, you…you've given me quite a start.”

“'Tis both a start and finish, I'd say,” Riley muttered, backing against the wall in the hope his lordship would forget he was in the grand foyer at all.

Morgan started toward the staircase.

“If I may be so bold, my lord,” Thornley said quickly, turning to climb the stairs just behind his lordship, “may I suggest that his lordship goes directly up to his rooms to rest and recover from his long journey. I will see that a bath is prepared in your dressing room, to ease the aches and indignities of travel, and personally bring you a repast of the best Mrs. Timon has in the kitchens.”

Morgan hesitated at the head of the staircase, casting a look toward the closed doors leading to the main drawing room. “Got the place in dust sheets, do you, Thorn
ley? All right, I understand. Nothing to worry about, I'm an understanding man. I wouldn't wish to discommode you or any of the staff this late in the evening.”

He turned down the hallway and headed for the next flight of stairs, calling over his shoulder, “Just some warmed water and towels, Thornley, and that food. And a bottle. I'm so weary I could probably sleep where I am. As it is, I'll be asleep before my head hits the pillow, and I doubt even a pitched battle outside my windows would rouse me before noon tomorrow.”

“Yes, my lord,” Thornley said as he turned and headed for the servant stairs, to rouse Mrs. Timon and gather the rest of the meager staff, knowing that noon tomorrow would come soon enough, and that, unless he could conjure up a miracle, the pitched battle his lordship mentioned in jest would be taking place very much
inside
Westham mansion.

 

E
MMA ESCAPED
into the hallway to give herself a short respite from Mrs. Norbert's chewing, on the pretext of dashing upstairs for a shawl to ward off the chill, and an unwillingness to ring and bother Claramae, who was doubtless reluctant to brave the hallways at night for fear that Riley would try to steal yet another kiss.

Somehow, Emma was not quite sure precisely how it had transpired, Claramae had decided that Emma should be her confidante, and now bent her ear almost daily with stories about the wily Riley and his penchant for
hiding himself around corners, in order to pounce on the maid, “all six arms and ten hands of him, miss, I swear it.”

Not that Riley would ever be the man of Emma's maidenly dreams…but there were times she rather envied the housemaid, who at least knew what a man's kiss felt like. It had to be better than her mama had described it, and could not possibly be as wonderful as her grandmother claimed.

Emma had taken only a few steps when she heard footsteps behind her, and turned to see Thornley approaching, looking over his shoulder as if someone might be following him, then staring at the closed doors to the drawing room as if he might be contemplating finding boards and a hammer, so that he could nail those doors shut.

As a matter of fact, unknown to Emma, that was fairly close to what Thornley was thinking. Mostly, he had opted not to climb directly to the marquis's chamber via the servant stairs in order to check on his tenants, hoping they'd stay planted where he'd put them until he could figure out precisely where to stuff them next.

Emma smiled as she noticed the silver tray he carried, piled high with meat and cheese and fruit and a small, sliced loaf. “Oh, how lovely, Thornley,” she said as he all but bumped into her. “For the gentlemen, I presume, as ladies are not supposed to care for such heavy food. Still, if you don't mind…” She reached out and snatched a shiny green apple from the arrangement.

Thornley smiled the sickly smile of the almost caught, but still with some life in him yet, if he could only muster a sufficient lie, and said, “You're very welcome, Miss Clifford. I was…I was just taking this upstairs, for Mr. Clifford. His stomach, he tells me, is at last sufficiently calm for thoughts of filling it. If you'll excuse me…?”

Emma stepped aside, only after snatching a rich, purple plum from the plate, as well as the bottle of wine. “I don't believe Mr. Clifford needs this, Thornley.”

“No? Um, yes, Miss Clifford. You're correct, of course. What could I have been thinking? Lemonade, perhaps? I'll have Claramae fetch some at once.”

“Oh, no, don't bother her, Thornley.” She set the bottle on a nearby table, then put the fruit back on the plate and took the tray from the butler's nerveless fingers. “There you go. You fetch the lemonade, all right, and I'll take this tray up to Mr. Clifford. I wish to have a word or two with him in any case, especially now, while he's still suffering the pains of his foolishness.”

“I…but…I wouldn't want you to…that is…”

Emma tipped her head to one side and blinked up at him through her long, dark lashes. “Yes, Thornley?”

The man smiled again, an even more sickly thing than his first effort, then gave up, thanked Emma, picked up the bottle he'd uncorked in the pantry and trudged back down the hallway. He was drinking from it, deeply, by the time he reached the servant stairs.

 

M
ORGAN EYED
the large tester bed longingly. But he was still more hungry than he was tired, so he contented himself with watching Riley build up the fire in the grate as he propped himself against the side of a wingback chair and sipped from the wineglass the footman had produced along with two bottles of his lordship's finest wine.

It was good, being in the mansion again. It was even better that he'd dismissed Wycliff for the evening and could look forward to being blessedly alone.

“And there you go, m'lord,” Riley said as he stood up, wiping one hand against the other. “Surely that should keep you warm and toasty all the night long.”

Then he held out one rather grubby hand, palm up.

Morgan's left eyebrow climbed his forehead as he looked at the outstretched hand. “Yes?” he asked, transferring his cool stare to the footman's face. “I'm afraid I don't read palms, Riley. But if you were to go to Bartholomew Fair, I'm convinced you'll find any number of gypsies ready and willing to tell you that you'll be rich as Croesus, any day now. What I can tell you, my good man, is that I will not be the one who bestows such wealth upon you.”

Riley snatched back his hand, putting both arms behind his back. “I'm that sorry, m'lord. It's only being that, that is, it just sort of…happened.”

“Yes, I'm sure. Just as I'm convinced it won't…just sort of happen again. Not to me, and most certainly not
to any of my guests when they call here. If your service is exemplary, and the guest so chooses, he or she may decide to reward you, but that will be their decision, not yours. You may go now.”

Riley bowed and scraped and backed his way toward the door to the marquis's dressing room, which had no other exit. It did have Wycliff, who was busily unpacking his lordship's things, but even Morgan couldn't wish Wycliff on Riley at the moment.

“That way, Riley,” Morgan corrected him, pointing toward the door to the hallway.

“Yes, m'lord, of course, m'lord. Sleep well, m'lord, and, well, um, welcome to London?”

“Thank you,” Morgan said, watching the footman fumble with the latch, and finally throw open the door…only to just as quickly slam it shut once more.

“Forgot something, have you?” Morgan asked, intrigued both by Riley's action and the fact that the footman's ruddy Irish complexion had done a remarkably swift shift to a rather sickly white.

“No, m'lord,” Riley said, opening the door once more, but a crack, and peeking out into the hallway. “It's only your food coming, m'lord. I'll…I'll just go fetch it.”

“No, have Thornley come in, if you please. I want to apologize again for descending on him without notice.”

Riley shot him a look that had Morgan shaking his head. Were those tears in the boy's eyes? “Oh, never mind,” he said, putting down his wineglass and heading
for the door. “I hadn't thought Thornley could inspire such fear in his staff. I'll do it myself.”

As Riley looked on, his eyes so rounded they appeared capable of popping straight out of his head, Morgan threw open the door…to be presented with an empty hallway.

He stepped out and looked to his left, to his right, and saw a door closing at the very end of the hallway.

“My old rooms?” he asked himself, confused. “Has Thornley gotten past it at last? I haven't resided there since I was a child, too small for that large bed in here.” He called Riley into the hallway. “Do you know why he's gone in there?”

“No, m'lord,” Riley said, looking down at his toes where, the blessed saints be praised, inspiration appeared to be spending the evening. He'd wondered where it had been. He looked up again, grinning, and said, “Sometimes Mr. Thornley likes to take his ease in that bedchamber, m'lord, seein' as how there ain't nobody else to sleep there. It's…it's his back, m'lord. It sometimes pains him terrible, and he says the bedding in there is better than a mustard plaster.”

“So he's gone to bed? Is that what you're saying?”

“Oh, no, m'lord, I'd not be saying that,” Riley said, getting caught up in his lie. “It's gathering up his belongings he's doing, sure as check, ashamed as he'd be for you to know what he's been about. Sleepin' in the master's bed? Tch, tch.”

Morgan considered this. “But…why would I have reason to go into those rooms?”