Кейси Майклс - The Butler Did It

“Do that, Briggs, and thank you. Make sure Sampson is taken care of, as well? Then take yourself to the kitchen, for something to eat.”

“Yes, my lord,” Briggs assured him, as assorted Westham servants and grooms got on about their business.

Wycliff pushed two of them out of the way in his haste to be the one who ushered Morgan up the rounded set of steps, to the double front doors, lit on either side by dying flambeaux.

“This way, my lord. Watch your step, my lord. I’ll bang the knocker for you, my lord.”

“Control yourself, Wycliff, before you do yourself an injury. I’m not in my dotage yet, I can knock at my own door,” Morgan said, lifting the knocker.

Then he hesitated. “Strange. The knocker shouldn’t be on the door, as I’m not in residence.”

“Shoddiness, my lord,” Wycliff said quickly. “It’s the only answer. The master’s gone and slack seeps in everywhere. I’ll be sure to have a remonstrative word with the staff.”

“Do, Wycliff, and I’ll have a remonstrative word or two with you, understand? Thornley is my family’s treasure, and is not to be read a lecture by a skinny shanks like you,” Morgan said, giving the knocker three sharp hits against its brass base.

“But…but I should announce you, my lord. It’s my duty…my pleasure…my—”

“I don’t announce myself at my own door, either,” Morgan said, putting a quick period to that argument. But he was maintaining his composure, albeit with a firm application of will. Wycliff did serve a purpose: proof that his master could control his once-volatile temper.

The door opened and Morgan was presented with a fairly well set up young footman, dressed in the Westham livery, wearing a powdered wig, as was the custom. And gnawing on a chicken leg, which was not.

Morgan looked at the lad, looked him up and down, and then stepped inside the mansion as the footman backed up three paces, his eyes wide, the chicken leg still stuck in his mouth.

“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, Thornley? 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.

EMMA 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.