Кейси Майклс - The Butler Did It

Her grandmother had been caught out snooping in Sir Edgar’s drawers.

Cliff had—well, Cliff could be guilty of most anything.

Miss Emma Clifford did not upset easily. With her family, a person who upset easily would be in her grave, white of hair, wrinkled of skin, and dead of old age at two and twenty, if she did not learn to control her feelings.

Her temper, however, was another thing, and although kept in check for the most part, when unleashed, as her mother would gladly tell anyone, it could be A Terrible Thing. Indeed, Emma was already working up a good scold for whoever had caused what she was sure to be the next very uncomfortable minutes.

The servants, however, having only witnessed the sweeter side of Miss Emma’s nature in the week the Cliffords had been in residence, had no inkling that she would be anything but helpful in solving their dilemma. Understanding, even.

The three servants looked to Thornley, so Emma did, too. “Is there something I should know?” she asked.

ON THE FLOOR BELOW, Morgan turned over in his bed, half-awake after hearing what he thought was a rather loud, angry female voice in his dreams, and went back to sleep.

Moments later, he pulled a pillow over his head and made a mental note to instruct Thornley to keep all servants gagged until at least eleven o’clock of a morning.

Moments after that, his own heavy breathing was the only sound in the bedchamber…and he didn’t hear that at all.

RILEY, HIS EARS STILL stinging from Miss Clifford’s talking-through-her-clenched-teeth orders, knocked on Sir Edgar’s door. He waited until he heard the key turn in the lock and then stepped inside…to be met by a man already dressed for the day, although his shirt cuffs had been turned back clear to the elbow. Sir Edgar had already retreated across the room, to stand with his back against the door to his small dressing room.

Riley thought the man looked rather odd. Like he’d been caught out at something.

“What do you want?” Sir Edgar asked, his hands covered by a towel.

“Smells funny in here, don’t you know,” Riley said, sniffing the air. “Smells like…like paint?”

“You’ll smell out of the other end of your nose if you don’t tell me why you’ve barged in here, my good man,” Sir Edgar said, still carefully keeping his hands covered.

“Um…yes, Sir Edgar, your pardon, sir. It’s…it’s Miss Clifford, sir. She requests your presence downstairs, in the drawing room, in—well, now, sir.”

Sir Edgar peeked under the towel to look at his fingers. He had at least ten minutes of scrubbing with strong soap in front of him. “She does, does she?”

“Yes, sir. Powerful clear she was on that, sir. Now, sir.”

“Yes, I heard that part. Do you know why she wants to see me, boy?”

Riley shook his head furiously. “No, sir. It’s not me knowing anything. Couldn’t say that I do. I never know anything, you could ask anybody. But she wants everybody.”

“Everybody, you say,” Sir Edgar repeated, turning to the washstand and, with his back obscuring what he was about, reaching for the large bar of lye soap, first putting down the key he’d hidden in his hand. “Very well. Please deliver my compliments to Miss Clifford and tell her that I shall join everyone directly.”

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