Her Beguiling Butler Page 5

  Hortense was chuckling. “Oh, please. Look at you! You’re voluptuous, my dear girl, but you have that carriage which prohibits you from ever growing fat.”

  “On fun? Yes, my dear, I plan on it.”

  “Five thousand a year could do that for anyone,” Hortense said.

  “I will not count on it. The Lords could decide for the other claimant.”

  Hortense agreed. “Shall we instead discuss my plans for the day?”

  “To cool us?” Alicia offered with a trill in her voice and thrill in her heart. After all, if anyone would accept her newfound friendship with her butler, first to the mark would be her blue-stocking great aunt. Hortense had defied her father to marry her off. She’d patronized a school for young girls in the East End. She’d even opened a garment shop where many of her graduates worked as seamstresses and dressers.

  “Quite so.”

  “Tell me then, on whom do you call after you leave me?”

  “Lady Pemberton and her daughter Lady Millicent.”

  “Here in the Crescent at Number Fourteen?”

  “Just so. Lady Millicent will have her coming out next Season and her mother is atwitter with despair.”

  “How so?”

  “The chit digs in her heels. She does not wish to present herself.”

  “Why not? Has she some impediment?”

  Hortense rolled a shoulder. “The usual. She fears she cannot hold a candle to the Incomparables who are due for a day in the sun.”

  “It’s not as bad as that. There are always young men who are intrigued by a fresh face.”

  “Perhaps you’ll come and call on them with me the next time I visit them?”

  “I would. Yes.”

  “A wonderful way to extend your social connections, my dear. The Pembertons have old and influential family ties to many in the ton. Plus Millicent, I am certain, would benefit from your particular view of the male character in Season.” She winked at Alicia.

  “I’d like that. In fact, make a point of saying you’d like to invite me along on your next call.”

  “I will,” her aunt said.

  “Whom do you see afterward?”

  “I sent round my card to call on Lord Macomb and his sister, Lady Louise. They have invited me these past few weeks and included hints they would very much like for me to bring you with me.”

  “They were here a few days ago, calling without invitation.”

  “Kind of them.” Hortense regarded Alicia with skepticism. “You know the reasons why, don’t you?”

  She demurred, tracing the lines of rose embroidery in the sash of her crepe gown. “I can guess.”

  “He’s filled with hope that you might favor him. How your father shut him out, as well as a few others who wished for your hand, was criminal. Now that your husband has passed onward, you can have an assortment of callers again. Suitors by the dozens.” At the prospect, she lifted her shoulders in a sign of glee.

  “Ha! Said the lady who refused any and all proposals after her one true love died!”

  “Yes, but I had enjoyed falling in love,“ Hortense said with a finger pointing at her. “You’ve not yet had that pleasure.”

  “I wish to.”

  “You are a widow, less constrained. You can have a wonderful time enjoying yourself. Dancing, dining, drinking the best champagne. You owe it to yourself to do that.”

  She glanced over her aunt’s shoulder. “What if I prefer to do that at home? With a man I know well?”

  Hortense froze. “If you are implying…”

  “I think I am, Aunt.”

  “Alicia. You are dreaming, my dear.”

  “I am. I will. I can now. Don’t you see, Aunt Hortense? I was never a social bird fluttering here and there with any great enjoyment. Flitting about the ton is work, my dear. Work.”

  “You made it look effortless.”

  “Did I? I do wonder at that. Did it appear I was enjoying myself because I had hope I’d find a man who truly cared for me and I for him? Or was I displaying the façade of delight? One I’d been taught to effect by governesses and tutors? I cannot quite recall. So much has passed in my life since I was young and naïve to the turbulence of life.”

  “Look at me, dear girl.” With a soft touch, Hortense lifted Alicia’s chin. “You were forced to marry a man not of your choosing. You did your best by him. Thankfully, he has passed on to his dubious reward and left you with some means by which you can hold up your head in society. You may yet find a man you care for deeply. Do not limit yourself. Not to a servant, darling. As a widow of twenty-four, you can whistle a merry tune. You are a tasty morsel who can still choose among the eligible men who wish for a smart wife instead of a blithe nitwit straight from the nursery.”

  “I bow to your advice, Aunt.”

  “What do you say to attending a ball with me here in London in April? Nearly a year and a half after old Blindon’s demise. You will be out of your obligations to the man.”

  “Oh, I do love to dance. Who gives it?”

  “The earl of Newport. His annual fete. You should come. Say you will.”

  “I would like to leave the house. And dance once more.” But I could not take Finnley with me. “I’m not certain it’s the right time. My hands and legs, you see.”

  “Nonsense. By April, your injuries will have healed. You would have called upon a few more of your friends here and finished with your grays and mauves. I want to see you again in blues and greens, purples to match your eyes. You will captivate the men who see you, darling. And you’ll have offers of marriage. Good ones.”

  “I can’t say that I want them.”

  “Of course you do. You want protection, security.”

  “That’s not all I desire, Aunt.”

  “A man in your bed again?”

  “This time, I’d like one who knows how and why the marriage bed was made.” Frankness, even with her forthright aunt, made the woman flinch. Alicia got to her feet to walk to the fireplace. “I want a man I adore and who treasures me.”

  Hortense considered her with a mellow gaze. “I agree with you, Alicia. A man who knows his way around a love affair is the best husband.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Just do be careful that the man you decide upon is equal to you.”

  Her aunt meant Finnley. “I will take to my bed whom I wish, Aunt. And when I wish.”

  “Be careful, darling. No consequences should ensue.”

  Children. That is what her aunt implied. “I will heed your warning on that. But let me tell you that if this new title comes to me and the lands and income are as sufficient as my solicitor informs me, I will do as I wish not only in regard to where I live and how, but with whom.”

  Her aunt bit her lower lip.

  “Life is too short to live by other people’s rules. I will live by my own.”

  Chapter Six

  Finnley stepped back from the drawing room door, aghast. Affirmed.

  Alicia truly liked him. He grinned.

  Enough to argue with her aunt about her choice of him. He scowled.

  Christ. What a mess I’ve made of this. Too close to the mistress of the house, loving her companionship and laughter, all day long, reading Walter Scott and Jane Austen to her at bedtime.

  He had to stop.

  He whirled on his heel. He needed to walk, to think, to—

  “Yes, Preston? May I answer a question for you?”

  The woman hung in the shadows of the foyer by the servants’ stairs down to the kitchen. Had she seen him listening at the door?

  He could assume nothing else. Preston was a nuisance, surly and mean-spirited to Mabel, Grimes and Mrs. Sweeting. None liked her save for Alicia. Odd, that.

  “Well?” he prodded her.

  Preston stepped forward into a shaft of sunlight. It did nothing to enhance her bird-like features, but did illuminate a look of fond concern upon her gaunt face. “I am d
istressed about my lady, sir.”

  He’d hear her out. See what he could learn. “So am I.”

  “She will soon end her half mourning and go out in the world, sir.”

  “Yes, and?”

  “She will not talk to me, Mr. Finnley, but I know she does with you. Has she talked with you about her inheritance case before the Lords’ Committee on Privilege?”

  “Not at length. Why?”

  “Many will seek her out because she is a titled widow with money. But if the Lords grant her this new barony with lands and income, she’ll become a welcome guest for the mavens of the ton. And eligible men will be eager to pursue her.”

  “This is true, Preston.” His jealousy ran through his blood like molten lead. He cooled the searing heat by dwelling on his surprise that the maid knew quite a bit about the case before the Lord’s Chancery on privilege and estates. Where did she get her information? “What is your point?”

  “She is a beautiful woman.” Preston bit her lip. “But not wise.”

  “Pardon me?” Yes, he was insulted for Alicia that her lady’s maid would dare say such a thing.

  “She has not much sense. Not about money or men, either.”

  He stiffened. “I think you have overstepped your boundaries, Preston.”

  “I’m aware,” she countered quickly and moved into his path to block him from departing down the stairs. “Please listen to me. Hate me, if you will, but our lady is not a perceptive woman. Not about men.”

  That boiled him. “Enough, Preston.”

  “No, sir. Listen to me.” She blocked his path once more. “She had no idea her husband was such a bounder. How he used women and gambled.”

  He heard in her tone sympathy for Alicia. Nonetheless, his position required that he raise his brows at her impertinence. “And you know of his lordship’s behavior?”

  “Staff know what occurs in a house.” She lifted a stern jaw to him. “You cannot hide it.”

  “But one can be discreet about discussing it,” he said in an attempt to warn her. If Preston wished to cow him for his relationship with their mistress, that was her daring. His visits to Alicia were sadly apparent. He could not conceal them if he tried.

  “She could make terrible mistakes.” Preston—an old ironsides of implacability—sniffed. Did she truly cry, or was she a consummate actress? “I’d hate to see that happen.”

  Ah, she wanted to warn him off, did she? “So would I, Preston. Believe me. Now if you will excuse me.”

  He got the hell away from her as quickly as his feet could carry him down the stairs. To shift and winnow the maid’s words would take him time. And careful perception of her motives.

  * * *

  Finnley paid the hackney his shilling and ran up the steps to Lord Winston’s office. Eager to get out of the driving sleet, he crossed the threshold and stamped his boots free of snow. Inside, he blinked at how dark the large dilapidated foyer was.

  Sweeping off his hat, he unbuttoned his greatcoat and let the lord’s assistant take it from him.

  “This way, sir.” The functionary led the way down the long hall past the other rooms. “Lord Winston has a full day’s appointments, sir, and I am not certain he will have time to see you.”

  “Simply tell his lordship it is Finnley who calls.”

  “Yes, sir. In here, sir.” The man stood aside and extended a hand toward the wing chair by a small fire.

  With his incessant pacing, he might have worn a hole in the floor by the time the assistant returned and ushered him into the large room whose windows let in gray light of a snowy London day.

  “Good afternoon, Beaumont,” Winston greeted him with the new title his friends recently began to use. Winston and he had known each other many years and their grins were broad. “You’re early by a week for our scheduled meeting.”

  “I could not wait for that. I took the chance no one from the house suspects what I do, nor would they follow me.”

  “Careful, you are. Always were.” Winston chuckled. “But I am glad to see you. I had to think twice when Martin told me that Finnley called.”

  “I did not wish to mix my identities. As it is, I have enough trouble keeping to my ruse.”

  “Should I tell that to Lord Newport?”

  “Never!” Finnley responded with a grunt. “My uncle is not to know anything that we say here today. He is more interested in the inheritance of the barony of Bentham, than in how and why Lord Ranford died. You must promise me secrecy, Winston.”

  “If you wish. Still it is wonderful to see you. Though I worry about you.”

  Huh. So do I. Although not because of suspected murder in the house where I work. “Thank you for receiving me.”

  “Always a pleasure.”

  “Well, Winston, I’m afraid it won’t be a pleasure today. I have unpleasant news.”

  The man took a seat across from him. Portly, with hair so unruly it looked like spiky iron shavings, he was florid of face and kindly of manner. “Tell me.”

  “I have discovered quite a few facts about Lord Ranford’s existence and I wish to tell you about them.”

  “Already? Good. You’ve been in the house only a month. Or is it more? In any case, go on.”

  “I have found no evidence so far that Lady Ranford killed him.”

  “You think he died of natural causes?” Winston asked with brows shot high.

  “Of that I am not certain. I investigate further. I know his death seemed odd at the time, especially when his valet departed the next day without notice.”

  “And when the family butler went to Bow Street to complain of odd doings in the house,” Winston said, “we had an obligation to support him. Poor man. His death was a shock.”

  Finnley had listened to the man, liked the man, thought him honest and very concerned for the health of his mistress. “No one will get close enough to me to break my neck, Winston.”

  “That I know! You’ve always been excellent at disguises. I still chuckle at your impersonation of the solicitor of Baron de Ville.”

  Finnley let the memory of his last subterfuge curl his lips. “His mother never knew that he had sold all her jewels and given the funds to his mistresses. In that case, no one died. Although I do believe the Baroness could have killed her son.”

  “In the case of the death of Ranford’s butler,” Winston said, “we have very unusual circumstances. The surgeon who attended the family after his death said it was odd he was face down in the laundry room. Why would he go into the laundry, I wonder.”

  Finnley had thought about that. “Most butlers have no need but wait to inspect the linens upstairs. The positioning of his body meant that he was at the landing of the stairs when he fell.”

  “Is a rug there? Did he trip?”

  Finnley shook his head. “No. But the surgeon put forth and I do suspect that the poor man might have been pushed.”

  Winston lifted his hands in surrender. “And you doubt Lady Ranford killed her husband and the butler?”

  “I do. I know that was our line of inquiry but I find no intentions on her part that would have resulted in her murdering her husband.”

  “She did not love him, Beaumont. It is well known.”

  “Ah, but she did not hate him enough to do away with him, either.”

  “If you say so, Beaumont.” Winston rose, striding toward his desk. “Whiskey?”

  “Please.”

  As Winston poured two glasses for them, he shook his head. “Yet she is attractive.”

  Stunning. “Yes, and I know we had questioned if she might have motivation to do away with him because she had a lover.”

  “And?”

  “She has none.” He pushed away the knowledge that he wished to give her one. And soon.

  “Her period of mourning ends within the next few months. From the tabloids, I understand she emerges slowly. A few engagements, small but with influential people.”

&nbs
p; “So far, she’s gone for an afternoon visit to her friend. A dinner party given by her aunt. But nothing she does is grandiose or without protocol.” Except how she gazes at me with those bewitching violet eyes.

  Winston handed him his glass and he took it gladly to drink the warming spirits. “No man emerges as her lover? Her suitor?”

  “So far only one comes to call. Harold Macomb. Do you know of him?”

  Winston pursed his lips and winced. “The baronet’s youngest son? Yes, I do know him.”

  Finnley narrowed his gaze on his friend. “I gather you do not care for him.”

  “I say Macomb has little to commend him. His father wished to buy him a commission in the Army years ago. He would not go. Claimed he was a scholar. Went off to St. Andrews instead of France.”

  “What did he study?”

  “Women. Liquor.”

  Finnley had little sympathy for those men who had never taken up arms against Bony. “I like him less than before. His sister does not endear herself to me either. Cool and calculating she seems.”

  “With no great ancestry or dowry, the woman has had no luck with proper suitors. She subsists by taking lovers.”

  Finnley grimaced. “More than Ranford?”

  “She’s on to Lord Dillard. Know him?” Winston asked with a fiendish curve of his bushy brows.

  “An ass. In debt to his receding hairline. But a libertine.”

  Winston hooted in laughter. “The two Macombs are a bad lot. They live in the same house, scraping by on what existence they get from their father and what the lady can take from her benefactors.”

  “Would you know if Lady Louise has many friends?” Finnley asked.

  “Women?”

  “Yes.”

  “She is more known for her male acquaintances.”

  Finnley recalled Preston’s dismay at Alicia’s naïveté about men. Perhaps the darling woman did give too much credit to others, but that did not make her silly. Vulnerable, yes. He would see to it she was not taken in by such as the Macombs. But how could he do a good job of it if he was tied to her house? Never to accompany her anywhere?