old lady.”
Emma stood up, putting herself between her grandmother and the irate seamstress. “Please, please, Mrs. Norbert, forgive my grandmother. She’s, um, elderly?”
“She’s mean as a snake, that’s what,” Mrs. Norbert said, sitting back in her chair and crossing her plump arms over her chest. “I know you don’t want me here, think you’re all so hoity-toity and better’n me. And I don’t care. Long as I’m eating good.”
“And Lord knows you’re doing plenty of—” Fanny began, but Emma whirled on her and glared. “Sorry,” she said quietly. “All right, all right, I’ll put the gloves back on. It’s this demned fog, that’s what it is. Look at it, creeping in under the windowsills. We’re all just stuck in here, cheek by jowl, and I’m tired of it. I have plans.”
Hearing her grandmother mention that she had plans set Emma’s teeth on edge. This couldn’t be good….
“THIS FOG COULDN’T be worse,” Morgan Drummond said, peering out the side window of his coach, trying to see past the minuscule yellow glow cast by the few gas lamps lining the street, to the buildings beyond. “I think we’re close now, but I can’t be sure. Wycliff? For God’s sake, man, stop clutching the door as if a great fog monster was going to yank it open at any moment, pull you outside and bite off your head. I’ve given up my hopes of that a good hour ago. Ah—we’re stopping.”
Morgan drew the edges of his cloak over his knees and tied the laces at his throat, then reached for his curly-brimmed beaver on the seat beside him. “Heave to, Wycliff, we’ve arrived.”
“How…how can you be sure, my lord? I don’t see anything out there.”
“True, neither do I. But as the nothing out there is highly preferable to the something in here, I’m willing to hazard the gamble.” So saying, he opened the door on his side of the coach, kicked down the steps and then ignored them to hop onto the cobbles, nearly coming to grief as the slippery stones sent him momentarily off balance.
“We’re here, your lordship,” the coachman called down to him unnecessarily, even as servants riding in the second coach (normally following far behind the master’s coach, but tonight, because of the fog, riding directly on its heels), bustled forward to assist the marquis. “We’ll just drive around to the mews and unload the baggage and see to the horses.”
“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
