pursuits as bearbaiting, cockfights, and the occasional dice game in his favorite pub.
Claramae, author of the idea, sat quietly and didn’t think at all, which was all right, because she really wasn’t very good at it anyway.
Which left Thornley.
“I suppose we could. We were overly ambitious in the first place, I realize now. And, as it’s nearly gone seven, and we have had no other idea, I suppose we’ll have to resort to the truth. Come along,” he said, getting to his feet. “The Clifford ladies and the rest will be rising shortly, as is their custom. We must speak to them before they ring for their morning chocolate and alert the other servants to their presence. We’ll also begin with them simply because there are more of them.”
“Yes, but the money…?” Mrs. Timon asked, shuffling her carpet-slippered feet as she followed Thornley.
“As this entire idea was mine, I will be responsible for all remunerations, Mrs. Timon,” Thornley said gamely.
“Yes, but who will pay them?” Riley asked worriedly, trailing along behind, dragging Claramae with him.
EMMA HEARD THE KNOCKING on her bedchamber door, but chose to ignore it. She didn’t want her morning chocolate. She didn’t want morning, as she’d not slept well, a nagging feeling that something might be wrong in the mansion keeping her awake, alert for any sound.
The sound now, however—whispers mixed with whimpering—could not be ignored, so she kicked back the covers and padded to the door of the bedchamber and put her ear to the door.
“Claramae, I said knock and enter. As a man, obviously I can’t go in there, not with Miss Clifford possibly still not dressed for the day.”
“But I don’t…I don’t want to.”
“Stand back, the lot of you. I’ll do it.”
“Riley, stifle yourself.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sakes, I’ll do it.”
Emma jumped back as the latch depressed, and barely missed having the tip of her nose nipped off as the door swung inward and Mrs. Timon stepped inside…followed by a widely grinning Riley, who took no more than two swaggering, arms-waving steps before a long, black-clad arm appeared, grabbed the footman by the collar of his livery and yanked him back out again.
“Miss Clifford?”
“Yes?” Emma said, stepping out from behind the door. “Is something wrong, Mrs. Timon?”
“Well, miss, you could maybe say that, miss…can I fetch your dressing gown?”
Emma frowned at the woman, then retreated to the chair beside her bed, snatched up her dressing gown and slipped into it. “Better, Mrs. Timon?” she asked, tying the sash tightly around her waist.
“Yes, miss, thank you, miss,” Mrs. Timon said. “Your slippers?”
What on earth? Emma located her slippers and put them on.
“Thank you, miss. That should do it,” the cook cum housekeeper cum obscure visitor said, then opened the door once more.
In trooped Riley, still grinning (but no longer swaggering), followed by Thornley, who had his chin lifted so high his only view of the bedchamber could have been the painted ceiling, and Claramae, whose chin could not be lower as she, in turn, inspected the floor.
Emma sat down on the pink-and-white-striped slipper chair, tossed the long, fat single braid over her shoulder and folded her hands in her lap.
She’d been right. Something was wrong.
Her mother had tackled Thornley in the hallways and made a complete cake of herself.
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
