by Archer, Kate
*
Montrose had consulted with Doctor Prentiss before the doctor had got in his carriage. Lord Cabot’s condition was not considered serious, though he would remain abed for some days. It was Doctor Prentiss’ opinion that there was no particular care required, other than the patient stay quiet with his head on at least two pillows for as long as anybody could keep him there.
As far as the butler was concerned, this was another instance of the lord’s unworthiness. First, he upsets Miss Penny, then he foolishly falls off his horse and becomes their patient. Never was one of the lord’s houseguests more trouble.
He had conferred with Mrs. Wiggins and they had both agreed that they were not to be put out by the irritating gentleman. He must be cared for, of course he must, else Lord Mendbridge was sure to notice. But that did not mean he must be cared for comfortably.
Between them, they had speedily come to the conclusion that the most uncomfortable way to proceed was to put Peg in charge of the sickroom. Montrose had high hopes that Peg would rain down “what all,” whatever that might be, upon the lord’s head.
Peg, when informed of this directive, had seemed well-pleased and up to the task. At least, Montrose had assumed so, as she’d rubbed her hands together and said, “We’ll just see how we get on, won’t we?”
Chapter Seven
Henry had opened his eyes to find a strange old man holding a candle up to his face. He’d attempted a brief struggle, certain he was being robbed.
Lord Mendbridge had then stepped into his view and Henry had realized he was in his own bedchamber in Mendbridge Cottage in Newmarket. Right on the heels of that understanding had come the memory of urging his horse toward a fence and being summarily thrown off by way of a fox.
Though his head pounded, he’d been pleased to hear that it had been Miss Darlington who had discovered him lying in the field. She’d arranged a cart to bring him to the house. Certainly, it was a very good sign that she’d not left him there. It must have been all sorts of trouble to arrange the thing, when she might have trotted by and pretended she’d not even seen him. Certainly, it must show a thawing of ice.
And then, when one comes so close to disaster, others are always more likely to think kindly of them. More than a few of his soldiers had married a girl who’d never looked at them twice, all because they’d risked their neck on a battlefield.
He’d not thought he’d need to nearly kill himself to get back into Miss Darlington’s good graces but there it was. He’d since been left alone to rest and, aside from his throbbing head and the diabolically lumpy mattress he lay on, he was rather cheerful.
The door opened and, though he’d fully expected to see Jarvis, a middle-aged housemaid bustled into the room carrying a tray.
He could not say it was an unwelcome interruption, he’d not breakfasted before he’d gone out and found himself ravenous.
“There you are, my lord,” the maid said. “I’m Peg and will tend to ya while you be laid low.”
Peg set down the tray and grabbed a pillow from the other side of the bed. Before he even knew what she was doing, she’d grabbed his collar, yanked him forward, and stuffed the extra pillow behind his neck. His head swam with the sudden movement and he gripped the bedsheets to steady himself.
Peg seemed to take no notice of it. As his vision settled, he watched her remove the cover from a bowl of something gelatinous and brown.
“What is that? Soup?” he asked, staring down at it. “Might I trouble you for eggs? In fact, I wouldn’t mind three fried eggs, four sausages, a rasher of bacon, kidneys, and four rolls. Also, whatever cakes you have on offer. Oh, and coffee. What else? Butter. Lots of butter. And you might as well send up some jam, too.”
Peg regarded him with what appeared to be an indulgent eye. “Ain’t you the jester? Eggs and sausage after the fall you’ve had? Goodness no. I’ve brought you some bone broth, thickened with flour. It’ll fill you up and do no harm.”
“But I’d really prefer eggs, if you please,” Henry said.
Peg stood hands on hips and laughed rather more loudly than he was accustomed to hearing from a servant. “You’re a regular goose, is what you are, my lord.”
Henry was flummoxed. He was a goose? Who was this person? Was the lady really going to refuse him his request?
“Now, do I need to spoon it to ya?” she asked. “Or are ya strong enough to feed yourself?”
“Of course I’m strong enough to feed myself!”
“As you like,” Peg said. “Now, I’ll just get the fire going.”
“Fire?” Henry asked. “I say, though, it’s already very warm in this room. I do not see cause for a fire.”
“It’ll drive out the fever,” Peg said matter-of-factly, arranging the wood and kindling.
“I don’t have a fever,” Henry said, exasperated.
“And you won’t get one while old Peg is on the watch. ’Tis my job to see that you don’t kick off and I am gonna see to it.”
Henry was out of all patience with the confounded woman. “Madam, I do not quite comprehend what goes on here. I see no need for a fire and every need for a proper breakfast.”
Peg ignored this pronouncement and only said softly, “Delirium. All too common in these cases. Patience is what’s required.”
“I am not delirious!” Henry said. Never was there such an obtuse person. He shifted uncomfortably on the lumpy bedding. “I do not see how I am to go on lying on this infernal lumpy mattress with only gruel to eat.”
“Is the bed that uncomfortable for those young bones?” Peg asked, looking surprised.
“It’s deuced uncomfortable, as it happens,” Henry said.
“Do ya reckon I ought to tell Lord Mendbridge that the lord don’t find his hospitality up to snuff?”
Henry laid back. Certainly, he did not wish any such thing. Why could not Mendbridge’s servants just take care of a thing without running to their master about it?
“I’ll let him know,” Peg said sorrowfully. “He’ll be mighty disappointed as he don’t like soft gentlemen. He always say, don’t let a soft gentleman in through the doors.”
“I am not soft,” Henry said hurriedly. “The mattress is fine, say nothing of it.”
Peg nodded and said, “As you wish. Now, let me get that fire going.”
An hour later, Henry sweated in his bed, determined to put out that blasted fire. Each time he put his feet on the floor, his vision seemed to turn the room upside down.
Finally, Jarvis knocked and came through the door.
“My lord,” he cried, “this room is hell on earth, why do you have a fire?”
“Put it out,” Henry said weakly.
Jarvis grabbed a pitcher of water and doused the flames, then opened the windows to let out the ensuing smoke that billowed from the hissing embers.
Henry laid back, grateful for the cool breeze that blew into the room. “A housemaid,” he said. “I think she may be trying to kill me.”
Jarvis looked about the room with a critical eye, that eye settling on the uneaten bowl of brown sludge.
“What on earth…” the valet said.
“That is breakfast,” Henry said, beginning to feel a little better now that he did not feel himself cooking alive. “A diabolical woman named Peg informed me that I cannot have anything else, and that I must have a fire for a fever I don’t have, and when I even mentioned this horrible bed she threatened to go to Lord Mendbridge about it. What in the world is wrong that harpy?”
Jarvis appeared thoughtful.
“What is it? What do you know? Out with it,” Henry said, well aware that his valet’s thoughtful look portended something of import.
“As you know, my lord,” Jarvis said slowly, “I am well-liked everywhere I go.”
“I did not in fact know that,” Henry said.
“It is very true,” Jarvis said. “Yet, Lord Mendbridge’s staff has so far given me very short shrift. They don’t smile, they leave the servant’s hall when I c
ome in, and the cook gives me decidedly small portions. In fact, last night the servants were given a roasted beef and I was served the ends. The ends, my lord. Naturally, it cannot be anything I have done, and so I have assumed it was a reflection upon you.”
Henry attempted to parse his valet’s speech. As far as he could understand it, Jarvis wished him to know that all the world loved him, he’d never been served ends in his life, and that was to be his fault?
“Then,” Jarvis went on, “just this morning, I overheard the butler and the housekeeper in conversation. The butler said you were to get “what all.” The housekeeper seemed to find it most amusing.”
“What is what all?” Henry asked.
Jarvis appeared pensive, then said, “I suppose what all is a fire and gruel. Though, I really cannot imagine what you have done to merit such treatment.”
Henry could not either. Until suddenly he did. They knew. Lord Mendbridge might not know of his unfortunate words to his daughter at the Tudor ball. But they knew.
Of course they knew! How could he not have seen that they would? Did not Jarvis know far more than he ought? When he considered what a lady’s maid might be privy to, and how quickly that lady’s maid might regale the servant’s table with the knowledge…he’d been a fool not to have considered it. By the looks of it, he had an entire houseful of servants out for revenge.
Henry prodded the lumpy mattress and said, “They’ve been against me from the start. I’m certain that’s why they’ve put me in a room with the worst bedding in the house. It was deliberate.”
Jarvis went to the opposite side of the bed. “I would not suppose they would dare so much. Though, considering the fire and the gruel, perhaps they haven’t bothered to turn the mattresses as they should,” he said, lifting the cover.
Henry watched his valet examine the mattresses and murmur, “Soft down on top, very regular. Ah, I think I see, there is no feather mattress. The rest of the layers below the down mattress are flock. One might have expected better from a lord’s house. I can assure you that your own mattresses follow a very specific order: two down, two feathers, four flock, turned weekly.”
“Nevertheless,” Henry said, “I do not see why wool is to be as uncomfortable as this. What sort of confounded sheep would produce such a misery?”
Jarvis reached his hand between the down and the flock mattresses. He paused and frowned, then went to the dressing table to retrieve the lord’s razor. He slit the top flock mattress at the seam and reached his hand inside.
As Henry watched, Jarvis rose victorious with a small stone in his hand. “Here is the culprit, my lord. The bottom of the second mattress has been stuffed with rocks. They have been set there cleverly—they provide just enough discomfort without giving themselves away.”
Henry laid back. He’d been right, the servants were out for revenge.
“Never fear, my lord,” Jarvis said, a look of resolve settling on his features. “From now on, I will scarce leave your side. I will even go so far as to sleep in the dressing room. Peg, whoever she thinks she is, will find herself ranged against a formidable opponent.”
*
Mr. Farthingale had made it his business to understand the ins and outs of the ton. In his estimation, to comprehend the whole of it properly one must become the master of two things: who was who, and what they liked to do with their time.
The who was who had been delightfully easy. Debrett’s helpfully provided every notable genealogy. The newspapers filled in the rest, with their swooning sketches and verbose descriptions of looks and finery. Who would not recognize Mr. Brummel from his sublimely cut coat? Who would not recognize Mrs. Fitzherbert via her fading looks and too-long nose? Who would not recognize Lord Dalton by the scar that marred his cheek? Who would not recognize Lord Sassbury by way of the birth mark on his chin that was shaped like a clover?
As for what people of that ilk liked to do, he supposed he would sum it up as: frittering away one’s time in useless pursuits while sporting a strangely self-congratulatory air.
One of those useless pursuits was held at Newmarket just now and he was far more familiar with it than he’d let on to Lord Cabot. Below the glossed veneer, Newmarket was a scene rife with blacklegs, tricksters and sharpers. One must step carefully through the town to avoid being had. As a precaution, he’d donned the sort of non-descript clothes a pickpocket wouldn’t look twice at.
It was well he did so. Just now, as he sat in a tavern and nursed an ale, his ears wide open to pick up the news of the place, a particular well-known gentleman with a particular well-known scar sat down at the next table. Farthingale did not recognize Lord Dalton’s friend, he was dressed as an insufferable fop which could be any number of fellows. Farthingale turned his face away from them though he did not think either of the men would recognize him.
“My footman has come back from Mendbridge Cottage to say that Cabot can’t have visitors at all today,” Lord Dalton said. “Apparently, the butler is formidable and refuses to admit anybody.”
“Cabot, though,” the other man said. “Of all people, how does he fall off his horse and knock his head?”
“Grayson,” Lord Dalton said, “anybody might be thrown. I doubt it was serious, what concerns me more is that he’s in there without his friends.”
Mr. Farthingale sat back and tented his fingers. Cabot had met with an accident. That would not be well for his plan. If the word got about that he would not recover, the bets would flow heavily against the lord’s horse. It would not make a lick of sense, as the lord was not the rider and the horse was likely uninjured, but that was the nature of betting. Any little circumstance would spook in the wrong direction. For his plan to work, he needed most of these gambling fools to bet for Cabot’s horse, not against it. He had confirmed that Cabot had not exaggerated the filly’s potential and, if all would go as it should, nobody else would undervalue it either.
“Why should you fear for him in that regard?” Lord Grayson asked. “Certainly, Mendbridge may be relied upon to provide suitable medical care. Especially for a throw, I reckon the old man has been dumped more than once.” Grayson paused and it seemed to Mr. Farthingale that a light was dawning upon him. “Ah, I see. Alone in the clutches of Miss Darlington.”
“Exactly,” Lord Dalton said. “There he’ll be, at her mercy, while she acts as sympathetic nurse.”
“There’s no way to get him out, I suppose,” Grayson said.
“No, we cannot get him out. Though, I’ve already given Cabot the impression that a match between Miss Darlington and Burke is in the works. We might add another layer of protection by turning Miss Darlington herself from any thought of Cabot. I think I know just how to do it via pretty Miss Dell.”
“Now, Dalton,” Lord Grayson said, “do not tamper with that lady. You know I find Miss Dell charming.”
“You find every lady charming,” Lord Dalton said. “For my purposes, I would like to know what goes on in that house and have a hand in directing it. We may call on the ladies, I do not suppose that butler will dare an attempt to keep us out of the drawing room. I will also send a servant to gossip with the stable hands or try to catch a footman out of doors.”
“Yes! Call on the ladies, of course that is what we should do,” Lord Grayson said, appearing instantly cheered by the idea.
Mr. Farthingale rubbed his chin. He would like to see how Lord Cabot got on even more than Lord Dalton wished to, though he had not the least interest in any amorous goings on. He must gain a better understanding into the lord’s health. It would greatly affect how he was to proceed during his time here. Dalton might think to send a clumsy servant on a fishing expedition, but he had a rather better resource. He also had, through experience, a more effective strategy to ingratiate oneself into a house to gain information and it was not through a stable hand or a footman.
*
Penny had begun to think that she, Kitty, and Mrs. Wellburton would never see the end of people arriving to call. It seemed the e
ntire town must hear for themselves how Lord Cabot got on.
Some of those who called were known to be the lord’s acquaintances. Some others, she was not so certain of. She rather thought the more obscure connections were not particularly concerned with the lord’s health, but far more concerned with whether or not he’d be on his feet on race day. Those men had the sort of furtive looks and penetrating gazes that spoke of weighing their bets. Most of the conversations had been tedious, with perhaps the exception of Lord Burke. He had been in, inquired, been satisfactorily answered, and then taken his leave by noting they must be tired of the endless arrivals. Penny wished the rest of the visitors had come with as much sense.
Though all and sundry were told the same thing—Lord Cabot’s injury was not serious and he only rested for a few days—Penny was not certain that was altogether true. The doctor had come and gone without speaking to either her or her aunt. Soon after, she had noticed Montrose and Mrs. Wiggins deep in conversation. They had ceased abruptly upon catching sight of her, as if they knew something that she did not. She had asked if they had been told anything of Lord Cabot and they had denied it was so. But they had looked very strangely! Almost as if they harbored a secret.
Had there been a sudden change for the worse? It might be so. Injuries to the head could be unpredictable. One moment the patient appeared recovering and the next his condition grew grave.
But certainly, her father would have informed her of it. Would he not?
Perhaps not, if he thought he would not trouble her with something she could not fix.
Two gentlemen who had claimed to be on intimate terms with Lord Cabot, though Penny was almost certain they were not, had finally been shown out. As Penny began to hope that was the last of them, two more were announced. The Lords Dalton and Grayson.
Penny looked toward Mrs. Wellburton with some hope that they might be turned away. Her aunt understood her meaning, but shook her head. “Do show them in, Montrose,” she said.
