by Archer, Kate
There was a knock on the door, followed by the diabolical Peg coming in as officious as a government clerk. She stopped and appeared startled as she took in the scene.
Henry watched her with interest, suspecting Jarvis would make short work of her before she could light the fire or pile more stones in his bed.
“Oh!” she said nervously. “You done gone against doctor’s advice and skipped the broth, then? Well, I suppose nobody ain’t to tell a lord what to do.”
Jarvis glared at her. He went to the side of the bed and picked up from the floor the bag of stones he had removed from the mattress. He held the bag in front of him and said, “This, I believe, is yours.”
Peg took the stones and muttered, “I can’t say if it is or it ain’t as I don’t know what it is—”
“Cease your flimsy excuses,” Jarvis said. “Furthermore, never enter this apartment again. I am in charge now.”
Peg’s coloring had been growing progressively more pale. Cabot watched in some amusement, but then also with the uncomfortable realization that he, himself, had got nowhere attempting to fight off the woman.
“As you prefer it,” Peg said, throwing her chin up in the air, “though I suppose I can be allowed to carry out a thing tasked to me by one of the family? Miss Darlington wished to send a book to the patient.”
She held out the book in question. Jarvis took it from her reluctantly, holding it away from his person as if it were a live viper. It appeared his valet looked upon everything in the house with deep suspicion.
Henry, however, was enormously cheered by it. Certainly, Miss Darlington could not still hold any anger against him if she’d sent a book. A lady of the house might be expected to ensure a guest did not actually die on the premises, but there was no cause to send something to read unless the lady particularly wished to. Further, was it not well-known that the very choice of a title must communicate an idea? Much like the choice of a flower, a book would indicate the giver’s thoughts on the receiver.
Miss Darlington was sending him a message, he was certain of it. He only hoped it was not some treacly romance or other. After all, a lady’s feelings might swing in the opposite direction a bit too far, especially toward one who had been injured. Grayson always said that females liked nothing so much as a tragic hero. What could be more tragically heroic than lying unconscious in a field?
“You may go,” Jarvis said to Peg, with a finality that left her no choice but to exit.
After the door closed, Henry put aside his tray and held out his hand to take the book. He read the title.
Then he read it again.
Algebra? What on earth did it mean?
He opened the book to see if perhaps a note had been placed inside. There was a message, hastily scrawled on the inside cover. Beware, this author rejects negative quantities.
Does she say she rejects something? Was he the negative quantity? But then, maybe it was her anger that was negative and to be rejected? He could not fathom what she was trying to tell him.
Henry fanned the book and shook it, but there was no other communication. He held it out to Jarvis. “What do you make of this?” he asked, pointing at the phrase. “Certainly, Miss Darlington has written it. It is a message, but what am I to make of it? What does it mean?”
Jarvis stared at it and rubbed his chin. “Miss Darlington rejects negative quantities. Hmmm. I cannot be sure, my lord, but I am fairly certain I’d reject them too.”
“Reject what, though?”
“Who can say? However, I’m certain positive quantities would be a deal more pleasant than negative quantities. It’s all in the name.”
Henry spent the next hour pondering the message with little success. In truth, if he were to swear to it, he met with no success.
*
Montrose stared down the servant’s table. He might not have been at his leisure to have a confidential conversation with his staff, had that confounded valet chosen to sit down to dinner. As it was, Mr. Jarvis was above stairs, having closeted himself in Lord Cabot’s bedchamber like a knight of old guarding a fair maiden.
The servant’s table had been quiet, all of them now aware that the stones in the mattress had been discovered and the wretched gruel handily rejected by the irate valet. They were left to consider what might be the consequences if Jarvis ever did what he’d threatened to do—go to Lord Mendbridge.
Montrose was of the opinion that they might carry it off by explaining they’d been made aware of Lord Cabot’s vile insult to his daughter, though he was not entirely clear about what that insult was. They had been, as loyal servants, only defending the house.
Still, one could not be certain how Lord Mendbridge would take a thing. Especially when it involved one of his horse cronies.
He cleared his throat and the room grew silent. “It appears that the jig, as they say, is up.”
“He can’t prove who put those stones in his bed,” Peg said defiantly.
“And he can’t prove I knew that gruel was awful,” Mrs. Lowell added helpfully.
“And maybe I did think a fire was in order, on account of an oncoming fever,” Peg said. “One can’t be condemned for making a simple mistake.”
“All I mention is,” Montrose interjected before his staff could go any further with their defense, “we must not give that confounded valet any more facts he can point to. I say good luck to him on complaining about perfectly good soup and one small fire. The stones in the mattress would of course be a slightly more difficult matter, but it occurs to me that they may have been forgotten stones.”
There were murmurings around the table of the word forgotten, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Perhaps,” Montrose went on, “the laying of small stones is an old trick meant to settle the flock and the stones should have been removed. Alas, in the hurry to open the house they were forgotten.”
“Alas, they were,” Peg said softly.
“But nobody wants flock settled,” one of the footmen said. “A body wants the flock fluffed up.”
Montrose slowly closed his eyes and opened them again. “And who above stairs would know how mattresses are maintained or what flock is meant to do?”
“Nobody, that’s who!” Mrs. Lowell’s kitchen maid cried. Then she promptly covered her face with a kitchen towel as if to hide her outburst.
“Does this mean we got to go all nice on the valet now?” a daring maid asked.
“This means,” Montrose said gravely, “that we must not do anything further that might be pointed to. I hardly think, though, that a valet would get very far in complaining that the house staff was cool toward him. I hardly think a valet would dare attempt to complain of it.”
“Or complain that he gets the ends of the beef,” Mrs. Lowell said, nodding sagely.
“Just so,” Montrose said.
*
It was a fine morning and Penny had already been to the stables and back again. Doom had entertained her with endless comments on everything he saw and some things she was certain he pulled from his lively imagination. He’d even claimed to have recently eaten a pineapple, which was delightfully absurd.
She had been glad of the company as now that she sat down for breakfast she would have none. Mrs. Wellburton would breakfast in her room and it was still far too early to see Kitty. She’d briefly spoken to her father at the stables and was certain he would be much engaged there for some hours.
She’d waited until the footman left the room and she was only under the watchful eye of Montrose before she spoke the thing that had been much on her mind.
“Montrose,” she said, “I did not speak to the doctor the last he was here, though I suppose you must know how Lord Cabot gets on.”
“It is my understanding, miss, that he gets on well enough,” Montrose said.
“Well enough,” Penny said. “I see. And, I did send up a book yesterday. I do not suppose the lord made any particular comments about it?”
From t
he corner of her eye, she could see that the butler did not appear to know what she spoke of.
“Oh, never mind,” Penny said. “I sent it up with Peg and she will not have bothered to mention it to you.”
At the mention of Peg, Montrose looked somewhat alarmed, though Penny could not account for it.
“I suppose he talks a great deal of Miss Dell,” Penny said, though why she said it she could not fathom.
“I could not say what the lord speaks of,” Montrose said. “His valet is the only one privy to it as the fellow has practically moved into the chamber.”
Penny thought there was a distinctively derisive tone to Montrose’s description of the valet, though he provided no cause for it other than the fellow was often in Lord Cabot’s room. But then, it was not so unusual that the servants of two different households clashed over some matter. At least, Dora had said that was often the case.
Penny turned toward the sound of the door opening. She took in a breath to see Lord Cabot framed in the doorway. He was meant to be abed, what on earth was he doing downstairs?
Had there been another door, Penny would have dashed out of it. As it was, she was trapped.
The lord seemed equally struck to find her there, though she was where she was supposed to be and he was not.
Penny breathed in slowly to regain her composure. “Lord Cabot,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone, “I did not realize you were to be up so soon.”
“Yes, well, I am perfectly recovered,” he said. He then hurried to the sideboard and began piling meat on his plate.
Penny glanced at Montrose and was surprised to see him glaring at the lord. Surprised, but also gratified.
Lord Cabot sat down across from her and looked about.
“Tea or coffee, my lord,” Montrose asked.
“Coffee,” Lord Cabot said.
Montrose, with all the grandeur he could bring to bear when he had a mind, walked with the coffee pot to Lord Cabot’s side.
As neither Penny nor the lord had the first idea of what to say to one another, they stared at the butler as if his every move were of some importance.
Montrose carefully poured coffee into Lord Cabot’s cup. He filled it to the very brim.
Penny pressed her lips together to hide a smile. Certainly, that had been purposefully done. Montrose was far too skilled for it to have been an accident. Further, the butler did not apologize or in any way look as if he’d made a mistake.
Lord Cabot stared at his coffee. Cream and sugar were out of the question as either would instantly overflow the cup. For that matter, Penny did not see how the lord would even raise it to his lips without spilling it everywhere.
Rather than attempt it, he looked up and said, “Miss Darlington, I must thank you for sending up a book yesterday.”
Penny nodded. “I thought it right, as you were indisposed,” she said. “I presume you had the opportunity to read it.”
“No,” he said, “I am sure it is a worthy subject, but why, what I mean is…algebra.”
“There is no need to further dissemble, my lord,” Penny said.
“Dissemble what?”
Penny paused to take a sip of tea. She was not certain how to answer such a ruse. Was he really to go on pretending he was not a scholar when he was so soon to reveal it to Kitty? Did he attempt to play her for the fool once more? She was sure he’d understood her meaning by way of book. Perhaps he found it amusing to confound her.
“Do not pretend it is beyond your capabilities, my lord,” Penny said sharply. “In any case, Miss Dell shall be gratified to hear your thoughts on the subject.”
“I did not say it was beyond my capabilities. At least, I wouldn’t know. Wait, why should Miss Dell be gratified to hear my thoughts on it? Is that why you chose that one? Because it is of interest to Miss Dell?”
“Everything of a scholarly nature is of interest to Miss Dell, as I am sure you are very much aware,” Penny said.
“I was not particularly aware,” Lord Cabot said, “other than she always seems to be reading. But even so, why should I, what I mean is, I am happy to oblige I suppose, though it does not seem a thing I should excel in.”
“As you claim,” Penny said.
“Claim what?” Lord Cabot said, sounding exasperated. “And also, the note. The negative quantity, what does it mean?”
“I did expect you would parse that out by reading the book,” Penny said. “There is no reason I should know anything about it.”
Lord Cabot’s forehead wrinkled. “We get nowhere on this subject. Let us not examine the book further. I had much rather, well you see I’d prefer…”
Montrose suddenly appeared by Lord Cabot’s side and said, “Is there something wrong with your coffee, my lord?”
“No,” Lord Cabot said, his gaze once more directed toward the dangerously overfilled cup.
Montrose remained standing there, staring down at the lord with raised eyebrows.
The lord, seeing the butler did not intend on going away until he was assured of the state of the coffee, reached his hand out for the cup. He drew it toward him in a slow and steady manner as the liquid sloshed back and forth. He managed to get it to his lips and then hastily set it down again, but not before a splash had escaped.
Montrose peered down at the brown streak on the lord’s neckcloth, appeared satisfied, and removed to the sideboard.
Lord Cabot ignored it and stared down at his plate for some moments. He looked sharply up and blurted out, “Miss Darlington, all is not right between us. I would wish to make it right. I cannot account for my words at Lady Hathaway’s ball. I can only say that I deeply regret them.”
Penny had been playing with her fork during this speech. She laid the utensil down and looked across at Lord Cabot.
If only he could account for it. He was so handsome, sitting there across from her. They had gotten on so well before that horrible evening. There had even seemed to be something between them until that moment. Something lovely and happy between them.
And yet, he could not account for his words. He could not account for striking out at her so mercilessly. There had been no particular reason, no circumstance that had caused such a terrible and public put down. Did that not confirm to her that his cruelty was something fixed in his temperament? When would be the next time he could not account for it?
And then, here he was, admiring Kitty as if poor Kitty might be expected to put up with such treatment.
Penny rose and said, “Being unable to account for it rather accounts for it, do not you think? As for Miss Dell, you may flout your knowledge as you will, but she is unlikely to be taken in by it.”
As she swept from the room, he called after her, “What knowledge?”
Chapter Eight
Henry stomped back up to his bedchamber for a new neckcloth. He’d glared at the butler before exiting the breakfast room, but the man had only smiled and nodded as if all had gone on satisfactorily.
He found Jarvis sitting on the windowsill with a tray of toast and tea, ever guarding the room from ambitious housemaids who might think to trifle with the mattress again. Jarvis looked at his neckcloth and quietly sighed.
“It was not my own clumsiness,” Henry said of the stained cloth. “That Montrose fellow purposefully filled the cup too high, it was impossible not to spill.”
“I have not the slightest doubt of it, my lord,” Jarvis said. He lifted a piece of toast from his tray. “As you can see, appropriately brown on this side and burnt black on the underside. I suppose it was meant as a surprise when I bit into it.”
“This cannot be allowed to go on,” Henry said. “It is the most ridiculous thing in the world to be so harassed by these people.”
Though he said it could not be allowed to go on, Henry did not have the least notion of how to stop it. What was he to do? Complain to Lord Mendbridge that the butler put too much coffee in his cup? Or worse, that his valet’s toast was too well-done on one side?
“We might
think up an excuse and repair to the club,” Jarvis said hopefully.
“I could never do that,” Henry said. “It is an honor to be invited into Lord Mendbridge’s house. An honor much sought after.”
“Perhaps it is only sought after by those that have no notion of what awaits them,” Jarvis said with asperity.
“I doubt Lord Mendbridge’s other guests are treated so wretchedly,” Henry said.
“One cannot be certain. They are a mob of cretins and may well torture everybody.”
“No matter,” Henry said, “we must do our best to struggle on. By the by, have you heard anything of Miss Dell? Anything about her loving algebra?”
Jarvis’ narrowed his eyes, as he did when he was thinking over a matter. “I hear little, as none of them wish to speak to me directly. However, of those times when I am at table and they make small talk amongst themselves, I have heard only a few things about Miss Dell. They spoke of dusting all the books in the library, as she was sure to be rummaging through them, and they spoke of her love of savarins. She appears well-regarded, as does her maid.”
“I do not understand it at all,” Henry said. “That confounded book on algebra that Miss Darlington sent up yesterday is somehow meant to impress Miss Dell. Why should I learn anything of algebra to impress Miss Dell?”
“I would not even hazard a guess, my lord,” Jarvis said. “This is a most mysterious household.”
Henry thought his valet was right on that score. At the heart of the mystery was Miss Darlington. Why should she wish that he impress Miss Dell with algebra? Why should she carry on refusing his apologies?
He thought he’d done rather well this morning. Did he not say he regretted his words? He’d even said he deeply regretted them. What else could he do with those words but regret them deeply?
It almost seemed as if she were angry about something else, but he could not for the life of him think what else he’d done to the lady.
“This evening is Lord Beckman’s soirée,” Jarvis said. “Perhaps the conundrum of the algebra book will be illuminated in some fashion there. You might take Miss Dell into supper and discover more about it.”
