by Amy Corwin
Then it struck him.
The idea was mad, of course. He should not even consider such a crazy notion and yet … it was so perfect. Obviously, he thought with a spurt of satisfaction, Miss Peyton had done him a disservice when she claimed he was dull beyond endurance. Would a boring man embrace such a bold plan?
No.
Of course, neither would a prudent man. But once the idea gently nudged and then docked in his mind, he could not cut the ropes. The notion held him fast.
“Miss Archer, I also need to go to Ormsby.” When she smiled at him, he knew he had plotted the right course. “For a case.”
“A case? At Ormsby? What an odd coincidence.”
“Yes, it is an odd coincidence.” He nodded and decided not to mention that a number of guests had visited Ormsby from London for his ill-fated ball, so perhaps it wasn’t completely inexplicable. He felt reluctant to discuss recent events, even with someone as sympathetic as Miss Archer. “Perhaps I can accomplish both of our objectives—”
“No,” she cut him off. “I’d rather search for this … object, myself. I don’t wish its loss to become widely known.”
“I see,” he replied, struggling to keep the grin off his face. “Then you are determined to go to Ormsby?”
“Yes.” She gazed at him shyly. “Although I confess I will feel much better knowing you are in the vicinity.”
“Have you already made plans, then, to be hired as a maid?”
She shook her head. “I thought … I considered going there in the hopes ….”
Holding up a hand, he shook his head and leaned back. “Trust me when I tell you, they would never hire a maid, or any other servant, without proper references.”
“Oh,” she said, obviously deflated.
“However, I believe I have the answer to our problems, with the possible exception of Mr. Brown’s inability to remember where his family lives. I’ve made arrangements to be hired as a servant at Ormsby. Perhaps we can expand this to include both of you.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“What?” Mr. Brown sat up. “I’m not going to Ormsby.”
Hugh stared at him. “Any particular reason?”
“No. Just not going.” Mr. Brown flashed a quick glance at Miss Archer before adding truculently, “I can’t remember much, but I do know that my family is in London. That’s why I was headed here when I met Miss Archer. I’m not leaving.”
“If you don’t want to go with us, then I’ll be obliged to remand you into the care of one of our fine orphanages. I’m sure they’ll find room and work for a sturdy boy your age.”
Mr. Brown paled, but stoutly refused to agree. He shook his head and kicked his heels against the carpet.
“Of course Ned will accompany us. If you think he can?” Miss Archer asked.
“Would you find it acceptable if I arranged for us to travel as two brothers and their sister? I’m to be Hugh Caswell, of course, and Mr. Brown will be my younger brother, Ned Caswell.”
“And I shall be Helen Caswell. It’s perfection!”
What was perfect was the disguise. A man his size arriving alone at Ormsby, when the Earl of Monnow was missing, might cause suspicion and gossip. However, a man accompanied by his younger brother and sister would be far less likely to raise suspicions, despite any resemblance he might have to the missing earl.
After all, there must be dozens of his father’s by-blows littering the countryside.
“I can arrange for you to be the lady’s maid to the earl’s cousin, Miss Eloise Leigh. She’s scheduled to move to a cottage near Ormsby, but she should still be at the house long enough for you to find whatever it is you’re searching for.” He examined Ned.
The boy glared back at him and kicked his heels even harder, thumping them until there were definite ridges in the carpet. But the boy did not attempt to argue.
“You, Mr. Brown, will be the steward’s room boy.”
“I won’t.”
“You will, unless you wish to stay at an orphanage until your memory returns. I’ll make sure they realize you’ve had difficulties with your memory, and are likely to wander off. They will certainly see to it that you don’t get lost again,” Hugh delivered the warning in a detached manner he felt sure would frighten the boy more thoroughly than any angry words.
Ned stared back, puffing his lips in several, rapidly-aborted complaints.
“But what about you?” Miss Archer asked.
“I shall be the house steward. I’ve been meaning to — that is, I understand the earl has indicated to his lawyer that he wishes to hire one. So my arrival shall come as no surprise to the household.”
“This is — this is so simple!” Miss Archer said. “Why, this is wonderful. I’m so grateful we met you at the outset.”
She rose from her chair and reached over to give Ned’s jacket a small tug. Rising with obvious reluctance, Ned trudged after her. At the door, he gave Hugh a black look over his shoulder.
“Indeed.” Hugh stood. “Now, when can you leave?”
“Tomorrow,” she replied without pausing. “Shall we meet you here?”
“No. I’ll come by with a carriage. What is your address?”
“We’re staying with my sister, that is, at Lord Dacy’s residence.” She recited the address before clasping Ned’s hand firmly and pulling him after her.
Hugh watched them go before turning to find Mr. Gaunt strolling down the hallway in his direction. He held Mr. Petre’s letter in one lean hand.
“You are Lord Monnow, aren’t you?” Mr. Gaunt looked like a tall, slender scarecrow dressed entirely in black with the somber, thoughtful air of a member of the Spanish Inquisition.
Hugh studied him for a moment, taking in the sardonic intelligence in Gaunt’s dark eyes before nodding. “Yes.” He gestured toward the room he had just vacated. “I have a few matters to discuss with you.”
“And I with you, my lord,” Mr. Gaunt murmured, following Hugh. He slipped behind the desk and waved Hugh to the chair Ned Brown had previously occupied.
Mr. Gaunt broke the silence first. “Am I to understand you’re desirous of becoming an inquiry agent?”
“No.” Hugh grinned. “The lady mistook me for one of your staff. I was a little slow in correcting that impression.”
“I see.” Mr. Gaunt steepled his hands and rested his mouth against his forefingers. “I hope you did eventually correct her. While business has been good, I dislike losing patrons.”
A chuckle escaped. “Sorry, but you lost that one. Not much of a case, anyway. And as it happens, it dovetailed quite nicely with my own plans.”
“Which are?”
“How much did Petre explain in his letter?”
“Your lawyer indicated who you are, of course,” Gaunt paused, his gaze resting first on Hugh’s unshaven chin and then drifting down to his ill-fitting jacket. “He requested that I assist you with some inquiries.”
“A murder investigation.”
“I see. Who was the victim?”
“I was the intended victim, but they killed my brother, Lionel Castle, instead.”
“I’m sorry. Please accept my condolences,” Mr. Gaunt said, his discomfort proving his sincerity. He fell silent for a moment, out of respect. “You wish me to investigate?”
“I intend to go back to Ormsby in the guise of a servant. I can learn a great deal by listening to the staff. They may know something.”
“Hence the clothing. I see. What do you require of me?”
“While I’m investigating at Ormsby, I want you to check the dock in Newport where I kept the Twilight. Someone sawed her rudder partially through. There may be witnesses. Something.”
Gaunt nodded. “I understand. Do you suspect anyone in particular?”
“No.”
“Then are you sure it was directed at you? Perhaps your brother was the intended victim.”
“No.” He repeated the information he had given to Petre.
Gaunt listened, his eye
s hard and intent. Once or twice, he asked penetrating questions, particularly about Hugh’s conclusion that the rudder was purposely damaged. After going through his story twice, Hugh felt exhausted and annoyed by Gaunt’s ruthless logic. The man tried to pick apart Hugh’s tale, searching for flaws and inconsistencies.
When Gaunt finally sat back in silence, Hugh rubbed his face. Had this all been a mistake? Was he sure?
He remembered the clean edge on half of the rudder. No, no mistake. Yes, he was sure.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” Gaunt asked at last.
He shook his head. “No. That’s the lot.”
“I understand your conclusions.” Gaunt did not claim to agree with them, Hugh noted. “However, you indicated you have instructed your lawyer, Mr. Petre, not to inform your family that you survived. You wish the responsible party to remain in ignorance. And yet you say you will return to Ormsby to investigate. Do you seriously expect to enter your house without anyone realizing you’re alive?”
“No one will recognize me with this beard. I don’t intend to shave. They will see what they expect to see.”
A wry grin quirked Gaunt’s mouth. “But your physique … you are not an ordinary-sized man, my lord.”
“I’ll be engaged as a servant. Petre is making the arrangements. No one looks too closely at a servant, and I have made other plans to assist with my disguise.”
“Your other plans don’t involve that attractive young lady and the boy who were just here, do they?”
“As a matter of fact, they do,” Hugh replied, trying not to sound too sheepish. “The young lady lost something at Ormsby that she wishes to find, and the boy is simply lost. They are to be my sister and brother.”
“Safety in numbers?”
“Anonymity in numbers.”
“And a bit of adventure for everyone.”
For some reason, the remark touched off a flare of anger, as if Gaunt accused him of taking the situation lightly. Hugh did not find it amusing. His anguish over his brother’s death remained close to the surface, always waiting to sink him. He could never forget the moment when he had lost his grip on his brother’s collar, when he had felt that unbearable lightness, that relief that he had survived after all ….
He should have been the one who had died, not Lionel. He had let his brother go in order to survive.
What kind of man would do that?
He pushed the pain down. “Some might consider it an adventure,” he said in a deliberate, calm voice. “I’m just interested in discovering the truth, before anyone else is harmed.”
“Or killed. Yes, I understand. Well, I believe we can come to an agreement. I’ll contact Mr. Petre about my expenses. I’ll provide daily accounts of my activities and the costs incurred. Is there a way for me to contact you at Ormsby?”
“I’ll be acting as the house steward and expect to arrive there in two days or so. By that time, I’m sure a few of the residents will start to wonder where Lord Monnow is. When my cousin, Miss Leigh, contacts Petre, he’ll suggest that he hire you to find out what has become of me — and Lionel.” He cleared his throat. “He’ll suggest that you report to the new house steward — me. Once this occurs, communicating should present no difficulties.”
“What if she doesn’t contact Mr. Petre?”
“She will. What else can she do? He’s our lawyer. That is the natural course for her to take.”
“Then let’s hope she performs as expected.”
Hugh stood, feeling more drained than he thought possible.
He held out his hand to Gaunt, and was surprised when he said, “Where are you staying for the night?”
“The night?”
“If you intend to remain dead, you can hardly go to one of your clubs and demand entrance as the late Lord Monnow.”
“An inn will do.” Why could he not see that it did not matter?
“May I offer a room? It’s only for the one night. There’s no point in trying to find other quarters at this hour. My wife would be glad of your company at supper as well. We’re dining late tonight ….” He pulled out a gold watch and flipped it open. “In fact, I believe we’ll be dining in fifteen minutes. Will that suit you?”
“Down to the ground.” He shook Gaunt’s hand again more vigorously.
“There’s no need for thanks.” The inquiry agent gestured to the butler. “It’ll be on your bill.”
“No doubt,” Hugh replied laconically, following the butler up the wide staircase.
Chapter Eleven
“It is a more serious thing to leave a good situation than many are aware of.” —The Complete Servant
The next morning, Helen stared morosely at her reflection in the mirror while her maid scraped back her hair. Not one curl remained to soften the line of her square chin. Helen sighed and gazed at the floor, instead of at her appalling reflection.
“I’m sorry, Miss, but it’s what you wanted. ‘Though why you should want to make yourself so plain and wear that old bombazine dress is a puzzle.”
“I’ll be travelling today and can’t bring you along. It’s best that I dress plainly. You know grandmother doesn’t like too many ribbons, anyway.” She glanced wistfully at the red Chinese lacquer box containing an assortment of silk ribbons. The box looked so lovely, so full of delightful things, things of fantasy and desire. Her fingers itched to pick out the royal blue ribbon and thread it through a few curls loosened from the severe style she had chosen. But she had to look demure. She was Miss Helen Caswell now, not Helen Archer.
She had not even started her adventure, and she already felt like admitting she was a lack-wit and ending the entire thing. But Mr. Caswell depended upon her. She was part of his plans.
Unfortunately, she already felt exhausted. Last night, she had faced unforeseen difficulties in introducing Ned Brown to her sister’s household, particularly on such a temporary basis. Only her sister’s preoccupation with her newborn son had allowed Helen to carry it off. Oriana could scarcely find the time to greet Helen and Ned, much less concern herself with precisely why Ned planned to stay a single night.
After a sleepless night spent thinking about all the humiliating ways in which she might fail on her mission, Helen had announced at breakfast that she was leaving first thing to travel to Cheltenham and visit her grandmother, the dowager Duchess of Peckham. She had decided on this excuse since the dowager was well known for her dislike of servants, particularly those of her guests. The dowager preferred her family to come without any extraneous persons, despite the extra burden it placed upon her own servants. This peculiar whim gave Helen ample reason to leave Sally behind, although Oriana had protested that the maid should at least accompany Helen during the trip.
The sudden, loud awakening of Oriana’s baby distracted her, however. As she rushed to his succor, she agreed off-handedly to Helen’s plan. Oriana’s husband, Lord Dacy, was not present, so thankfully, Helen was not subjected to his probing questions. She escaped and packed a few meager belongings in peace.
“I should go, Miss,” Sally complained, picking up the valise and bandbox Helen had prepared. “Why, you’ve not got a thing with you! Whatever will you wear while you visits the dowager?”
“I left so many dresses there the last time that I need hardly bring anything. You complained I hadn’t a stitch left when we returned to London, don’t you remember?” Thankfully, it was true, so Helen was able to meet Sarah’s anxious gaze.
“But they be at least a year old and outmoded, besides!”
“I’m only going to stay a few days. It doesn’t matter. Now hand me my bonnet — no, not the chipped straw — the black poke.” Helen leaned over the bed, reaching for the funereal hat.
Sally grabbed it and held it up to the light. There was only one sad, black plume remaining and that one had a broken tip. “You can’t wear this, Miss! Why I wouldn’t even wear it.”
Snatching it out of her servant’s hand, Helen pulled it onto her head, tying the gray
ribbons under her chin. Without glancing at the mirror, she grabbed her valise and bandbox, and walked out of her room before Sally could make any further remarks about her dreadful appearance.
It was only for a few days, she reminded herself, just until she found the necklace. Immediately afterwards, Helen Caswell would disappear and Helen Archer would reappear. She would then hand the Peckham necklace back to Oriana and make a trip to both Grafton House and Layton & Shears to buy some new ribbons. And lace. And perhaps a yard or two of sprigged muslin as a reward, if she had sufficient funds left after this brief — but already unpleasant — interlude.
Ned was not ready when she went to his room to collect him. In fact, he remained a-bed although it was nearly eight. She dropped her valise at the foot of the bed and grabbed his toes through the covers. She shook them.
“Leave off!” he grumbled, pulling his feet up and curling into a ball under the covers.
“You must get up. Now. Mr. Caswell will be here shortly. You have five minutes to dress and come out into the hallway, before I send one of the footmen to wash your face and dress you.”
“I thought you were nice, but you’re not! You’re meaner than ….”
“Than whom?” Helen asked.
“I can’t remember.”
She pulled the blankets back, ignoring his yelps as the cool morning air nipped at his bare feet. When he tried to yank the quilt out of her hands, she bundled the blankets into a ball and placed them on the chair next to the bed.
Picking up her bag, she walked to the door and paused with her hand on the brass knob. “Now, remember what I said. You have five minutes.”
In the hallway, she sat down on a rather fragile chair that creaked alarmingly whenever she moved. Her eyes remained on Ned’s door as she reflected that Lord Dacy had been remarkably astute when he assigned a third floor bedroom to Ned and suggested that Helen lock the door and keep the key. Lord Dacy had intended the precaution for Ned’s safety, in case he awoke in the night, forgot where he was, and tried to run away again. London was not a safe place for young children without adult protection.
Much of the time, it was not safe for unprotected adults, either.
