Marcus smiled and crossed his fingers behind his back. He wasn’t about to mention ghosts to Travis and his shaky nerves. “We’ll hire more soon. In the meantime I’m putting you in charge of cleaning.”
“Me? I am a valet. The purview of a gentleman’s personal servant is a gentleman’s person.”
“My person is going to be busy with matters other than adornment. You kept the rooms in St. James’s neat.”
“And I shall do the same for your rooms here. I cannot be responsible for other parts of the house. It would not be correct.”
Since the man received no pay, Marcus was arguing from a position of weakness. He could dismiss him but that hadn’t worked in the past. “I don’t suppose you can cook.” Travis dignified the question with another horrified stare. “In that case, if we are not to starve, I’d better find the kitchen.”
It was better than he had dared hope, given the state of the house. Old Jasper might live in the stables but he used the domestic offices of the manor. The brisk fire heated a small range and oven, as well as an open grate over which hung a rusty spit that Marcus had no intention of using. No roast meats on the menu until he acquired a cook. Hot water was piped in from a copper boiler in a well-equipped scullery. Best of all, the larder was stocked with staple foods, eggs, milk, and half a flitch of bacon. Tonight, at least, they need not go hungry.
The floors, on the other hand, offended a soul he never regarded as fastidious. Discovering a broom and a tub of fuller’s earth, he’d made progress loosening a thick layer of greasy dirt from the flagstones when the back door opened, letting in a blast of chill wind and rain that sent the dust pile flying.
“And who might you be?” The belligerent question was spit from the gap-toothed mouth in a face as brown and wrinkled as a walnut shell.
“Old Jasper, I presume,” said Marcus, looking with disfavor at the damp filthy coat and shapeless hat, pulled low over the ears, of his new servant. On the other hand he was a servant, perhaps a more willing one than the fussy valet upstairs. “I’m Lithgow, your new master, and I’m doing your job.”
Jasper plunked a large loaf of bread on the table. His vehement denial knocked off the hat to reveal straggling gray locks. “I’m an outdoor man,” he said, continuing to shake his head. “Stables and garden only.”
“Sweeping floors is a much cleaner task than mucking out stalls,” Marcus said, holding out the broom. “It will make a nice change for you.”
Jasper folded his arms. “Master always said you were a cozening rascal.”
“I do not believe an insult is a good way to begin an acquaintance. Besides, I’m a reformed character.”
“Fair words butter no parsnips.”
“True, alas. The proof of the pudding is in the eating.”
“Handsome is as handsome does. Master said there was never a prettier man than Lewis Lithgow, nor one more rebukeful.”
“There he was right, I grant, but I think you have me confused with my father. I am Marcus Lithgow, now rejoicing in the title of viscount.”
Jasper muttered something to the effect that he didn’t hold with lords.
“Splendid. You may address me as sir. I wish you could persuade Travis to my way of thinking. Speaking of which, despite your disinclination for indoor work, could you bring yourself to help me carry a trunk upstairs?”
Having servants was just one long negotiation. Lewis Lithgow had always said he who traveled alone traveled fastest and Marcus tended to agree. It was also how he knew how to cook. During the years Lewis had dragged his only son from pillar to post, Marcus had fulfilled the duties of man-of-all-work instead of studying his Latin grammar, like other boys of his age and class.
With a good deal of panting and swearing, during which Marcus added some colorful country terms to his vocabulary, the trunk was delivered to Travis, who had deigned to dust the master bedchamber and dressing room. Marcus also learned that the manor boasted a vegetable garden, a stable containing a pony and gig but no carriage horses, a small home farm with chickens, a breeding sow, a couple of pigs almost ready for slaughter, and a milch cow.
“Good Lord, Jasper! You look after all of those by yourself? I take back any aspersions I may have cast on your readiness to work.”
Jasper seemed pleased. “I can cook a pease pudding with bacon and a cabbage soup,” he volunteered.
Marcus thought of the ingrained dirt on the old man’s hands, the powerful odor of the barnyard that hung about him, and the unappealing bill of fare.
“I shall cook,” Marcus said, “until we hire some female servants. Is there a woman in the village, and perhaps a maid or two, who could be persuaded to return?”
“Chickenhearted. They don’t like the ghosts.”
“You seem a sensible man, Jasper. Do you credit that Hinton Manor has suddenly become haunted?”
“I’ve heard strange noises,” the man replied with a cunning look. “Don’t bother me in the stables, but the females couldn’t abide it.”
“What kind of noises?”
“Chains clanking like some poor devil was tied up in a dungeon.”
“Don’t expect me to believe a house this age has a dungeon.”
“It has a cellar. And then there’s the powerful thumping and cries like a soul in agony. Women ran out of here like Old Nick himself was after them. Came hollering to me in the stables.”
“Didn’t you tell them it was nonsense?”
“No use arguing with females. Better without them,” he said with a shifty look. Jasper had described the ghostly incursions with a good deal too much relish.
“I shall have to get to the bottom of it,” Marcus said sternly.
A cursory search of the house revealed no traces of the supernatural—if ghosts left traces, which he doubted. But disturbances in the veil of dust that covered every surface suggested that someone quite corporeal had gone before him. Particularly around any closet, cupboard, or drawer. He thought of the “treasure” his father claimed to have left at Hinton Manor. While he didn’t believe the ghost of his sire had returned to haunt the place, it seemed possible that Marcus was not the only recipient of Lewis’s confidence. Though Oakley had denied any knowledge of whatever Lewis had placed in Mr. Hooke’s care, Marcus thought, with rising excitement, that there might be something of value hidden in this tumbledown house.
The November dusk fell early, making any organized search impossible. He returned to the kitchen to prepare dinner for his odd little household. In the glow of a lamp the utilitarian chamber became a warm cavern as the three men sat down to bacon, cheese, fresh bread, and in Jasper’s honor, a dish of parsnips swimming in butter. The fare—simple enough—seemed more delicious than any Marcus could remember. Perhaps food tasted better in one’s own house.
He wished he could say the same for his company. The fastidious valet and the filthy groom-gardener regarded each other with suspicion, hardening to dislike. As they ate in hostile silence Marcus conceived a plan to solve his labor problems. It was risky, but he was feeling lucky.
“Let’s play cards,” he said once the food and dishes had been put away.
Travis looked pained but Jasper’s eyes gleamed. “I’d sooner dice,” he said. Marcus recognized the look of a gamester. When the old man produced a set of knuckles from his pocket, Marcus examined them carefully and cast them a couple of times. They were well worn but clean.
Ever one to start cautiously, Marcus proposed chicken stakes and won a couple of farthings from each.
“Paltry,” he said after a while. “I propose different stakes. If I win, Travis will do the scullery work and clean the entire house until we hire more servants.”
“And if I win?” Travis was getting into the spirit of things.
“What do you want?”
“Your Lordship will permit me to cut and curl your hair.”
Marcus wasn’t one to shrink from a wager when the winnings outweighed the potential loss, but there were limits. “Cut only,” he sa
id firmly.
“I won’t do indoor work,” Jasper said.
“I wouldn’t ask it. If you lose, you go down to the village and tell everyone the ghost has been exorcised by the new owner and the maids can come back to work. Now, pick my stake.”
Jasper grinned. “Ten shillings.” A healthy sum, more than a week’s wages.
“Too much,” Marcus said. He’d get no respect if he didn’t haggle. “Half a crown.”
They finally settled on five shillings and sixpence and Marcus counted himself a good negotiator to get the wily old devil down so low. Not that he expected to have to pay. Fortune had turned his way at last. That optimistic glow in his veins had rarely let him down. It was to be a simple match, best of three tosses against each man.
Lady Luck was a fickle wench, drawing him in only to throw him out of bed.
It was over very quickly. Old Jasper pocketed his plunder and cackled his way off to the stable quarters. Travis fetched his scissors.
Chapter 10
Anne was furious that Lithgow had withdrawn from the fortune-hunting lists and left town. How dare he? How dare he cynically pursue her for his nefarious ends and then drop her like a burning coal when something better came along? She wanted him abject, groveling, and grinding his teeth as he obeyed her most outlandish demands. She wanted to lead him on for weeks and then turn down his eventual proposal with all the scorn the mercenary wretch deserved. She wanted to kick him somewhere painful and break his heart.
Instead, she was left behind with empty days stretching ahead without a man to torment, while he inherited a fine estate with—the greatest insult—a wonderful excavation that she’d give anything to explore. And he didn’t even care! All his purported interest in the classical past had been feigned, like his admiration for the plain but fabulously wealthy Anne Brotherton. So plain that the moment he had another option he took off with every appearance of relief.
Cynthia went out that evening with the Duke of Denford, and Anne was not invited to accompany them. She was left restless at home with Mr. Warner’s account of Roman Bath for company. The trace odor that suffused the pages reminded her of the day she acquired it, before she discovered the perfidy of its donor.
She rose the next morning determined to forget him. She’d spend the day at the British Museum and immerse herself in the unruffled enjoyment of her own passions, before her well-ordered life was interrupted by the machinations of a louse.
Unfortunately a well-ordered life seemed unspeakably dreary. Aside from the pleasure of Cynthia’s company she might as well be back at Camber. To cap her misery, the post contained a letter from her guardian.
The first several pages of the fat missive covered the usual report on dispositions of her estates. Since she had no say in the matter, their management being entirely in the hands of trustees, she read the account with dutiful boredom. The sting was in the tail, as though he thought the item of most interest to her was the least important.
Lord Algernon Tiverton is a suitable match. I expect to be back in England in the new year, weather in the Irish Sea permitting. At that time we shall settle the betrothal. Meantime, I hear no very good account of Lady Windermere. I have arranged for you to reside with Lady Ashfield where you will have ample opportunity to forward your acquaintance with your future spouse.
She put down the letter in a panic and hurried into the hall. She didn’t care that it was far too early for Cynthia to be awake. She needed moral support. It was one thing to resist Morrissey’s demands at a safe distance, but once he brought his forceful presence to bear she’d be bullied like his Irish subjects. Unless her reputation was already sufficiently tainted, she risked ending up a Brotherton-Tiverton.
It was all Lithgow’s fault for disappearing before his job was done.
“Miss Brotherton!” Lady Ashfield’s familiar and unwelcome voice stopped her as she placed her foot on the bottom stair.
Suppressing a sigh, Anne turned to face her would-be jailer.
“Have you heard from your guardian?” the countess demanded once Anne had dutifully led her back to the morning room.
“Lord Morrissey writes regularly.”
“I had a letter from him this morning but I suppose you haven’t yet received his instructions.”
“What did he have to say?” Anne said cautiously.
“He wants you to come to me. Immediately.”
“I cannot leave Lady Windermere alone. I promised I would remain with her until her husband returns.”
“Lady Windermere’s affairs are not yours. I’ve spoken before about what an unsatisfactory chaperone she is. She is not in a position to procure you invitations to the right houses and she keeps you on a long leash. She has no business letting you be seen with Lithgow.”
Anne shrugged. “Lord Lithgow has been kind enough to show me some of the sights of the capital.”
“My dear girl. While there’s nothing amiss about visiting Westminster Abbey with a gentleman and your maid, you can do so much better.”
Westminster Abbey? Anne couldn’t believe she’d trailed around all those tedious places, and the only one to reach Lady Ashfield’s ears was the abbey.
“Lord Algernon will be delighted to take you anywhere you wish in the next week. Then we shall leave for Sussex.”
“Uh . . .”
“A few weeks in the country will give you and Algernon ample time to improve your acquaintance.”
The threat of a month or more of Tiverton’s undiluted company restored Anne’s voice and wits. “I am grateful for the invitation and I would have enjoyed it immensely. But Lady Windermere has invited me to the country for a visit before we go on to the Duke and Duchess of Castleton. I prefer to spend the Christmas season with my cousin.”
“Morrissey wishes you to come to me.”
“Until I receive a direct command from my guardian, I believe I must honor my existing arrangements.”
The letter containing the fatal command seemed to emit a special glow from the writing desk in the corner. Anne forced her eyes away from that part of the room.
“As soon as you hear from Lord Morrissey let me know.” Lady Ashfield seemed put out, but what could she do? She couldn’t bodily drag Anne out into Hanover Square. “In the meantime, Lord Algernon will be at your disposal tomorrow.”
The minute Lady Ashfield left, Anne tore upstairs into Cynthia’s bedchamber without waiting for a response to her knock.
“Cynthia,” she called into the darkened room. “I’m sorry to waken you but . . .”
“It’s all right. I’m awake.” The few words communicated her distress.
“What is it, Cynthia? What has happened? Shall I ring for your maid?”
“Wait. Could you let in some light?”
Anne pulled aside one of the curtains in heavy embroidered brocade, just enough to dimly illuminate the room. Cynthia sat up in the big silk-draped bed, looking forlorn in her linen nightdress, fair hair untidy over her shoulders. “Oh Anne,” she said. “I’m afraid I am infatuated with the Duke of Denford and will not be able to resist him. The only answer is for me to leave town before I succumb.”
She stared in bewilderment when Anne smiled.
“I’m sorry,” Anne said, collecting herself. “I know you’re upset but this is too convenient. I came up to tell you the same thing. I took the liberty of informing Lady Ashfield that I was leaving for the country with you almost immediately.”
“I don’t understand,” Cynthia said. “Lithgow has already left. You’re in no danger from him.”
“I’m in danger of having to spend a month in the same house as Lord Algernon Tiverton.”
Dear Cynthia understood at once and set her household bustling in preparation for their departure. She remained in poor spirits, however.
“Do you truly love the Duke of Denford?” Anne asked. A flirtation with the duke was one thing, but Cynthia was, after all, a married lady.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so, yet he fas
cinates me. I never meant for things to go so far. The thought of being at Beaulieu oppresses me. It’s where Windermere and I lived after we were wed. I came to London to escape it. Besides,” she added with a touch of defiance, “it’s where he expects me to remain while he gads about the world and I am not inclined to oblige him.”
“I have another suggestion,” Anne said. “What I really want to do is visit Hinton in Wiltshire.”
“Hinton?” Cynthia looked baffled.
“Hinton Manor is the house Lithgow just inherited.”
“Anne! That is shocking.”
“Please listen. I have a plan. First of all we’ll stay at an inn nearby. With you as my chaperone and several servants in attendance there can be no great objection.”
“Perhaps.”
“In fact, we can even let most people—Lady Ashfield and my guardian, for instance—think I am at your house. I have not yet been indiscreet enough to deter Lord Algernon Tiverton, but a little sojourn in the vicinity of a rogue should take care of that. If he proves persistent I shall give him a hint about my shocking behavior. I see it as insurance.”
Cynthia shook her head. “There’s something I don’t understand. Why on earth would you wish to see Lithgow again? My example should be warning enough to leave the rogue alone.”
“I’m not going to fall in love with him, I promise, but he has something I want: a Roman settlement on his land. He said he—”
“My dear Anne! You cannot dig up antiquities in December!”
“Oh stuff! I never feel the cold. You may stay indoors. I shan’t ask you to join me.”
“If you do I shall certainly refuse. If you dig, you dig alone.”
Anne grinned. “I don’t think so. I shall make Lord Lithgow help me. He said he’d be happy to show me the place and I shall take him up on the invitation.”
“Poor man. I almost feel sorry for him.”
“Not I. I have not yet finished bedeviling his life.”
Chapter 11
Marcus explored his new possession. He walked every inch of his land and spoke with his tenants, a downtrodden lot who seemed pleased to have a landlord take an interest, but without much hope that he could improve their lot. They were in no position to pay higher rents and provide enough income to undertake the needed improvements to the land. As for the manor house itself, it had the potential for beauty, with fine paneling and handsome plasterwork in every room. He essayed a few repairs, but he needed skilled workers and craftsmen. Everywhere he turned he saw a problem that required money, a great deal more than he had in his ever-dwindling account.
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