The Lady In Question

by Victoria Alexander

  “Very well, ma’am.” He turned and started toward the door.

  Fortunately, he was fairly skilled at tasks that called for a certain amount of organization. He had, in the past, often compiled pieces of information that made no sense until he arranged them in a logical order either on paper or within his own mind. He’d viewed such matters as a sort of puzzle and it had always been quite satisfying to see the pieces fall into place. And if his ability with numbers was poor, it was not nonexistent. It simply took him some time and, in this case, he could blame that on advanced age.

  “Gordon.”

  He turned back. “Yes, my lady?”

  “Do have her prepare a plate for you as well.” She paused and grimaced apologetically. “If you don’t mind, that is. I realize it’s highly unusual for me to ask you to join me, but I suspect ours will be a rather unusual household, especially as it is so small. However, if you feel at all uncomfortable, I shall quite understand if you prefer to eat alone.”

  “I shall be delighted to join you, ma’am.”

  “And I shall be most grateful.” She cast him a relieved smile and he was oddly touched by the gratitude on her face.

  He strode from the room and headed toward the back stairs, then belowground to the kitchens. It was a fair-sized house, not overly large but perfect for an unmarried man with little need for more than a place to sleep on those occasions when he chanced to reside in London.

  Wilmont’s butler and maid had quit not merely because of his reported death but because they too were in the employ of the department. They were servants, but with training that went beyond that of mere household skills, and upon Wilmont’s death, received new assignments. Men in Wilmont’s and Tony’s line of work needed to be surrounded by those who were alert for any unusual occurrence. Those who could be trusted unconditionally, whose loyalty was unquestioned.

  The house, of course, had been thoroughly searched after Wilmont’s death, simply standard department procedure. Nothing of significance was found, although it wasn’t until last week that the department learned precisely what it was looking for. And it had no idea who else might be looking.

  He pushed open the door to the kitchen. “Mrs. Miller?”

  The woman was seated at the table and glanced up at him with a slight smile. “Yes?”

  Mrs. Miller was one of those rare women who could become whatever she wished with a minimal amount of effort. She’d been with the department as long as Tony had, and when it came to altering her appearance, she was as good, possibly even better, than he. He’d seen her range from seductively stunning to plain and nondescript.

  For this assignment, she had the look of a woman who could blend into a crowd without notice, without attracting so much as a second glance, without anyone remembering her presence. Her age was indeterminable, somewhere between thirty and sixty. Her hair was dull, her form dumpy, her clothes ill-fitting. All in all, she was quite unmemorable and, as always, Tony was both impressed and envious of her skill.

  “Lady Wilmont requests a light supper be served in the library later. I shall be joining her.”

  Mrs. Miller raised a brow. “Oh, you will, will you? I daresay that was a bit quicker than expected.”

  “She wants to go over Wilmont’s papers and wishes to begin at once.” Tony blew an annoyed breath. “In my references, Pribble claimed I was excellent at matters of finance.”

  Mrs. Miller laughed. “Pribble does enjoy a good joke.” She studied Tony thoughtfully. “And, you never know what you might uncover.”

  Tony’s gaze met hers. “I don’t expect to uncover anything.”

  Certainly there was a moment last week when the idea that Wilmont might still be alive raised its head. And there was a great deal of money missing, enough to tempt even the most trustworthy of men. It was discarded at once, of course. Regardless of what he’d been working on, Wilmont would have made his existence known well before now if indeed he was alive. His loyalty to the crown had never been questioned.

  “Still,” Mrs. Miller said slowly, “things aren’t always what they seem.”

  “I know Wilmont would never betray his country,” Tony said firmly.

  Charles Wilmont had been his closest friend, indeed his only friend. They had worked together during the war and continued to work together in the years since, saving each other’s lives on more than one occasion. Wilmont was gregarious and sociable while Tony was reserved and solitary, and the two had found a good counterpoint in each other’s characters.

  “Have Mac bring in supper when it’s ready.” Tony smiled ruefully. “Any chance it will be so much as mildly edible?”

  Mrs. Miller grinned. “Probably not.”

  There had been talk in the department of instructing Mrs. Miller in the finer points of the culinary arts, but the woman had balked every time the subject came up. If her cooking improved at all, she knew she would be forever trapped in the role of servant when such occasions arose. She had avoided domesticity up to this point and such activity was certainly not why she had joined the department in the first place, nor were such skills why the department valued her.

  “Perhaps we can get someone a bit more skilled to join us,” Tony said hopefully.

  He would have preferred an adequate cook in the first place, but it was thought there should be another woman in the house aside from Lady Wilmont and, budgets being what they were in the department, Mrs. Miller was the only female available.

  “A man needs to be able to count on a decent meal, after all, in work like this.” John MacPherson sidled into the room. “It seems to me a competent cook is a reasonable expenditure.” Mac winked at Mrs. Miller. “Not that you don’t have other qualities that make up for it.”

  “I’m assuming you’re not talking about her skills as a housekeeper either.” Tony grinned.

  “If I’d wanted to spend my life cooking and cleaning,” she said in an overly sweet manner, “Mr. Miller would still be with us.”

  Tony and Mac traded glances. It had long been a question as to the fate of the mythical Mr. Miller, and even whether he had existed at all. Indeed, no one knew much about Mrs. Miller’s background either in the days before she had worked for the English, brilliantly spiriting information across enemy lines. She spoke several languages fluently, hadn’t a single drop of domestic blood in her veins and exuded a seductive presence that made most men in the department envy the long-gone Mr. Miller.

  Tony cleared his throat. “Just do the best you can.”

  Mrs. Miller laughed. “You needn’t look that way, St. Stephens, I daresay, I’ve yet to kill anyone with my cooking.”

  “There’s always a first time,” Mac said under his breath.

  Tony stifled a laugh. If Mrs. Miller was a mystery, John MacPherson was an open book. Tony and Mac had served together during the war and afterward, and Mac was one of the few people Tony ever had or ever would trust with his life.

  Tony started back to the library. At once his thoughts returned to the situation at hand and, more, how it had gotten so horribly out of control.

  Wilmont had originally been charged with uncovering the truth regarding allegations leveled against senior members of the Effington family, specifically the duke himself and one or more of his brothers. The proof of those allegations was reputedly contained in correspondence currently in the hands of persons unknown who had offered them to the government for a hefty price. The political influence and power of the Effington family was such that, whether true or false, the information contained in what the department had dubbed the Effington Papers would cause a scandal of immense proportions, threatening the very stability of the government itself. There was no question as to payment, but Wilmont and Tony’s superior, Lord Kimberly, and the man he reported to in this most secret branch of the Foreign Office, were determined to find out if indeed the charges were true.

  Wilmont was simply supposed to pay court to one of the unmarried Effington chits with an eye toward being a welcome guest at u
pcoming family gatherings. A gentleman in active pursuit of an unmarried Effington female could count on being asked to any number of family entertainments, even perhaps a visit to Effington Hall, the country seat of the Duke of Roxborough. And if said gentleman was of questionable reputation, the odds were excellent that more than one member of that powerful family would want to meet — no, scrutinize — the suitor. In Wilmont’s case, the scrutiny would be on both sides.

  It was decided that one of the twin nieces of the Duke of Roxborough would best suit this purpose. They were, after all, at an age when they might well be getting anxious over their prospects for marriage and bored by the possibilities presented them. A man like Wilmont, regardless of his reputation, could appeal to such young women.

  Tony was surprised when Wilmont focused his attention on Miss Philadelphia Effington, reputed to be more levelheaded than her sister and, one would think, more skeptical regarding the attentions of a well-known rake. More than one coin changed hands among members of the department the day Wilmont’s choice was made known. But he was never supposed to marry her. His attentions were not to go anywhere near that far.

  Matters spiraled quickly out of control after that. Wilmont claimed to have been contacted directly regarding the sale of the Effington Papers, possibly because he was now an Effington by marriage, and insisted on being allowed to handle the purchase. He was given the princely sum of fifty thousand pounds in banknotes for that purpose. The exchange was to take place aboard the packet to France, but neither money nor the papers were recovered after Wilmont’s death. Nor was there any further contact from the parties involved, who in spite of the department’s best efforts remained unidentified. It was assumed they, along with Wilmont, had gone down in the channel and the entire incident was believed at an end.

  It was not until an unrelated investigation just last week had turned up the information that Wilmont was seen on the docks at Dover with a woman and furthermore never boarded the ill-fated boat. Now attention had turned toward his widow and his house. And the question arose as to whether he was dead at all.

  Men were sent at once to the small village near Grasmere where Lady Wilmont was residing, to ascertain if her husband had visited or perhaps even joined her. Nothing untoward was discovered. Indeed, it appeared Lady Wilmont had spent these last months in solitude broken only by long walks to the village and rare visits from her brothers.

  However, her return to London coincided with a report that the woman seen with Wilmont might also be in London. Sources indicated, as well, that she did not have the notebook and was determined to recover it. Whatever was in that notebook had already cost Wilmont his life and the department had no doubt his wife’s life could be at risk as well. As it was entirely the government’s fault she was in this position, and given she was the niece of a powerful duke, it was decided to employ every resource necessary to protect her. The most discreet way to do that — as well as determine what, if anything, she knew, and possibly trap whoever was seeking the notebook and who, more than likely, was responsible for Wilmont’s death — was to have trusted agents pose as her staff. Without her knowledge, of course.

  The lady in question was studying Wilmont’s papers when Tony quietly reentered the room. He had to admit she was lovely, and so was her sister. Neither was a great beauty, yet they were indeed well above average. The sister, Cassandra, was said to be the most impulsive and outspoken of the two, but from what Tony had observed thus far, that well might be a mistaken perception. Lady Wilmont had a spark in her eye and a firm set to her chin that indicated she was made of far sterner stuff than anyone had suspected.

  “Now then, Gordon,” she said without looking up, “if you would be so kind as to join me, we can begin.”

  He stepped to the desk and hesitated. Anthony St. Stephens had never in his life been at a loss as to suitable behavior, but at this particular moment he had no idea what to do. Should he stand? Sit? Lean over her shoulder? And wouldn’t that be presumptuous? Not merely for a servant, but for any man?

  He tried to tell himself this ruse was no different than any other he’d perpetrated in the course of his work, but the simple fact of the matter was that it was indeed entirely different. Those he had fooled in the past in the service of national security were criminals or in the traitorous employ of foreign powers, not simply the misguided daughter of one of Britain’s most prestigious families. At once his masquerade seemed not merely dishonorable but somehow morally wrong.

  “Do sit down, Gordon, and stop hovering,” Lady Wilmont said under her breath. “I cannot abide people hovering over me.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He drew a deep breath, pulled up a nearby chair and settled himself on the side of the desk to her right, a respectable distance from her, yet close enough to examine the papers now spread out before her.

  She glanced at him and smiled. “Excellent.” Her gaze returned to the myriad of documents. “I wish to start with these. They appear to detail property holdings of some sort, but I don’t quite understand…”

  It was all far more complicated than he had anticipated, and within moments he was immersed in the intricacies of unraveling Wilmont’s finances. Wilmont’s interests were more varied and extensive than Tony had imagined and fully captured his attention.

  He almost managed to ignore the vague floral scent of Lady Wilmont’s fragrance that drifted toward him whenever she gestured and the startling blue of her eyes when her puzzled gaze would meet his and the most intriguing dimple that appeared in her right cheek on those rare occasions when she smiled.

  Almost, but not quite.

  In a corner of his mind not taken up with the complicated documents and legal papers, he wondered if there wasn’t far more to Lady Wilmont than appeared on the surface.

  And wondered as well why he found it so intriguing.

  Chapter 3

  “Well” — Delia studied the piece of cheese she held between her fingers ruefully — “this is one meal she couldn’t muck up.”

  Gordon snorted in agreement, then started. “I beg your pardon, ma’ am.”

  “Nonsense, Gordon. Your reaction was perfectly acceptable, given Mrs. Miller’s complete lack of culinary skills.” She popped the cheese into her mouth, then settled back in her chair and considered the platters the housekeeper had prepared. Cold meats and cheese and breads were not precisely what Delia had had in mind when she had requested a light supper. Why, at home, Cook would have prepared a savory capon in the lightest of cream sauces flavored expertly with delicate spices. Delia sighed at the memory.

  “Forgive me for mentioning it, ma’am, but perhaps it would be best if you gave me leave to hire someone to assist Mrs. Miller with the cooking.” Gordon’s expression was noncommittal. “While we still have the strength to do so.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then laughed and noted how delightful it was to laugh over something totally inconsequential. “I daresay our strength will hold out for a bit longer, but she’s not particularly competent, is she?”

  “Not in the kitchen, no, ma’am.”

  “It’s quite disappointing, as you said her references were excellent.”

  “References can be misleading, my lady,” he said firmly.

  “Yes, well, I imagine you are the expert on that.”

  A bushy brow twitched above his spectacles. “Ma’am?”

  “You were charged with the hiring of other servants in your previous position, were you not?”

  “Yes, of course.” There was a subtle note of relief in his voice.

  Delia considered him thoughtfully. Poor old soul. Perhaps his faculties really were fading, but she’d seen no evidence of it in the work they’d done thus far this evening. His mind seemed as sharp as a much younger man’s. Still, since his arrival, she’d noticed he’d seemed vaguely confused about the performance of his duties. Nothing truly significant, it just appeared he was never quite certain what to do next.

  She stifled a sigh. This was indeed an unusu
al household she’d amassed: a cook and housekeeper who could neither cook nor clean adequately, a Scot with a twinkle in his eye who was rather too forward for a footman and a doddering old man. She’d allow him — no, encourage him — to find someone to take over culinary duties for Mrs. Miller but the woman could keep her position as housekeeper, at least for now. Mrs. Miller did seem a pleasant sort, and if she was not overly competent, a friendly nature was adequate recompense. It could be the woman simply needed time to settle into the household, as, in truth, did they all, and her skills would surely improve.

  As for Gordon, he too could remain in Delia’s employ for as long as he wished. He was kind and well meaning and obviously needed this position. Given his age, it would no doubt be his last. Perhaps they could find an underbutler or another footman to assist him. In hiring him, as well as Mrs. Miller and MacPherson, Delia had made a commitment and she would honor it. One had a certain responsibility to those in one’s employ. In many ways, they became not merely part of one’s household but members of the family. While she did not know any of her staff well as of yet, already she didn’t doubt for a moment that all three would feel a similar allegiance toward her.

  Delia leaned back in her chair. “May I ask you a question of a personal nature, Gordon?”

  For a fraction of a moment he hesitated. “As you wish, ma’am.”

  “Why do you powder your hair? It’s rather old-fashioned and makes you seem much older than you are, as does the mustache. Besides, you have rather an abundance of hair. Many men, my own father included” — she grinned — “would give a great deal for your head of hair.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” He paused, gathering his thoughts, no doubt. “I am of an age, ma’am, where the wearing of wigs or powdering of hair was required of men in my position. I suspect I am simply set in my ways. As for the mustache, nothing more than a personal preference and no doubt vanity on my part.”