She plopped herself down on the steps in full view of anyone passing, but the place she’d chosen was nearly deserted, as the market was winding down for the day. We’d see anyone who came close enough to listen to us in time to change our conversation.
I tucked up my skirts and sat on the steps, her basket between us. As I bent to examine the produce, Hannah whispered to me.
“Sorry I didn’t send word. Didn’t want none to intercept it.”
My heart beat thick and fast, both wanting to hear what she had to say and fearing the information. “That is perfectly all right.”
Hannah today looked nothing like the free and easy woman I’d spoken to on the Portobello Road. She hunched herself up, her fingers crabbed as she picked over the fruit. I had to wonder where she’d obtained the very realistic red wig. She’d hardly have time to dye her hair and then dye it back again before she returned to Belgrave Square.
“It’s been an interesting week,” Hannah said in a soft voice as we appeared to haggle over the pears. “An interesting household. What’cha want to know?”
“Everything. But I suppose you should relay it in some order. First, is Daniel—Mr.McAdam—well?”
“Aw, he’s a right one, inn’t he?” Hannah grinned, and I immediately felt better. If Daniel was busily charming all those around him, then he was in good health. “He don’t trust meone whit. I know that, because he asks me all sorts of questions about where I worked in the past. I have to dance to keep my secrets, but I’d worked out a story before I went, so I feed him bits of it at a time. I think he’s starting to believe me.”
“What about the others in the household? Do they believe you?”
“They do. Your McAdam is far more suspicious than them, which is good for me, and for him. He ain’t calling himself McAdam, you know. He’s Thomas Delamarre. Frenchy ancestry.” Dimples showed in Hannah’s cheeks.
I’d not heard the name before, but it made sense for Daniel to take a new alias for this assignment. No doubt Monaghan and others had made certain his background tale was impeccable.
“What happened to the other secretary?” I asked. “The man Mr.McAdam replaced?”
“No idea,” Hannah said. “Housekeeper says his name was Mr.Howard. A soft-spoken, polite man, she said, but one day, he packed his bags and went. There the night before—gone in the morning.”
“Sacked?”
Hannah shrugged. “Housekeeper don’t know. A few days later, in comes Mr.McAdam. Housekeeper likeshim.”
I was not surprised about that. I wondered if Monaghan had removed the secretary, by whatever underhanded means he’d employed, in order to have the way clear for Daniel.
“Is Viscount Peyton truly an invalid?” I asked.
Hannah nodded. “Can’t walk more than a step, sleeps half the time. I’ve charged into a sitting room unexpectedly, meaning to catch him walking around on his own, but I think his ailment is true. When he has to leave his chair, he’s carried about by his big brute of a valet, name of John Fagan. Fagannever has much to say, and I can’t decide if he’s shy or surly. He’s devoted to his lordship, by all I can see.”
I longed to write this down, but I’d have to wait. I’d be too obvious whipping out my notebook and scribbling like mad.
“Tell me about the household,” I said. “You mentioned the housekeeper.”
“Mrs.Proctor. She’s not a bad sort but a stickler for keeping every room in that great mansion neat. I’m wearing out me fingers putting everything in order.” Hannah showed me reddened fingertips poking from worn gloves. “Two downstairs maids who live in fear of Mrs.Proctor. I’m the upstairs maid, taking over from a lass who went off to get married. No one speaks of her.”
“Why not?” I asked. Disappearing maids and secretaries caught my interest.
“Mrs.Proctor says stiffly that she deserted the master and is best forgotten. Lord Peyton walks on water, according to the staff—if he could walk, that is. In the kitchens is Mrs.McGuire, the cook, and Millie the kitchen maid. No footmen or butler. Fagan does all those jobs, in addition to valeting. Mrs.Proctor says because it saves on expense.”
Male servants were subject to an extra tax, because they were considered a luxury while female servants were deemed a necessity. The only reason the Mount Street house had footmen and Mr.Davis was because the bills were paid by Lord Rankin. If Mrs.Bywater ran the place, she’d have a maid of all work upstairs and one poor soul slaving in the kitchen to produce lavish meals on pennies.
“Anyone sinister among these servants?” I asked.
“No.” Hannah shook her head. “Everyone seems to be what they claim.”
“Does anyone else come to the house?” I asked. “Family, friends, hangers-on?”
“Yes, indeed. Lord Peyton’s well-liked. For family, he has a sister called Lady Fontaine. Christian name, Mary. She arrived two days ago, come to stay for a time. His lordship was not best pleased to see her, I can tell you. A widow, she is, and apparently remains for months at a time, whenever it suits her. Or, as Mrs.Proctor says, when she runs short of funds and decides it’s time to live off her brother.”
A family member appearing hard on the heels of a new secretary and new maid was a coincidence worth noting. “What is she like?” I asked.
“Reminds me a bit of Lady Mortimer—you know, the one who pinched the spoons and left me to take the blame. I unpacked Lady Fontaine’s things, and she had many little trinkets tucked throughout her trunk and other bags. She told me they were bits and bobs she liked and didn’t want to leave behind, but they’re odd things. Some very costly. Others sparkly junk—little boxes and such that have been decorated to look rich but ain’t. I should know.”
