“I’ll get to the point, then.” Grimsby stood just inside the door to the room, hands behind his back and his face the proper bland expressionlessness of the well-trained servant. Only his eyes gave him away. The black was lit from within with what could only be malice. I recognized that expression, having seen it frequently in Crispin’s eyes growing up. “His Grace the Duke has recently been looking for information about what his heirs have been up to while not under the roof of Sutherland Hall.”
“As is his right,” Christopher said evenly, whether he truly believed it or not. As far as I was aware, he didn’t. We both agreed that the duke was a meddlesome, ill-spirited old man who didn’t understand how things worked in the modern age, and who would be better off leaving his children and grandchildren to live their own lives as they pleased out from under the ducal thumb. But of course neither of us could admit that to Grimsby, who would be sure to pass the intelligence right back to His Grace.
Grimsby… well, he didn’t exactly smirk. No servant in his right mind smirks, not if he wants to keep his job. But there was the distinct impression of a smirk somewhere on his countenance, even if it wasn’t visible. “Of course, Mr. Astley. To proceed, I spent a couple of days in London last month, and I know what the two of you are up to.”
Well, that was coming right out with it, wasn’t it? Nothing subtle about that. Christopher and I exchanged a look before we both turned back to Grimsby.
“What exactly is it you think we’ve been up to?”
“Not this,” Grimsby said, with a glance between us that took in, and dismissed, the way Christopher’s hand was holding mine. “You—”
He looked at me, “—have been seeking employment with various publishers and publications. Looking for a job. Looking for independence.”
He made it sound like a bad thing, when I’d rather thought I’d been doing something admirable. Looking for a way to support myself rather than live on the charity of Christopher’s allowance and the handouts from Aunt Roz.
“I would have thought His Grace would rather I support myself than angle to marry his grandson,” I said.
“If it were Master Crispin and the title,” Grimsby answered with a grimace; I grimaced, too, at the idea of marrying Crispin, “then yes, His Grace would rather you support yourself than become involved with the family any further than you already are.”
He’d rather I jumped off a bridge somewhere, too, clearly.
“But since it’s Master Christopher, His Grace would rather the two of you do things the proper way.”
“And marry?”
“That would be His Grace’s preference,” Grimsby said blandly. “However—”
He turned to Christopher, who went a shade paler, “—then there’s you.”
Christopher opened his mouth, probably to argue, and Grimsby shut him down promptly. “I have been employed in His Grace’s household for many years. I have watched you grow up. Dressing yourself in your flat-mate’s clothes and using your flat-mate’s makeup isn’t enough to disguise you from those who know you.”
Clearly not, if Crispin had also recognized him. I realized, with a stab of guilt, that I hadn’t even had a chance to tell Christopher that yet.
“Grandfather didn’t say anything about it,” Christopher said. There was a hint of defiance, or maybe a question, in his tone.
Grimsby’s lips curved. It was so slight it was almost invisible, but it was there. Satisfaction. “I thought perhaps it was something you would prefer His Grace not learn about. Or for that matter Lord and Lady Herbert.”
I honestly didn’t think Lady Herbert—Aunt Roz—would care what Christopher did in his spare time. She’d worry about the dangers, of course. She’d worry about arrest and prison and hard labor, and ostracization and ridicule and whatever else might come along with Christopher’s preferences. But I didn’t think she’d trulycare, not about anything but her youngest son’s happiness. If dressing up in gowns and wearing lipstick made him happy, why would that matter to his loving mother?
Uncle Herbert, on the other hand, might care a bit more, especially about the ostracization and ridicule. And of course His Grace the Duke would be fit to be tied.
“I suppose you thought I might like to show you my appreciation in a monetary way?” Christopher asked dryly. His hand had tightened around mine to the point where it was almost painful. His voice shook slightly, but I wasn’t certain whether it was from anger or fear, or perhaps a bit of both.
Grimsby inferred, as politely as you wish, that he had indeed thought such might be the case.
“How much?” Christopher asked. Again, I didn’t know whether he was too angry or perhaps too worried to be more circumspect, or whether he had simply decided to be shockingly blunt.
Grimsby suggested that perhaps a thousand pounds might be a suitable amount, and I could hear Christopher’s breath catch. Mine certainly did. A thousand pounds is a lot of money, especially when you have no income beyond the allowance you get from your doting father.
A father who might not continue to be doting, and so might not continue to be generous, if the cause for the blackmail is revealed.
“I’ll need a little time,” Christopher began, just as footsteps hurried past outside in the hallway. A moment later, a door slammed nearby, and we all jumped, even Grimsby.
A second later it happened again, and then there was the sound of muffled voices.
The valet had clearly been recalled to himself. “Perhaps we might discuss the matter in private at some later point,” he said. “I should attend to His Grace.”
“Outside the house,” Christopher said. “There are too many people here.”
