The greatest problem, though he had not said it aloud, was the fact that Lady Ruby Ballimore had seen him as Professor Quenby. And not just in passing—she had been the architect of Quenby’s downfall. He’d not have supposed she would recognize him, without the hair powder and spectacles and stooping, except for those damned penetrating eyes. They’d been in the same room for roughly two minutes before she started demanding to know where she’d seen him before. If she realized he was the man who had sold the counterfeit statues to Gravesmuir, Archer would not just be out of a job at Pomeroy House—he’d be tossed in prison, probably. Or else transported. Or hanged.
But he couldn’t tell his crew that. The very idea of letting them know how close they were to disaster made his skin feel too tight.
After his dismissal from the navy, Archer had found himself devoid of ship, career prospects, and any clear sense of his future. But he’d not been left alone. Wall, Eugénie, Gerry, and Lamentation had stayed with him.
Herefusedto let them regret it. And so instead, he would obfuscate and bluff and lie like his life depended on it—even, if necessary, to them.
He didn’t need a perspicacious little blond to remind him that he was a scoundrel. He already knew.
Before Archer could finish racking his brain for some new scheme, he was interrupted by the soft sound of throat-clearing behind him. He spun about so fast he nearly knocked the chair over, which rather counteracted the impression of cool confidence he meant to convey.
In the door to the kitchen stood the ladies-in-waiting. Lady Ruby was at the forefront—she seemed, somehow, to be the leader of the trio—and she held a coal scuttle clutched to her chest. Her lavish frock, which had been fresh as new cream when she’d arrived on his doorstep, was now liberally streaked with grime, and her straw hat had vanished. Her face was even pinker than it had been that morning, and her lips were pursed, a state that did nothing at all to counteract her general impression of quivering edibility.
Archer smiled as though he’d never been so delighted to see anyone, which was perhaps the greatest lie his face had ever told.
“Good evening,” he said. “How may I help you?”
Lady Ruby extended the empty scuttle, an action that revealed even more dirt upon her person. “Have you any coal?” She did not pause to let him answer, only continued to ramble. “We may not need it, of course, since it’s July. But I thought it wise to acquire some, in case we do. Need it, I mean. I don’t know how cold it will be in our chambers overnight.” She wound down, her face having gone from pink to rather red.
They did, of course, have coal.
But as Archer regarded Lady Ruby, a new thought floated to the surface of his mind. What would happen if they didn’t?
What if the conditions at Pomeroy House were inhospitable enough that the ladies-in-waiting simply... left?
They might complain to the Monfalcone ambassador, who might write to the royal family. But Archer suspected he could talk his way out of questions, if he had enough time and distance. He could probably pass their aspersions off as a misunderstanding, some misapprehension on the part of a trio of spoiled London ladies.
And they would be gone. There was no chance Lady Ruby Ballimore could identify Archer as Quenby if she weren’t here to look him in the eye.
He might, if they scared the ladies off, lose this position.
But he would not lose his freedom. And he would not lose his crew.
Before Archer’s embryonic plan could properly develop in his mind, Lamentation leapt up from the kitchen table.
“Of course,” Lamentation said enthusiastically. “Of course we have coal. You needn’t come all the way down here. We can bring some up to your rooms.” He took the coal scuttle from Lady Ruby’s arms, and she offered him a pleased smile.
Archer gazed at her. He recalled her from Gravesmuir’s—recalled the ruthless clarity of her words. But she did not seem quite so ruthless now. She was pink and smiling, for God’s sake. She was a sweet, innocent little debutante. While she was upstairs, she had changed her gloves into a pair that was even fussier, some delicate concoction of ribbon and lace.
He knew how to talk—even to pristine aristocrat’s daughters. He knew how to persuade people to do what he wanted and leave them feeling it had been their own notion all along.
Perhaps outfoxing Lady Ruby Ballimore would not be so very difficult.
Lamentation was cheerfully gesturing around the room with the coal scuttle, introducing Mr. Theophilus Wall—“our chef,veryexperienced”—and Mrs. Eugénie Wall, who was, evidently, Pomeroy House’s secretary. Why Lamentation thought a mansion would need its own secretary, Archer could not begin to guess.
The tall freckled one—Miss Drake, Archer thought she was called—cast a suspicious glance at Wall. “The chef, is it? It certainly smells... pungent down here.”
Lamentation opened his mouth again, presumably to bring up the puppies, but Archer clapped his hand on Lamentation’s shoulder to silence him.
He smiled at the ladies-in-waiting. It was a real smile, now that he was sure of his plan, not the pasted-on grimace he’d managed that morning.
And then he did something he was good at.
He started to lie.
“Yes,” he said warmly. “Mr. Wall is our chef. He’s been with the Monfalcone royal family for nearly a decade. A personal favorite of the di Sangro princes and princesses. And in honor of your arrival, he’s concocted one of his specialties.”
All of his people were staring at him like he’d gone off his head, so he took Lady Ruby by the elbow and gently pivoted her away from the crew. “Lamentation. Gerry. Can you prepare plates for the ladies-in-waiting?”
