Further, if therewerewagers, Miss Dell should never have been told of it. There were always bets laid involving ladies—who would they accept, what sex the first child, would a wife countenance her husband’s latest flirtation. Great sums had changed hands over whether Lady G would allow Lady H to sit at her table when all and sundry knew Lord G was following Lady H round the town like a lovesick puppy. Yet, nobodytoldLady Gordon that fortunes had been laid relating to her current disposition!
In any case, he would not approve of bets laid regarding Miss Dell. Oh, it had been one thing to hear of the bets for and against Lady Sarah. That particular lady had led him on a merry chase and had been well able to look after herself. Miss Dell, though. She was different. He could not say why, exactly. She simply was and nobody should be laying wagers with her name attached.
“That is the house,” LaRue said, his voice dripping with boredom and ennui. “What do we discover?”
“I will not know until we discover it,” Giles said, looking critically at the rather non-descript abode. It was one of those houses that masked the finances of those who lived in it. It was not large, but it was not small. It was not rich, but it was not poor. It was the sort of middling place one might pass a thousand times and not remember a thing about. Very like Sir John himself.
It was fronted by a fenced garden with two old trees that must block any sort of sunlight attempting to make its way indoors. It seemed kept up well enough, at least from the outside. Of course, if Giles had read Sir John’s temperament correctly, the inside of the house was likely to have not a pin out of place. The fellow was far too grim for anything approaching a jolly lived-in hearth.
The front door swung open and Giles pulled LaRue behind a standing carriage. “There he is,” Giles whispered.
LaRue peered around the back of the carriage and then turned back to his master. “Sérieusement? He is absurd.”
“He is, rather,” Giles said, though he knew LaRue’s sole measure was Sir John’s rather uninspired dress. He watched Sir John call down a passing hackney and get inside.
“He is gone,” Giles said. “Now we must just keep a watch out for whatever servants he keeps.”
“Inthathouse?” LaRue said. “A cook and a parlor maid, no more.”
Giles was not certain of it. He really did not see how one could survive with only a cook and a maid.
“Surely,” he said, “there must be at least a butler. Who would answer the door?”
LaRue rolled his eyes to the heavens. “Who knocks on the door of the absurd man? Nobody.”
“I appreciate your theory, LaRue,” Giles said, “but we ought to be careful all the same. I have yet to set foot in a house that did not have a butler.”
LaRue examined his carefully polished nails. “And yet, you ride through the neighborhoods of filth, pickpockets, and diseased ladies. Who istheirbutler?”
That was true, of course. But for all his disdain of Sir John, he was a titled person. A low and foreign title, but title all the same. It seemed incredible that he would not employ a butler.
LaRue, seeing his master’s dubiousness over his claims, muttered, “Les riches sont tellement stupides.”
“I will pretend I did not hear the word stupid just now,” Giles said. “Rather than argue what servants are in the house, we will saunter over and see if we can have a look in the windows. If we can slip into the garden unnoticed, we can use those trees for cover. If someone spots us, I’ll say I heard the house was empty and being sold.”
LaRue did not comment on the plan, though Giles was certain his thoughts were aggrieved. His valet would be affronted to be forced into doing two things he excessively disliked—walking and being out of doors.
The street was not a busy one, and he and LaRue bided their time, strolling along the front of the house until Giles saw their opportunity. A couple had turned the far corner and a governess had just hustled her charges into their house. The street was deserted.
Giles sauntered to the gate as if he had meant to go there all along. It was unlocked and they were inside the garden in a moment.
Giles made his way to the front of the house, using the trees for cover and ignoring his valet’s various mutterings. He peered through a set of wide windows to a room lined with empty shelves in dark wood. There was a desk to one side, and a chair behind it.
“Very odd,” he said.
“Naturellment,” LaRue said, leaning against the house.
“It is a library,” Giles said. “A library with no books in it.”
“Nothing to read. A dream for you, yes?”
Giles ignored this latest insult hurled from his valet and said, “Sir John runs round the town advertising himself as a scholar. What kind of scholar has an empty library?”
LaRue shrugged and Giles made his way to the other side of the house. Peering through those windows, he saw a near desolate room. The only furnishings were a chair and side table pulled up to the fireplace. The only item in the room was a small book on the table.
Behind him, he heard the whine of the garden gate swinging open. He pulled LaRue behind the trunk of the nearest tree.
A charwoman carrying a bucket hobbled past them and to the doors. She took out a key and let herself into the house.
