“Mrs. Right. What are you doing? Why are you lurking in the dark? With a large knife?”
“I might ask you the same thing.”
“I don’t have a knife.”
“What are you doing here, though?
“I’m doing what I was hired to do.”
“Which is?”
“Act as the butler, as you well know.”
“I know no such thing. You have not acted as a butler, you have acted as a specter. Listen closely, Mr. Wicket, now that I know where you are hiding out, I will tear that wine cellar apart and throw out all your belongings when I find them. Everything you own, out on the street. Unless you care to start telling me exactly what I wish to know.”
In the dim moonlight casting a soft haze through the kitchens, Mrs. Right noted Mr. Wicket glancing back at the wine cellar door. “Fine,” he said. “What is it you wish to know?”
“Where exactly in the cellar are you holed up? We’ve looked there before.”
Mr. Wicket shrugged. “Lady Marchfield installed me in the house over a month before you arrived. I built a false wall at the back of it. Had your footmen been more astute and perceptive, they might have noticed that the length of the cellar had shrunk by several feet. They might have noticed cement not entirely cured.”
“My footmen are not in the habit of suspecting everything they look at. Now why are you here, exactly?”
“That, I cannot tell you.”
Mrs. Right picked up the cleaver. “You’d better tell me, else I make your life a living misery. I’ll drive you out of that cellar with sulfur smoke like the vermin I suspect you are. I’ll see that every scrap of food and drink is securely locked up at night. I’ll forever be hiding and jumping out at you with a meat cleaver. You’ll slowly wither away from fright and lack of food.”
“That seems extreme,” Mr. Wicket said, nervously shifting on his feet.
“But I’ll do it.”
Mr. Wicket sighed. “All right, if you must know. When one spies for the Crown, one may find that one’s expenses outpace one’s income. Debts are incurred. I suppose it is, after all, a rich man’s game, but I did so like it. In any case, the debts piled up and you know how creditors are, they can make things uncomfortable. I saw the advertisement for a butler and I thought it would be an excellent place to lay low. Then, when Lady Marchfield understood my background, she got ideas.”
“What ideas?”
“She got ideas that it might be amusing to keep the staff on the back foot. I was to do anything I could do to frighten you all. Above all, I was not to be driven out. She’s dangled the settling of all my debts if I can last the season.”
“Has she now? Very like her. Well, Mr. Wicket, you will not be going on with your plan. I have a plan of my own.”
*
Winsome was inthe drawing room with Valor, Felicity, and Serenity. Valor had spent the last fruitless quarter hour attempting to forceFelicity and Serenity to admit they’d made a grave mistake in getting married.
To her disappointment, Felicity insisted she got on with Mr. Stratton like a house on fire. He was a positive darling to their daughter, even though young Isabelle had inherited her mother’s temper and could shake the roof when she was crossed. Then Serenity had gone all moony over Lord Thorpe. Apparently, he saw to her breakfast tray personally each morning and inspected her eggs to ensure they were done properly—fried, with the edges just the smallest bit burnt. He was, according to Serenity, the best man living.
Valor whispered something to Sir Galahad. While Winsome could not work out the words, the tone was most clearly of disgust. It was not clear what Sir Galahad’s own opinion was.
The drawing room doors swung open. Thomas hurried through them and shut the doors behind him in the most unaccountable manner.
“Is Mr. Wicket frightening you again, Thomas?” Valor asked. “Mrs. Right has promised she’ll get rid of him, but for now we are to pay no attention to him if he pops up somewhere.”
“No, Lady Valor. I mean, yes, he is frightening, he could be anywhere! But Lady Winsome, there is a gentleman here. I’ve kept him in the front hall as I did not know if I ought to let him in. He brings flowers.”
Winsome’s heart leapt. Had Lord Manderbey brought her flowers? She ought not accept them, though she knew she would. She ought not be happy about it, though she was.
“You did take his name, Thomas?” Felicity asked.
“Lord St. John is what he said.”
