Page 84 of Yielding to Love

The second woman smelled of gin.

The third woman…was Mrs. Clay. Had he not been battered enough?

“Mrs. Clay,” he said, forcing a smile. “What are you doing in London?”

“You are acquainted?” Vanessa asked, shooting him a look of surprise.

He could see now the benefit of asking the agency for names and references upfront.

“Lady Iversley, may I present to you Mrs. Clay. She was cook and housekeeper for Colonel Harrington. Mrs. Clay, this is my sister-in-law, Lady Iversley.”

Mrs. Clay curtsied awkwardly. She looked awed.

“Well, then,” Vanessa said, pleasantly. “Never mind references. I suppose the major knows your work.”

“You’ve left Tonbridge for London?” Crispin asked. Was she still in contact with Camellia? That would not do. He was feeling hunted.

“Aye, well, I have a brother here. And no work in Tonbridge. The old gentleman passed, you see. And then Sir Bodwell did, too.” She flushed. “You knew, I hope? I’d hate to be the bearer.”

“No. I am aware.”

“And, of course, poor Lady Bodwell has gone to live with Lord and Lady Stirling.”

“Do you see her often?”

Mrs. Clay’s eyes flew wide. “Lord, no. I wouldn’t presume.”

“Mrs. Clay,” Vanessa interrupted, bringing them back to the business at hand. “Major Taverston expects to spend half his time in the lake district. His cottage is small and rather sparsely staffed. Are you able to travel?”

“To the lake district? That would be lovely. I’ve never been. And the major will tell you, I’m used to small staffs. It don’t bother me to do some housekeeping.”

“Very good.” Vanessa looked down at the paper in front of her, then back at Mrs. Clay. “The major is particular about what is served at his table. Can you pay strict attention to instructions?”

“Oh, aye.” She beamed at Vanessa. “Don’t I know he likes his rice and peas. No gravy. No bread. No cream. Lady Bodwell gave me a list.”

It was unfortunate, but Mrs. Clay suited his needs perfectly.

“I’m sorry,” Vanessa said, her brow furrowed. “Who is Lady Bodwell?”

“Colonel Harrington’s sister,” Crispin said. “She married a local gentleman.”

“Oh!” Sympathy washed across Vanessa’s face. “And they both passed?”

“And the babe, too.” Mrs. Clay’s head bobbed up and down. “It was a real shame. Then the cousin swooped in and took everything.”

Vanessa gasped. “She lost a baby?”

“A boy. Made Sir Bodwell so happy, don’t you know? He went peacefully. But the babe was a struggle.”

“Born too soon?” Crispin asked. That was what the fellow at White’s had said.

Mrs. Clay flushed and nodded. “Yes.” She lowered her voice and added in a confidential tone, “They were seven months married, you see. But we still thought the babe would make it. He was robust when he was born. Eight pounds at least, we thought. But he wouldn’t eat, and the doctor said there weren’t nothing Lady Bodwell could do.”

Vanessa’s eyes welled with tears, alarming Crispin.

“Mrs. Clay,” he said, hurriedly coming around the desk to usher her out. “Of course, the job is yours. Come to Albany in three days. I will have a key made for you. There are servants’ quarters in the attic. My valet will show you.”

He escorted her to the door, where Gerald was waiting to see her out of 8 Grosvenor Square.

Crispin turned to Vanessa. “I’m sorry. I never would have asked for your help if I’d known it might be upsetting.”

“I’m fine,” she said, though she sounded unsettled. “It is only that babies’ lives are so precarious. So much can go wrong. Even for full-grown—”

“But Lady Bodwell’s baby was not full grown. Seven months—”

Vanessa made a noise like a snort. “Crispin, you can’t be that naïve. The Bodwells were married seven months when the baby was born. That doesn’t mean the baby came early. It means they married too late.”

Crispin stared. “No.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

She gave a laughing huff of disbelief. “She said he weighed more than eight pounds! I suppose that means nothing to you, but seven-month babies don’t weigh eight pounds.”

He counted months again, ticking them off on his fingers, but now he could not recall when Camellia had married Bodwell. After he’d been sick. But no. That was when he’d heard. They had been married while he was sick. Six…seven…eight…

Oh, God, no.