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“Mr. Clayton reckons you know how to run a big house and don’t have half enough to do at Rose Cottage.”
“Does he?” Penelope was beginning to be amused. “Who is Mr. Clayton?”
Tom looked chagrined. “Done it again,” he muttered. “Running my mouth. Hanging about with a lord is giving me bad habits.” He hunched a shoulder. “Mr. Clayton is Lord Macklin’s valet, miss.”
“Ah. Not part of the Frithgerd household then.”
“No.”
“I suppose Lord Whitfield’s servants wonder why I’m there so often.” It was just as well to know the opinion of the staff, Penelope thought. Though she wasn’t going to let it dictate her actions.
“Clearing up a mort of muck, Mrs. Phipps the housekeeper says.” Tom ducked his head. “Not in just those words, miss. But she’s right glad to have some bits set in order. I heard her tell Mr. Clayton the place ain’t had a proper mistress in an age. Not since she was a girl fresh come to service thirty years ago.”
“But Lady Whitfield died quite recently,” said Penelope. Hadn’t it been less than a year since the shipwreck that took Whitfield’s parents?
Tom shrugged. “Dunno what she meant by it, miss,” he said. “She did say it was a blessing that somebody was finallypaying attention.”
They had reached Frithgerd’s front door. Penelope pulled up, handed over the reins, and climbed down with the wrapped cakes in hand. She’d expected a rather different reaction from the servants here. To be seen as a blessing was surprising, and surprisingly gratifying. She found she was smiling as she knocked on the front door.
It was opened by a man dressed as a valet. Oddly, Lord Macklin was with him. This, then, must be the Mr. Clayton who had so many opinions about her.
“Good morning, Miss Pendleton,” said the earl, imperturbable, as if he often played footman at great houses. “Did you see Tom when you passed the gatehouse?”
“I did. He rode up with me and was kind enough to take my gig to the stables.”
“Ah. Thank you. You’ve saved Clayton a walk.” He nodded at the valet, who went out as Penelope came in. “On your way to the estate office,” the older man added. It could have been a question, but wasn’t.
“I am,” answered Penelope. She moved on, and wasn’t pleased when the earl came with her. Glancing over at him, she suddenly realized one reason he made her uncomfortable. He reminded her of the magistrate who’d first questioned her last summer at her home in Lancashire—the one who’d brought her the news of her brother’s death. He had the same square jaw and broad brow, the same authoritative manner, as if command was as natural and unconscious as breathing.
“And you’ve brought a gift,” he said, with another nod at the folded napkin she carried.
She wouldn’t be intimidated. “Shrewsbury cakes.”
“Indeed?”
He sounded benignly curious, but Penelope remembered how an innocuous tone could grow gradually harsher as the questions continued. And end in venom.
“I’m fond of Shrewsbury cakes,” he said after a short silence.
Penelope kept walking. What did he want? She wasn’t going to offer him one of the oddly shaped pastries she carried. Why was this corridor so very long?
“May I speak to you for a moment, Miss Pendleton?” he asked.
She froze. Mild phrases like that one had begun some of the most grueling sessions with Lord Sidmouth’s men. “About what?”
“Nothing in particular. Merely to get better acquainted.”
This earl wanted to stand about in a hallway, with her clutching a knotted napkin, and exchange pleasantries?
As if he knew how unlikely that sounded, Macklin made a dismissive gesture. “And about Whitfield. His situation. And yours.”
“Situation?”
The older man looked vexed. Now it would start, Penelope thought. He would insinuate or accuse, and when she answered, he would twist her words. Such men always assumed the worst, and then used it against you.
“I’m not putting this well,” Macklin said. “I don’t suppose you’d like to go and sit. No, I can see that you wouldn’t.”
False sympathy. Did he imagine she hadn’t seen it before?
