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6

C
éline returned exhausted from a short trip to Hookman’s Library and some of the shops on Bond Street. She still had to change for dinner and Almack’s later in the evening for her niece’s debut there. Perhaps she’d have enough time for a cup of tea and a quick nap.

MacKinnon opened the door for her, relieving her of her packages as soon as he had closed the door behind her.

He placed them on the side table and took her gloves. “Thank you,” she murmured.

She unbuttoned her pelisse. “Send a footman up with my parcels. Tell Valentine I’m home. And please request a cup of tea from the kitchen.”

He helped her off with the pelisse. “Yes, my lady.”

“Thank you.” For some unaccountable reason, her cheeks felt warm. Perhaps because she found herself standing so close to her butler. He had such penetrating gray eyes. They were almost silver. Her gaze moved downward over his features, his straight nose and firm lips to his strong chin. A small pale scar like the slimmest of new moons drew her gaze. The crescent was on one side of his chin, partly under it . . . yet instead of marring his features, it added to his attractiveness.

“My lady?”

Her gaze flew to his before she pivoted away from him, flustered that she’d been caught staring. She directed her attention to untying her bonnet though her fingers fumbled with the knot.

“You had several calls while you were out. And Lady Agatha wishes to see you.”

“What?” His words served to snap her out of the strange spell he seemed to wrap her in. Silly woman. She was no longer an impressionable young girl making her debut.

With a glance at the full tray of calling cards, she headed toward the staircase. “Very well, bring them up to me with the tea. I shall look through them in my room.” She sighed. “Tell Lady Agatha I shall be in my room.”

Once in her room, she sat in a comfortable armchair and removed her half boots. In a few minutes Valentine knocked softly and entered.

She knelt by Céline and took over the task. “The tea will be up shortly.”

“Good, I’m parched. My, but shopping is exhausting, especially when one must stop every few feet and greet someone or other of one’s acquaintances.”

Once she was comfortably attired in a silk peignoir, another knock signaled Sally, who brought in the tea tray. Obviously, Virginia was still staying out of Valentine’s sight.

Valentine met William at the door and took the purchases from him.

Céline motioned for Valentine to bring them to her. “Good, my books. I want to begin one right away.” She snipped the string of her parcel as Sally set down the tea tray. The maid took the paper wrapping and string away as soon as she had removed the books.

Céline opened each one with a loving hand, reading the titles once again and enjoying the feel of new leather covers, before setting them aside on the table beside her chair and taking the one she wanted to read onto her lap.

“Will you be needing anything else, my lady?”

She glanced up at Sally with a smile. “No, thank you.”

Finally, only Valentine remained, and she continued puttering around as Céline cut the pages of the new novel by Maria Edgeworth and sipped her tea. She was engrossed in the first chapter of
The Absentee
when she heard her abigail clearing her throat for the second time. “Yes, what is it?” she asked without looking up from her book.

When her question was met with silence, Céline looked up.

Her maid and longtime companion stood with her hands folded before her, a grim expression on her face. “I told you that man was no good.”

Céline laid her book down on her lap, knowing she would have no peace until Valentine unburdened herself. “What man?”

“That one who calls himself a butler.”

The steady tick-tock of the clock penetrated her hearing as her eyes narrowed on her maid. “MacKinnon? What has he done?”

“He was in Gaspard’s room.” Valentine rocked back on her heels, her nostrils flared in outrage.

Céline closed her book, no longer able to ignore her maid’s misgivings concerning her butler. “How do you know this?”

“I saw him coming out of it with my own eyes. With a key in his hand,” she added ominously.

“Did he see you?”

“Of course. I made sure he did.”

Céline frowned. “When exactly was this?”

“This morning after Gaspard had left for the market.”

“What did MacKinnon say?”

“He was as brazen as brass. He told me to go about my business!”

Pursing her lips, Céline tried to think of a logical explanation. “He must have had some reason for being in there.”

“I’m sure he did. Snooping around, that’s what it was.”

“But he didn’t behave as if he had anything to hide?”

“Of course not. He’s too astute to behave scared. He’s a sly one, he is!”

Céline considered. “I don’t know . . . he hasn’t struck me as ‘sly.’ Observant, yes, and quite respectful and respectable-looking. After all, he
is
the butler. He has a right to inspect any room he wishes. I’m sure there is some acceptable reason.” Why was she loathe to believe MacKinnon capable of some underhanded behavior in her household?

Valentine tossed her head. “Oh, he’ll likely have some excuse to offer. He’ll have had time to come up with something.”

“Have you told Gaspard?”

“Of course. He says luckily he keeps nothing written in his room. He will be more cautious from now on
naturellement
.”

Céline nodded, thankful her chef was so resourceful.

“What I say to you is watch that one. He’s a slippery one.”

Céline chewed on her lip, puzzling it out. “Yes, indeed, I shall,” she murmured, turning back to her book. She’d have to take a closer look at her new butler. Not that he didn’t already intrigue her.

As Valentine was leaving the room, Agatha appeared at the door. She pushed past Valentine and strode to Céline’s chair, a sheet of paper in her hand.

Céline looked up from her book. “You wished to see me?”

“I want to discuss the ball for Kimberley.”

Céline closed her book with a sigh. “Of course.”

“I have made up a guest list. The countess and I have singled out which eligible gentlemen should be invited.”

Her sister-in-law loved to lord over the fact that Céline was no longer the true Countess of Wexham. How little she realized the title meant to Céline. For her it held nothing but bitter recollections. “Very well.” She held out her hand for the list.

Agatha blinked as if not expecting such immediate capitulation. “Well, I—I shall have to recopy it.”

Céline raised an eyebrow. “Do you think I will not follow it to the letter?”

“It took us time and effort to compose it. I shall not risk its being
mislaid somewhere among your papers.” She gave a pointed look toward Céline’s desk piled high with invitations.

“Then I suggest you send out the invitations yourself. Let me know how many to expect.” Céline was too weary at the moment to wage an argument over something as trivial as a guest list. She would send out her own invitations to those she thought her young niece would enjoy.

“Very well. Now, I wish to discuss the supper menu with you. The countess and I thought—”

Céline touched her fingertips to her temples. “I have a bit of a headache. If you wish to sit with Mrs. Finlay and me in the morning, I shall gladly do so.”

Satisfied, her sister-in-law left at last. Céline rested her head against the chair. She had not lied about her head. Somewhere between Valentine’s disturbing report on MacKinnon and Agatha’s insistence on her guest list, Céline’s temples had begun to pound. Her life was suddenly becoming overly complicated.

The clink of silver against china mingled with the babble of voices across the dinner table. The night of the dinner party had arrived.

The three chandeliers above the twenty-foot table glowed with dozens of beeswax candles. Elaborately carved bronze wall sconces added to the light.

The crystal goblets gleamed. Silver vases were filled with hothouse flowers. The center epergne was heaped with an artistic arrangement of sugared fruits.

The guests were engaged in animated conversation as they partook of Gaspard’s rich food and the late earl’s fine wines. After the flurry of last-minute arrangements before the guests arrived, Rees had undergone the nerve-racking task of receiving the distinguished personages, praying he would not fumble over their names.

Bringing in the first course had gone without a hitch. Finally, now, Rees had a few moments to catch his breath. He was positioned against the wainscoted wall of the dining room, his responsibility for the
present to observe the footmen, making sure they replenished servings of food and drink, while awaiting Lady Wexham’s signal to remove the covers and bring in the next course.

Rees couldn’t help glancing at her. She presided over the long table like a queen, her dark hair dressed in an elaborate coiffure high on her head, diamonds glinting among the glossy locks.

At least Valentine must have said nothing to her about his presence in Gaspard’s room. Or had she? He was not naïve enough to think Valentine was through with him. Likely she would strike when he least expected it. But Lady Wexham had not intimated by word or look that she knew anything of the incident.

A hint of a smile graced her fine lips. She bestowed the barest of nods, as if to reassure Rees that she found everything to her satisfaction.

And then her attention was taken once again by Lord Castlereagh, who sat at her right. Her smile broadened and a sparkle came into her eyes. “So, you only come to my table to partake of my French chef’s delicacies?”

The distinguished-looking foreign secretary smiled. “Have pity on a man who sometimes goes days without arriving home in time for dinner.” He glanced across the table at his wife. “The affairs of state have no respect for a wife’s dinner hour.”

The handsome woman whose diamond choker and bracelets flashed in the light of the chandeliers smiled indulgently. “If Robert can make it home one evening in five, it is the most I can hope for—and then we usually have an engagement elsewhere.”

“Then I am doubly grateful that you deigned to sit at my table this evening.”

Castlereagh chuckled and patted Lady Wexham’s hand. “But, as you say, it is solely due to your French chef! This lobster veritably melts upon the tongue.” He took a generous mouthful of the seafood in velouté sauce.

At the middle of the table, the conversation turned to the war.
“Now that Prussia has declared war on France and joined the Coalition, their army will soon have Napoleon in flight.”

Rees’s glance shifted to the two members of the House of Lords who sat directly in front of him.

“With Tsar Alexander hot on his heels after routing him from Russia, there’s reason to hope for the liberation of Europe.”

The Duc de Berry across the table raised his glass. “Could it be that this year we’ll see the Corsican upstart finally overthrown?”

Colonel Percy, a well-fed, gray-haired gentleman whose gold buttons and epaulettes shone brightly against his red coat, spoke up. “It depends on his army. As long as he has their undying loyalty, it will be hard to depose him.”

“But that army was decimated in Russia,” the Tory, Huskisson, put in, thrusting his fork at the other two.

Rees glanced toward Lady Wexham to gauge her reaction, but she seemed serene enough, and after listening to these remarks, turned to address something to Lady Castlereagh.

The conversation continued, from the war in America and the swearing in of Mr. Madison for a second term to the war in Mexico and how this might affect the Peninsular War in Spain.

“Wellington has had the winter to reorganize the troops. The French are in for a surprise if they think they will see him withdraw again to Portugal.”

The Whig, Althorp, held up his glass of wine for Tom to refill. “Let us hope so. Last autumn proved disastrous what with having to abandon Madrid and retreat all the way back to Ciudad Rodrigo. The Iron Duke lost all he had gained at such a price.”

Tom and William removed the covers. The guests sat back, their conversation ebbing and flowing as freely as the wine, the edge of their hunger satisfied.

Once the guests were served and Rees had helped replenish everyone’s glass, he stood once more to observe and, more importantly, listen.

But as the dinner dragged on, it was easy for his thoughts to drift. Nothing of dire national security seemed to be exchanged. The conversation turned inconsequential, from the latest
on-dits
to the leading dancer at the ballet.

His glance strayed the length of the table, alighting briefly on each guest in their brilliant jewels and fashionable garments, every face animated in convivial conversation. Finally, his gaze came to rest once more on Lady Wexham as it had been all evening.

After a fortnight of observing her, he was more intrigued than ever. Who was she? A simple society lady or a French spy? She’d been widowed three years. Why hadn’t she remarried? As much as the notion was abhorrent to him and as far as he could ascertain, she had no lover. It was well known a lady of her rank and fortune would not be restrained by moral conventions. But she was never absent an entire night, nor was there any particular gentleman caller on closer terms to her than any other.

Neither did she seem to have any close female friends or relations. A host of acquaintances, yes, a round of social engagements, but no confidante or intimate like females were so fond of having.

He thought of his own sister and her closest friend, Jessamine. Scarcely a day went by when they didn’t visit with each other, not only talking of commonplaces but confiding their deepest secrets.

Perhaps that was a girlish thing to do, outgrown once a woman married, as the countess had. But he thought of his own mother. Though she was widowed now over a decade, she had a circle of friends who helped her through the trials of life.