A Rake by Any Other Name (14 page)

When one has lived as long as I, one realizes that the ultimate enemy is not the passage of years. It is the change those years bring.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

“I had to step lively to convince Mrs. Grahame to let me walk out this evening, since it's not my half day,” Sarah babbled as she and Eliza settled at the small table in the kitchen of the Hound and Hare. “But I finished my work early and promised I'd tell Mrs. G all about your trip to London when I get back.”

Fortunately, Eliza hadn't needed to beg for time away from her duties. Miss Goodnight proved a very liberal employer and encouraged Eliza to meet her friend in the village. Sarah had always been pleasant toward her, even when Eliza was nothing but a kitchen maid. Now that Eliza had leaped over several rungs of the below stairs ladder and was a full-fledged lady's maid, Sarah seemed eager to cement their friendship. She was the one who'd suggested they meet in the kitchen of the village inn, where her cousin Mabel served as cook.

Mabel set down a tea tray before them, ordered Sarah to pour out and turned back to the big pot of stew bubbling over the brick-built range. At this time of evening, if a body didn't want dark ale and a hearty bowl, he shouldn't visit the inn. The menu at the Hound and Hare never varied, except for the type of meat in the stew. This night, the pot gave off a decidedly muttonish smell. “You must have had such an exciting time,” Mabel gushed. “Oh, tell us just everything while I finish with this stew.”

“There's far too much to tell over one cup of tea.” Besides, Eliza decided Sarah and Mabel didn't want to hear how dirty, smelly, crowded, and noisy London was. Of course, it was nicer in Mayfair, where the Goodnights' new town house was located, but even though she and her employer rode in an elegant coach everywhere they went, traveling through the more dicey quarters on their way to St. Paul's had left a sour impression. “The servants at the Goodnights' town house were a jolly group, but there weren't as many of them as you'd expect.”

“We don't want to hear about below stairs folk, silly.” Sarah eyed Eliza's secondhand gown with unabashed envy. “I hear Miss Goodnight had a new wardrobe made. Tell about the trip to the modiste.”

Eliza launched into a description of the reams of beautiful silks and laces from which her mistress could choose. She'd never seen anything so fine as the fashion plates they had pored over. The modiste had helped her mistress pick just the right pattern to go with each fabric and the oh-so-fashionable trimmings and furbelows to add in order to please Miss Goodnight's mother. Then the seamstress somehow managed to keep the lines of the gowns clean enough to satisfy Miss Goodnight's desire for simplicity. Eliza could talk for hours about the cunning little hats and darling slippers made to match. They left London with two new outfits complete with matching spencers and pelisses, but the rest of Miss Goodnight's wardrobe would take weeks to deliver. Eliza's throat was getting dry when Mabel brought more water for another cup of tea along with a plate of gingerbread biscuits.

Eliza didn't want Mabel to get into trouble for filching some of the inn's biscuits and wondered if she should leave some payment for her when their evening of gossip was done. She didn't need to fret over spending the coin. Miss Goodnight was generous beyond her wildest imaginings.

Eliza only wished she was a better lady's maid. She could definitely care for her mistress's wardrobe, keeping her hems clean and her boots polished to a spit shine. She was a deft hand at helping her employer dress and choose the right accessories for each outfit.

But Eliza was hopeless with hair. Try as she might, she couldn't seem to pin Miss Goodnight's dark tresses well enough to keep them from coming down. While she was in London, she tried to pry a few tricks from the lady's maid in the house next door, but the woman was tight-lipped about her trade.

Poor
Miss
Goodnight
will
just
have
to
make
do
with
my
fumblings
till
I
get
the
hang
of
it.

Fortunately for Eliza, her employer seemed indifferent about her hair, so they rubbed along together very well indeed.

While Sarah munched on a biscuit, Eliza took the opportunity to change the topic from herself. “So how is everyone at Somerfield Park?”

Sarah knew she meant the below stairs folk. However stellar her rise, Eliza wouldn't be bold enough to ask after the marquess and his family.

“Everyone's fine, but there have been a few changes. Your sister Theresa is working in your stead now, though Mrs. Culpepper threatens to box her ears at least once a day. Theresa gets distracted, you see,” Sarah said. “Actually, don't tell her you heard this from me, but she's a terrible flirt.”

“Theresa?”

Sarah nodded. “Anything in trousers. The stable lads are all but at war over her.”

“What has Mrs. Grahame done about it?”

“Nothing. Theresa's clever enough not to be caught flirting when she's about.” Sarah's nostrils flared slightly, indicating she was quite miffed about the whole thing. “Even Toby seems quite taken with your little sister.”

“I suppose she's really not so little anymore, is she?” The last time Eliza had made the trip back home, she'd spent most of her half day off trying to give her mother a rest from the demands of her smallest siblings. Eliza was the eldest of six, so the Dovecote household was a study in chaos at the best of times. However, now that she thought about it, she hadn't seen Theresa in several months.

“I know you've come into some of Miss Goodnight's old clothes. If you have any to spare, you might give your sister a bigger blouse or two. She's fair busting out of the ones she has. Mrs. Culpepper is forever telling her to mind her buttons.”

With a chest almost as flat as a boy's, Sarah would never have to be warned of that.

“I'll see to it,” Eliza said, promising herself she'd give Theresa a stern talking to. A girl in service had to be mindful of her reputation or she'd lose her position quicker than she could spit. Eliza took another sip of tea and asked after the only person she really wanted to hear about. “How's David?”

“We have to call him Mr. Abbot now. He's been promoted to valet,” Sarah said. “He's taking care of Lord Hartley, though what with things the way they are, Mr. Hightower can't hire anyone to replace him in the dining room, so he's still serving as footman too. Never complains, though. As quiet as ever. Secrets, that one has. I've always said so.”

“Really? What sort of secrets?”

“Well, he doesn't seem to have any family hereabouts. He isn't even from this village. He's from Brighton. So how did he ever land in Somerset as his lordship's bootblack boy in the first place?”

Eliza felt a twinge of disloyalty over gossiping about David, but she'd bear it if only she could learn more about him. “Must have been recommended by one of his lordship's friends, I suppose.”

“I suppose. Drucilla's been here a long time, you know, and she remembers when he first came. Said he was a good enough worker during the day. Willing and eager to please. But the poor little blighter cried at night for the first month. Guess his mother had just died before he came to Somerset.”

“Oh, that is sad.” To be so alone and so young in a strange place. Her heart ached for the bereaved little boy.

“Must not have had any kin to go to, so I guess Lord Somerset did him a kindness by taking him on,” Sarah said as she helped herself to a third biscuit. “Who knows where he'd have landed elsewise?”

Eliza had an inkling. One of the worst things she'd seen in London was all the masterless young boys roaming the streets. Ragged and hungry, they lived, or more often died, by their wits. She didn't think a child who was all alone in the world would fare any better in Brighton.

The back door to the kitchen opened and the fresh breath of night spilled in along with David Abbot.

“Well, speak of the devil.” Sarah waved to him.

Eliza's heart did an odd little flip. She hoped that sort of thing didn't show on a body's face. The last thing she needed was for David to know she went all wobbly inside whenever he was near.

“‘Evening, Sarah,” he said as he removed his hat and smiled at the cook. Then he fastened his gaze on Eliza. “Miss Dovecote.”

Now that Eliza was a lady's maid, folk were supposed to call her by her last name, with or without the “Miss” in front of it. She'd always been just plain Eliza before, but she'd finally earned the right to use the surname she was born with. The practice was a sign of respect everyone said. David's voice was so deep and rumbly it made her shiver just to have the sound roll over her. And on the few occasions when he'd said her name, well, even her goose bumps had goose bumps.

“Call me Eliza, please.”

“I will, then.” He smiled down at her. “But only if you won't insist on calling me Mr. Abbot.”

“Of course not, David.” Then her head, which was usually full to bursting with thoughts she dared not give voice to, went suddenly blank. She longed for something witty to spill out of her mouth, to dazzle him with her worldliness since she'd been to London and back. Instead, all she could do was stammer, “What are you doing here?”

“I heard you and Sarah were in the village and thought I'd walk you both home when you're ready.”

Since Barrett House was nearer to the village than Somerfield Park, he'd be walking much farther with just Sarah. Thinking about it made Eliza feel as if her stays were laced too tight. “Will you…have a biscuit?”

“I believe I will. Hard to resist gingerbread.” His dark-eyed gaze swept over her, and she was so glad she'd decided to wear the blue gown she'd inherited from her mistress. It was a bit much for the kitchen of the Hound and Hare, what with the real satin trim and the furbelow at the hem, but she could stand feeling a bit overdressed when David Abbot looked at her like that.

“Thank you kindly, Eliza.”

And as he sat down beside her and helped himself to the last biscuit, there they were, right on cue.

Goose bumps on her goose bumps.

Back when he was a footman and she was merely the kitchen girl, she had no right to feel all fluttery about David Abbot. But now, they were on an even footing. It wouldn't be at all out of the question for a valet to ask a lady's maid to walk out with him some fine evening.

“Wake up, silly,” Sarah's voice interrupted her musings. Eliza gave a little yelp as her friend's toe connected with her shin under the table. “He asked you about London.”

“London, oh, yes. I—”

“She had ever so lovely a time,” Sarah cut in again. Then she regaled him with Eliza's tales of the visit to the modiste, even doing Eliza's imitation of how mushy the modiste sounded what with all those pins between her lips.

Eliza didn't mind. For some reason, she couldn't unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth. Besides, Sarah told it better than she did.

“Oh, I say.” Sarah leaned to peer around David's broad shoulders when the door from the kitchen to the inn's common room swung open. “I can scarce believe my eyes. As I live and breathe, it's Miss Constance Bowthorpe out and about.”

Eliza had often delivered meal trays to Lady Ariel's governess in her chamber. Other than that, she'd scarcely seen her outside the schoolroom in Somerfield Park and never in the village, unless it was on her way to and from church on Sundays. And even then, Miss Bowthorpe always walked alone.

A serving girl breezed in for more bowls of stew. Eliza peered at the governess through the swinging door. “Who's the gentleman she's sitting with?”

“He's no gentleman or I'm much mistook,” Sarah said as she went and held the door open, the better to spy on the governess and her companion. “Not with those shiny elbows. That jacket's late for the rag pile.”

Miss Bowthorpe shook her head. Then she leaned toward the fellow. The man leaned in as well, his mouth moving furiously. “Thick as thieves, aren't they?”

“I'd sooner believe there was larceny afoot than that Miss Bowthorpe has a beau,” Sarah said with a sniff.

“Well, now you've piqued my curiosity with your gossip, ladies.” David stood and glanced through the open door. Then he frowned and stared without bothering to hide it.

“Do you know him, David?” Eliza asked.

“Yes. At least I know the name he gave me once.” As he glared at the fellow, his fingers curled into fists, and he strode the door's threshold. “Thaddeus Clack,” he shouted across the common room

When the man looked up and met David's gaze, the whites showed all the way around his eyes. He scrambled to his feet and fled, throwing the few empty chairs to the floor behind him as he went.

Without a word of farewell, David bolted after him.

There are secrets we keep with trembling because we know, if they come to light, we will never be the same. Then there are secrets so deep they cannot be uttered. Those we keep because we don't even know they exist.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

David dodged the irregularly spaced tables and thrown-down chairs. He elbowed his way through the crowded room, nearly coming to blows with one burly customer who'd had a few pints too many. But he finally burst into the soft night in time to see Clack tearing down High Street and ducking into a narrow lane.

David stretched into a mile-eating stride and careened into the lane just as his quarry realized it dead-ended into a man-high wall that surrounded the village smith's shop. Clack doubled back and tried to duck under David's outstretched arm.

He managed to escape David's grasp but couldn't evade his out-thrust foot. Clack stumbled and fell headlong onto the graveled lane. David pinned him to the ground with a knee to his spine and firm grips on both the man's wrists.

***

“Well, that was rude,” Sarah said, her gaze following the footman-turned-valet across the room and out the door.

“And not like David at all.” Eliza wanted more than anything to tear out of the Hound and Hare's kitchen and go after him, but if they were going to do that, she and Sarah should have gone immediately. Now, it would seem…intrusive.

If he'd wanted their company, David would have told them to come.

Still, she didn't like the look of that fellow David had called out. And what was Miss Bowthorpe doing with him?

As if Eliza had summoned her, the governess rose from her table and headed their way.

“Good evening, Miss Dovecote, Sarah,” she said, her posture so erect Eliza suspected she'd frozen that way and would never thaw no matter how warm she got. “Did either of you chance to hear the name Mr. Abbot called the gentleman who was seated at my table?”

“Clack, miss,” Sarah piped up. “Thaddeus Clack.”

“Dear me. That's not the name he gave to me.” Miss Bowthorpe drew her lips together in a censorious line. “He insinuated himself into a conversation with me, claiming to have known my dear, departed niece.” She lifted her chin, accentuating her height, which was quite tall for a woman, and gave herself a little shake. “Let that be a lesson to you, ladies. Never speak to one to whom you have not been properly introduced. Good evening.”

“Wait a moment, Miss Bowthorpe.” This was the most the woman had ever said to Eliza, even when she used to deliver Miss Bowthorpe's meals on a tray. Eliza burned with curiosity to know more about the recluse. If she could draw the governess out about this niece she seemed to care for so much, Eliza might be able to understand her better. “Would you care to join us? The biscuits are gone, but we've tea enough to share here in the kitchen.”

“Thank you, no,” Miss Bowthorpe said with a sniff. It was her way of reminding them that, as Lady Ariel's governess, she was far above lesser servants. “I trust you'll be discreet about this unfortunate event.”

With that, she turned on her heel and marched out.

***

“Yow! What d'you think you're you doing?” Thaddeus Clack managed to grunt out. “I never did you no harm.”

“Maybe not me, but you are the man who nearly killed the marquess,” David growled, wishing he had a bit of twine in his pocket to bind the fellow's hands. He settled for raising Clack roughly to his feet and twisting one arm behind him. The fellow yelped, but David wasn't in a mood to be merciful. He frog-marched him back down the dark narrow lane.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To the magistrate.”

“You stupid oaf! Don't you know what I could do for you?” Thaddeus Clack dug in his heels, forcing David to half lift him in order to push him forward. It was quite a scuffle. Under his threadbare jacket, Clack had the tough, stringy musculature of a former pugilist. And judging from the way he kept trying to butt David with the back of his head, Thaddeus Clack didn't feel himself bound by the rules of the ring. “You don't want to be bothering the magistrate with the likes of me.”

“Oh yes, I do.” David wrenched the man's arm a little higher. If he didn't quit struggling, he was likely to break it. “I hope you're in the mood for a change of scenery, because once the court gets through with you, you'll be lucky if all they do is transport you to New South Wales.”

“Think about it, guv. All I have to do is say you helped me throw his lordship off the roof, and you'll be joining me on that boat to Australia.”

“But that's not true and you know it.” David tossed him up against the brick wall of the village dry goods shop. The fellow's eyes rolled a bit and he staggered, but then he righted himself and peered up at David from under a set of wiry brows.

“Who's to say you're not in on the scheme? You did let me into Somerfield Park, din't you? And you showed me the way up to where his lordship was.”

Hang it all, the man was right. “Only because Lord Somerset ordered me to bring you up to the roof terrace.”

“And that's a bit of a facer, ain't it? I'll wager he never met with anyone else on Somerfield Park's roof afore. Shows he din't want me seen by anyone else, don't it?”

“Why did you try to kill him?” David grasped the man by his grimy lapels.

“I never did! I were only there to talk with him quiet-like, but he's the one what started the fisticuffs. Then it were him or me, guv. Ask his lordship and see if he don't say so.”

It was inconceivable that the marquess of Somerset would even know this man, let alone throw punches at him and try to throw him off the roof. Still, David was surprised at the time, when his lordship didn't choose to meet with Clack in one of the public rooms of the great house. Instead, he had ordered David to bring the man discreetly up to the roof, after he heard the two-word message Clack had given him.

Rosewood
Chapel.

“I wouldn't presume to ask his lordship about what happened,” David said. “Besides, he still doesn't have any memory of that day.”

“Well, ain't that convenient? Look here, Son, I don't mean you any harm, but—”

And that was the last David heard. From behind him, someone whacked a solid blow to his skull, and he winked out like a snuffed candle.

***

“Christ a'mighty, Constance, you've half killed him.” Thaddeus leaned over the fallen young man and felt for a pulse at his neck. To his relief, it was thready but still there.
Good.
He'd do a lot for this woman, but he wasn't ready to swing for her. “What the hell do you carry in that thing?”

“My mother always taught us to walk softly and carry a big rock.” Miss Bowthorpe reached into her reticule and drew out a goodly sized stone, worn smooth by the river. Then her eyes widened with concern. “I only meant to put his lights out for a bit. He's not really dead, is he?”

“No, but he'll have a whopper of a headache when he wakes up.” Thaddeus scratched his nearly bald pate. “I've been having a bit of a think. You've got the proof. Why don't we just tell everyone and be done with it?”

“Kindly refrain from trying to think, Mr. Clack. You'll strain your brains, something with which you are not much gifted in the first place.” Miss Bowthorpe stowed the rock back in her reticule. “If the truth comes out, we have no clue whether any gratitude in the form of coin would come our way. Likely not, since this is a very inconvenient sort of truth for everyone involved. It upsets things that folk thought were long settled. However, the violence with which his lordship responded to your visit means he'll be more than willing to be generous in order to keep the secret.”

“I take your point.”

“And for the right price, we'll be happy to keep the dirty little skeleton in the cupboard,” Constance said as she straightened the severe little capote she had tied to her head. “This is the sort of well that never runs dry. We can dip into it as often as we need, for as long as we need, into the future,
ad
infinitum
.”

Thaddeus nodded. Constance always did have a corner on the thinking market. Them fancy Latin sayings might not mean a thing to him, but she sure sounded intelligent when she said them.

“It won't do for us to be seen together after this fracas,” she went on. “As it is, I came up with an innocuous excuse for why we were sitting together.”

Thaddeus didn't know what innocuous meant, but it didn't sound like she was paying him a compliment.

“You must leave Somerset-on-the-Sea tonight,” she said with a firm nod.

“Now see here. I been part and parcel of this little game since the beginning. If you think you can cut me out now that we're about to—”

“No one's cutting anyone,” she said, swinging her reticule back and forth in a manner that might have seemed threatening if Thaddeus and she weren't partners. “You don't have to go far. Crimble will do. You can stay at the inn there, and I'll send word when you're needed.”

The village of Crimble was about fifteen miles away. In Somerset-on-the-Sea, the air was fresh with an occasional ocean breeze, but Crimble sat on the edge of a salt marsh that stank like shite on a shingle when the tide was out.

“Well, I won't have trouble finding an empty room, that's for damn certain,” Thaddeus said as he nudged the fallen man with the toe of his boot. The footman didn't stir, but he was breathing regular.

“Be certain to take your room under a different name.
Thaddeus
Clack
was heard by everyone in the Hound and Hare.”

“No frettin' on that score. Clack ain't my real name in any case. Guess a change o' scenery won't come amiss. I don't expect I'd be allowed back into Somerset Park, even if this fellow isn't the one who answers the door.”

“No, you won't be. But never fear. Now that his lordship's wits have returned, I have another plan.” She patted Thaddeus's cheek with her gloved palm. “Just you leave everything to me.”

***

Eliza fidgeted with her teacup for a few more minutes, but then she could stand no more. “Don't you think we ought to see if David caught up to that fellow?”

“If he did, it's the other man I pity. David seemed pretty upset with him, and David's twice Mr. Clack's size and half his age.”

That was a bit of an exaggeration, but David did look like the sort who could handle himself.

“Still, it's a mystery.” Eliza drummed her fingers along the side of her cup and turned it in its saucer this way and that. “And I can't bear not knowing something once a question begins niggling my brain.”

“All right,” Sarah said as she stood. “If only to keep you from wearing a groove in that saucer.”

The girls thanked Mabel for letting them meet in her kitchen and left the Hound and Hare, but once they reached the street, it was too dark to see anyone. The only light came from the inn, spilling from the window in a broad slab onto the cobbled street. Eliza looked up and down High Street, but not a soul was in sight.

“In London, householders are required to light a lantern by their door, so it won't be so dark,” she said.

“In London, they have the coin to waste on oil evidently,” Sarah said with a sniff.

The soft night breeze seemed to carry a moan to Eliza's ear. She cocked her head, willing the sound to come again. When it did, she set off down the street, heedless of whether Sarah followed or not.

She might have barreled right past the narrow lane if another groan hadn't stopped her. Her eyes had sharpened in the dark, so she could make out a crumpled form in the middle of the lane.

“David,” she cried and ran toward the prone figure. Heedless of her fine, new secondhand gown, Eliza dropped to her knees and cradled his head in her lap. There was something sticky and wet on his temple. The metallic tang of blood wafted up to her.

“Lud, it's David,” Sarah said as she skidded to a stop beside them. “How did that happen? I wonder where that Mr. Clack got off—”

“Quick, Sarah, we haven't time to waste. You must go for Dr. Partridge and bring him here at once.”

Sarah seemed to sprout wings as she tore back in down the lane. Eliza pawed through her reticule for her lace handkerchief, which truly was new and was probably the finest thing she'd ever owned in all her living life. She might never get the blood out, but if it would comfort David, she'd be content to have it stained. She pressed the Brussels lace to his temple.

David mumbled a few words. Eliza didn't understand most of them, but two stood out.

“Rosewood Chapel,” he muttered.

“No,” she said fiercely. “There'll be no talk of churches or chapels or anything else connected with funerals, do you hear me?”

Then because she figured she might never have the chance again, she palmed his cheeks and lowered her lips to his.

It wasn't a kiss. Not really. Just the brush of her mouth on his, but it made her agony all the more sharp-edged. This was not the way she'd imagined the first kiss she'd share with David Abbot would be.

Not at all.

“Wake up, David,” she whispered. “Please. You have to wake up, so someday you can kiss me for real.”