A Spy in the House (14 page)

Before going to bed, she’d bandaged her hand and taken some willow-bark powder to combat the fever. Now as she sat up, listening to the servants’ pattering footsteps, she realized that she felt better than she had in some time. Not rested, of course — she’d been up for two nights running. Yet her body didn’t ache as much, and she felt more clearheaded.

Her bedroom door opened on a violent shove, and the kitchen maid appeared, slapping a cup and saucer on the bedside table. “Tea.” It was closer to a snarl than a word.

Mary smiled gratefully nonetheless; she was parched. “Thank you, Cass.”

The girl remained stone-faced. “Mary-Jane-says-there’s-trouble-with-the-hot-water-pipes-and-will-you-have-your-bath-in-here-miss.”

“Of course.” They were always having trouble with the pipes, and this announcement was part of the morning routine. As she bathed and dressed, Mary considered the new complication of James Easton. (They’d arrived at first names last night at some point between their wrestling match and his supervision of her predawn scramble through the window: a series of humiliations she shuddered to recall.) He’d demonstrated that he was active, intelligent, and — she hated to admit it — not incapable of kindness. After all these good years at the Academy, she was still so surprised by kindness. But, Mary reminded herself, he was also arrogant, rude, suspicious, and convinced of the natural superiority of men. She
quite
pitied Angelica for preferring him to George.

She needed more willow bark, so took the servants’ staircase down to the housekeeper’s office. As she rounded a corner, she very nearly walked into a tall, grimy man who was loitering in the corridor. Judging from his clothing, he belonged to the stables and ought not to be in the house at all. She blinked up at him, waiting for him to mumble his excuses.

Instead, he stared down at her with glazed eyes. A slow grin stretched his bristly face. “Well, if it ain’t the new missy . . .” His breath reeked of gin.

Mary drew herself up to her full height and met his gaze directly. “You must be lost. I suggest you return to the stables by the kitchen door.”

His jaw sagged in mock offense. “Wouldn’t hurt you to be friendly-like, miss,” he mumbled, swaying slightly. “Never pays to make enemies with the lower staff, y’know.”

Despite herself, Mary was amused. After all, it was rather good advice, no matter who was giving it. “I’m not being unfriendly,” she pointed out. “But you certainly ought to leave the house before one of the family finds you here.”

He flapped one hand at her carelessly. “Shows h’little you know,” he said with a leer, leaning comfortably against the wall. “Nobody says boo to old Brown . . . least of all you, missy.”

“And why is that?” As soon as she heard her own sharp tone, Mary regretted the question. What was she doing bandying words with Mrs. Thorold’s coachman? Now that he’d identified himself, she knew why she hadn’t recognized him: he had never come into the house before today, and she never rode out in the carriage. Straightening, she made to move past him, but he blocked her way with a slight, lurching stagger.

His grin acquired a tinge of menace. “Like I said, missy, no call to be uppity. You’ll be civil to old Brown if y’know what’s good for you.”

She flicked a quick glance toward the staircase that led down into the scullery. There were voices below — certainly Cook and a maid or two were down there — but no convenient footsteps coming toward them. Even the footmen seemed to have vanished. Should she simply flee to the drawing room and pretend she’d never encountered Brown?

He laughed at her obvious discomfort. “See now? Civility don’t cost nothing.”

Reining in her temper, Mary continued to stand tall. “I have been nothing but civil to you,” she pointed out. “More civil than you to me.”

He grinned and shook his head. “You’re a fine one, missy. I like your temper.”

He must be more drunk than he seemed. “You are impertinent.” Once again, she made to walk round him but a long arm, encased in musty-smelling tweed, shot out to block her path. She swallowed. If he so much as brushed her sleeve, she’d hit him. But until that moment, perhaps it was best not to provoke him.

“Let me pass,” she said, keeping her voice — and, she hoped, her temper — low.

“He’s a lucky swine, that gent,” Brown said admiringly, propping up the wall now. From his posture, he could have been chatting her up in a pub. “Talk about eating one’s cake and having it, too. . . .”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.” The words came out automatically, prim and clipped, but she couldn’t help stiffening slightly. He couldn’t possibly . . .

“’Course y’know what I mean,” scoffed Brown. He lowered his voice meaningfully. “You and your chappie. I saw you this morning, scrambling in the window at dawn wearing your little breeches. And I saw him, too, keeping lookout. Only he was too busy looking at you to see me watching over the whole scene.” Brown emitted a fat, satisfied chuckle.

Mary’s stomach churned with fear while, perversely, a subtle current of satisfaction prickled her skin. James had been staring at her?

“Always been partial to the English rose look myself, but you ain’t half bad,” Brown rumbled, his gaze as invasive as a hand in her corset. “I’m full to busting with admiration for the gentleman: how’s he convince a fetching little lady like you to give it away for free?” He gave a low whistle of admiration. “That’s a clever bugger, that gent.”

Mary swallowed. “You seem to talk a great deal, Mr. Brown.”

A spasm of silent laughter made him shake, mouth gaping. When he recovered, Brown wiped his eyes with a dirty cuff and grinned at her. “So it’s
Mr.
Brown now eh, missy?” But he seemed pleased, all the same. “I do know a great deal, m’dear. . . . The stories I could tell you about this here family!” He winked at her broadly.

“Really.”

“You’re not the only skirt sneaking about in this household,” he assured her with another confidential wink. “All the fine ladies in London are up to no good, and this household’s no exception.”

Once again, Mary tried to assess his degree of drunkenness. It was possible that he was always half drunk, she supposed. Or that he used its likeness to his advantage. . . . His eyes were still shiny with gin, but a distinct intelligence flickered within.

“What’s going on in that little head of yours?” he demanded suddenly. “You’ve a particular look in your eyes.”

She looked down modestly. “I’m only trying to think, Mr. Brown, whether you intend to report your suspicions to my employer.”

“I might . . . but perhaps not, if I get too accustomed to being
Mr.
Brown.” He snorted mischievously. “You’re a cool customer, girlie — most females would be pleading with me now, not to tell. Ain’t you the slightest bit afraid of me, now?”

Mary’s eyes were round and innocent as they met his. “Why, I’ve done nothing wrong.”

He snorted but didn’t seem annoyed. “You and Mrs. T, both.” He nodded at her look of surprise. “Aye, the mistress. Got your attention now, haven’t I?”

“You had it before, sir.”

Brown chuckled again. “Cheeky sausage.”

Mary held her breath. The gleam in his eyes had changed somewhat — still impudent but less lecherous. She hoped. “I believe you’re telling tales, Mr. Brown,” she said smoothly. “I can’t imagine Mrs. Thorold would do anything inappropriate.” Surely he meant
Miss
Thorold?

“Then you tell me where she’s trotting off to, every blooming afternoon!”

“For her medical treatments surely?”

“Aye, that’s what she gives out,” he sneered. “But it’s a funny lady who goes to a quack instead of havin’ house calls!”

“Mrs. Thorold sees a number of specialists.”

Brown made a dismissive noise. “I never knew a ladies’ physician to set up shop in Pimlico, girlie! She’s not being physicked.” His eyebrows rose suggestively. “Not in the professional way, that is.”

Mary’s jaw dropped. “So, you believe Mrs. Thorold is having an affair?” It was a daft question — Brown could hardly have meant anything else — but it was the most improbable thing she’d heard in some time. The sighing, napping, slow-moving lady of the house? The woman who called her husband of two decades Mr. Thorold?

And yet . . . while it seemed more than improbable — impossible, rather — there was a perverse logic behind Brown’s suggestion. Why indeed was Mrs. Thorold so eager to drive out to see her physicians when she could barely summon the strength to cut her own meat at dinnertime? She seldom went out for any other reason. She had no friends. Her dressmaker and milliner came to the house. But her medical advisors forced her to come to them? That, too, was improbable. An illicit affair, as Brown hinted, was the likeliest explanation.

Unless there was a third possibility. . . .

A soft thud to her left made them both jump. Cass stood at the end of the corridor, bucket in one reddened hand, a rag in the other. Her expression was one of extreme interest rather than her usual surliness.

Mary cursed inwardly. Becoming chummy with the coachman wasn’t always a sackable offense, but add to that gossiping about her employer . . .

Turning back to Brown, she said firmly, “I refuse to believe that, sir. Excuse me.”

“Silly cow,” muttered Brown.

She didn’t bother turning about to see whether it was aimed at her or at Cass. At this point, she thought she quite deserved it.

“Are you going for a walk, Miss Thorold?”

Angelica jumped, dropping her kid gloves on the hall carpet. “Miss Quinn! How you startled me!” She was wearing an unfashionably deep bonnet that concealed most of her face, but the bit that Mary could see looked distinctly flushed.

Mary waited for a reply, but none came. “It’s a sweltering day,” she observed. “Not very nice for a stroll.” She wasn’t exaggerating. The air was dense and stifling, even in the garden, and the intense humidity and thick skies promised a ferocious thunderstorm.

“It’s not so bad,” Angelica said quickly. “I thought I’d pop out for just a little while.” This was nonsense. The girl never walked if she could drive, and just a quarter of an hour ago, Mrs. Thorold had gone out in the carriage.

“May I come with you?” asked Mary. “Your energy puts me to shame. And I do feel as though I neglect you sometimes.”

Angelica’s face contorted. “No! Er . . . that is, I know you take quite long walks, and I’ll be going quite slowly. . . .”

It was too tempting. “Oh, I’m quite happy to walk slowly,” Mary assured her. “And I do hope you’ll forgive me for suggesting it, but is it proper for you to walk alone?”

Angelica began to sputter helplessly.

Mary watched her paralysis for a few moments, then took pity on the girl. “I don’t suppose it could do
much
harm. . . .” she decided nonchalantly. “I shan’t make a pest of myself, Miss Thorold, but perhaps I shall go for a little stroll myself, after all. Have you any errands I might perform for you?”

If Angelica Thorold had been capable of gratitude, it would have shone from her face. As it was, her expression lightened and she said, “Oh! Not today, thank you, Miss Quinn.” She bolted for the front door. Then, one hand on the handle, she turned back to Mary. “Er — Miss Quinn?”

“Yes, Miss Thorold?”

“As we’re both going for little walks . . . perhaps if Mama asks . . . we could allow her to think we did so together?”

“What harm could it do?”

A tight little smile stretched Angelica’s cheeks for a moment, and then was gone. Mary gave the girl a two-minute head start, then slipped outside after her. Angelica had lied, of course: she was walking rather quickly indeed, and it was a good thing she had only two minutes’ lead. Already, she was a little dab of color on the distant sidewalk, identifiable only by the distinctive azure shade of her gown.

No matter. Mary closed the gap to about fifty yards. It was early afternoon, and the streets of Chelsea teemed with horses and carriages, delivery men, fruit mongers, flower and match girls, street urchins, dogs, and other forms of life.

The two women walked northeast toward Sloane Square. Angelica attracted surprisingly little attention, considering her expensive dress and secretive manner. Mary was grateful. She could hardly watch Angelica get into trouble without coming to her assistance. At the corner of Sloane Square, Angelica halted abruptly. The man behind her nearly lost the contents of his wheelbarrow in an attempt to avoid running her down and growled at the girl for her sudden stop. Angelica scarcely seemed to hear him, she was scanning the square with such intensity.

Mary drifted to a discreet place behind a pair of flower girls who were gossiping loudly with a charwoman. She hadn’t long to wait. A minute later, a slim, fair-haired gentleman touched Angelica’s elbow, making her start violently. A small smile blossomed on Mary’s lips: Michael Gray. The smile disappeared an instant later when Michael hailed a hansom cab and handed Angelica up.

With the pace of traffic, Mary easily kept them in sight while on foot. She wished she could hear their conversation. Did the hansom offer sufficient privacy for Michael, or did they have a destination? And what on earth were they discussing? If this were a novel, they would be secretly, desperately, in love. It would be against the rules, of course, since Michael was poor and Angelica all but engaged to George Easton. But it would also explain Angelica’s jealousy over Michael’s flirtation with the paid companion. Perhaps they were now planning how to tell Mr. and Mrs. Thorold about their romance. The scenario seemed possible, although perhaps a bit of a cliché.