Deadly Peril (9 page)

Alec gave a huff of embarrassment, a hand to his black curls and a look up to the plaster ceiling, before dropping his gaze to the wooden floor. He regarded his uncle with a grim smile.

“If only it were a case of a satisfied pleasurable romp in a few beds, jealous stares from ineffectual husbands, and me swaggering about, the English diplomat lover! The only part you did describe correctly was the latter. I let hubris get the better of me and allowed myself to be flattered. And then I overstepped the boundaries of good manners. What happened after that I can blame on no one but myself. In my defense, there were sinister forces at work that I had no control over. Had I been less of a smug lothario and not allowed myself to be flattered I’d not have ended up in a predicament from which there was no escape—Damn! I’ve told you more than I intended.”

“Don’t upset yourself. You’ve told me enough for now. At the very least, upon this return visit, your eyes will be wide open to any mischief, sinister or otherwise. That must be small compensation.”

“There is that…”

Plantagenet Halsey patted Alec’s shoulder and slowly got to his feet. Hadrian Jeffries had twice come through the doorway only to turn on a heel and retreat into the closet. He couldn’t let the valet do so a third time, so he returned the checklist to Alec’s dressing table and said in the doorway,

“I’d best see how m’packing is coming along, and before m’tailor arrives with those breeches. Which is warmest—beaver or bear? No matter. I’ll trust to his judgment.”

“Uncle! You can’t—You can’t come with me—to Herzfeld. You simply cannot.”

“Don’t worry yourself, m’boy. Her Grace and I are only sailin’ with you as far as the Dutch seaport of Delf—Delfzijl,” Plantagenet Halsey told him. “It’s on the left bank of the river Ems estuary, across from Emden. But you’d know that.”

“Yes, and I’m impressed you do.”

“Courtesy of your godmother, who gave me a geography lesson on the area when she and Cobham were arguing over where to drop anchor. Her Grace was all for sailing into Emden’s harbor, but Cobham won’t loan her his schooner without her promisin’ to steer clear of Midanich altogether. So Holland and Delfzijl is as close as the captain is permitted to take us.”

“I’d assumed we’d be sailing on the Harwich to Helvoetsluys packet. Going by private schooner will be positively hedonistic in comparison, and save us at least a day’s sailing, weather permitting. Sir Gilbert will be pleased.”

“Mere mortals might sail by packet, but not Olivia St. Neots. You think your checklist is as long as your arm! Hers stretches the length of Pall Mall! Amongst her necessary items, she’s takin’ along her sedan chair. Have you ever heard the like of her?”

Alec chuckled. “Is she? I wonder if she is aware that the principal means of getting about in Holland, and Midanich, is by canal boat? But if it makes her more comfortable to have her chair aboard, then so be it. It could be a nice private place to be ill, if she’s prone to sea sickness.” He became serious. “If you stay put in Delfzijl, then I welcome your company on the journey. But you must promise not to allow Olivia to convince you to cross over to Emden. I’ll be three days’ travel away, so can’t help you. I don’t need the worry of you and Olivia, too.”

“You just concentrate on what you have to do, and I’ll take care of Her Grace.”

Alec squeezed his uncle’s upper arm affectionately. “Thank you.” He then turned to his valet, who now stood in the doorway with a pair of knitted breeches over his arm and holding a pair of soft kid fencing shoes. “M’sieur Poisson arrived?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Wantage had him shown up to the Gallery, and I had your swords fetched and sent up, too.”

“An hour of hard physical exercise will help clear your mind of worry for a while, and rid your brow of that furrow,” Plantagenet Halsey said. “Nothin’ better to relax the limbs and clear the head than vigorous swordplay—Well, there is one other thing,” he added quietly and with a wink as the valet retreated back into the closet, before he sauntered off.

Alec refrained from commenting on his uncle’s wicked aside and went to change into his fencing clothes. And when he returned to his dressing room, tired and sweaty, after an hour’s fencing practice, his thoughts were surprisingly free of Midanich, Cosmo and Emily, and even Selina. But one glance into the closet, at the leather portmanteaux all lined up in a neat row, lids thrown open, and full of clothes and personal accoutrements for travel, and his peace of mind evaporated.

Such was his preoccupation with what was ahead of him that he stood in the middle of the room as if made of stone, unaware his bathwater was ready, or that his valet waited to help him undress. But a footman accidently hit the side of the door with an empty copper as he exited down the servant stairs, swore under his breath, and brought Alec out of his private reverie. He quickly unbuttoned his linen waistcoat with a muttered apology.

“Excuse me, Jeffries. Thoughts miles away…”

Hadrian Jeffries silently took the waistcoat, then the unraveled stock, and finally his master’s linen shirt. He returned for breeches, smalls, and stockings once Alec was soaking in his bath. He then busied himself in the closet with the last of the packing of Alec’s clothes—the fur-lined breeches and waistcoats delivered that morning—until he was called through to the dressing room. He found his lordship with a silk banyan thrown over his breeches and open-necked white linen shirt, searching through the grooming implements on the marble top of his dressing table.

Alec picked up a crystal bottle here, a tortoiseshell-backed boar-bristle brush there, before fiddling with the silver grooming implements from his filigreed etui. When he accidentally spilled its contents amongst the clutter, it was too much for Hadrian Jeffries, who stepped forward.

“Sir, I’m sure I can find what it is you’re looking for.”

“Mr. Halsey dropped the travel list here… No matter. Without my eyeglasses, I can’t read it anyway… I thought I’d left a small box and a set of rims…”

“No need to find the list, sir. I can tell you precisely what’s on it. And your spectacles and the ring are in the middle top drawer,” Hadrian Jeffries stated, wondering why Alec wanted the travel list, why he had suddenly forgotten where his eyeglasses were kept, and why he had mentioned the ring box. He itched to lean across and scoop up the scatter of little silver implements from the etui. Instead he rearranged the hairbrush and crystal jar to where he had first placed them. “I’ll tidy this immediately, sir. If you’ll just let me—”

“Leave it,” Alec commanded softly. He put a hand to the back of the Chippendale dressing chair beside his dressing table. “Sit.”

Hadrian Jeffries instantly stepped away from the dressing table and did as he was ordered, cleft chin up and balled fists on his knees. He watched Alec sit on the dressing stool opposite and shove his hands in the pockets of his silk banyan.

“Firstly, allow me to apologize for not having this conversation with you earlier,” Alec said, aware of the guarded look in his valet’s eyes, as if he were expecting a berating. “I had hoped to put your mind at rest in Bath, and then circumstances dictated otherwise. And in the coming weeks there will be little time for either of us to think beyond surviving. You do realize there will be danger, on many fronts? And I don’t just mean from soldiers. Travel to the Continent always presents a myriad of difficulties. Everything from dealing with corrupt customs officers who want their cut, to intolerable food, and then there are the appalling roads. Though where we’re headed, thankfully most of the journey cross-country is by canal…”

When Alec paused, Hadrian Jeffries realized it was an opportunity for him offer up a reply.

“Yes, sir. I do know that. I have some little experience of going abroad, particularly of travel by canal. I spent two years in Utrecht.”

“Did you?” Alec was genuinely surprised. He had not been expecting that revelation. “So you speak the language?”

“Dutch? Yes, sir. A little. Enough to be understood, and then some.”

“Good. Excellent. That will come in useful. Dutch is the language spoken by the inhabitants of Emden, Midanich’s busiest port, and our first destination.”

Alec paused again, but when the valet offered up nothing further about his time in Holland, he continued, saying apologetically, “Since Tam was otherwise engaged in his studies you stepped up admirably to take on his duties. But you were here, employed in this house, before Tam became my valet, when John held the position…?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wantage tells me John took you under his wing, and that he was training you to be a gentleman’s gentleman at the time he up and left?”

“Yes, sir, but please excuse me when I tell you that Mr. Wantage hasn’t got it quite right,” Jeffries said, and continued when Alec put up his brows. “I was a gentleman’s gentleman before I came here to be an under-footman.”

“I presume Wantage is unaware of this, but that John knew?”

“Yes, sir. John got me through your door, and as an under-footman. We were introduced at the Stock and Buckle—”

“The coffee house on King Street where upper servants meet?”

“That’s correct, sir. Once I’d shown John my reference for Mr. Halsey, he vouched for me with Mr. Wantage.”

At this, Alec took his hands out of his pockets and sat up, puzzled. “A reference for my uncle? Has he seen it?”

“No, sir. I felt there was no need, once I got the job—er—position as under-footman.”

“You still have this letter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where are you from, Hadrian? What are your family connections?”

At these questions, Hadrian Jeffries vacillated. He expected Alec to ask him who had written him the reference. At the very least, where he had been employed and by whom as a gentleman’s gentleman. So he was unprepared for such a personal question. Not even Mr. Wantage had asked about his family. And if he’d been content to remain an under-footman this question may never have been put to him. But when John had left Alec’s employ he had jumped at the chance to take his place, and put himself forward. Mr. Wantage was all for it, particularly as John said he should be given the post, even if temporarily to show him, and of course the master, of what he was capable. And then his chance was gone all because of that upstart Thomas Fisher, who, it was obvious to everyone downstairs, had never been an upper servant, least of all valet to a nobleman. Yet, not a year into his post and Tam Fisher was no longer valet, and he, Hadrian Jeffries, had the post… Well, almost…

Of course he should have expected such a question from Lord Halsey; the nobleman was anything but conventional. He also knew not to be evasive or lie to him; the man was too keen of brain to be fobbed off with a pat response. So Hadrian told the truth.

“Edinburgh, sir. My family is still there. All of them. I’m the only one to come south.”

Alec hid his surprise and said evenly, “You’ve lost your Scots brogue. Deliberately?”

“Yes, sir. I worked hard at it. But not for the reason you think.”

“I don’t know what to think, Hadrian. Your reasons are your own, but I am interested to know why. But only if you wish to tell me.”

Hadrian Jeffries nodded, mollified by Alec’s moderate tone.

“Apologies, sir. I just want you to know it wasn’t out of any sort of deception. My father believed that a man could only better himself through honest hard work and speaking well—as well as our betters south of the border. So we were given lessons in elocution so we wouldn’t sound Scots.” For a moment Hadrian Jeffries permitted himself to smile. “My elder brother Trajan refused to lose his Scot’s tongue. No matter that he was beaten every time he opened his mouth. Trajan’s a Scotsman through and through, and no amount of voice training was going to take that from him!”

“There is nothing wrong with being proud of your heritage, Hadrian—or of your name. I take it Jeffries is a surname you gave yourself?”

“Yes, sir,” the valet answered stiffly. Adding in a rush, “But Hadrian
is
my Christian name.”

Alec smiled. “With a brother named Trajan, of that I had no doubts. Do you also have brothers so named Nerva, Antony, and Marcus, by any chance?”

“Nerva, sir? No, sir. There’s only Trajan and me.”

“Ah. What a pity your father did not have five sons to name after the five good emperors. No matter. Any sisters?”

Hadrian Jeffries had no idea who or what were the five good emperors but he could answer the latter question. “Yes, sir. One sister—Marcia.”

“Of course. Marcia was mother of Trajan, and wife of Trajanius Pater. Your father has a partiality for the history of the later Roman emperors.”

It was a statement but the valet answered Alec anyway.

“Yes, sir. He does. He was a Latin scholar. He went to university on a scholarship.”

When Hadrian Jeffries did not offer up anything further about his family or his name, Alec let it rest and moved time on, saying quietly, “Am I to presume then you are not from a family in service?”

“If by service you mean servants of a great household, then no, I’m not, sir. My father is in service of a different kind. He is the chief advocate’s head clerk in stables. Stables are called chambers here in London, so he’s head of chambers in Edinburgh, if that makes sense?” he explained to clear Alec’s furrowed brow. “I’m the only family member to go into household service.”

Alec mentally sighed. How had he ended up with two valets in the space of nine months who were both not as they first appeared. They might be poles apart in temperament and yet their circumstances were similar, in that neither had been born into service or was trained to do the job specifically required of them. Although, he had to admit, Jeffries was an excellent gentleman’s gentleman. He asked the same question he had asked Tam.

“Are you a runaway, Hadrian? Are you in trouble with the law?”

“Me, sir?” The valet was offended, but he evaded answering the question nonetheless. “Begging your pardon, but why would you think so?”

“You are not using the family name you were given at birth. You have suppressed your accent. And, you just told me you come from a good family, with a father who holds a well-respected position amongst the judiciary in Scotland. Thus it is simple to assume you came to London to hide…?”