Chapter Five #3
It still gave him a bit of a shiver when he thought of the first time he’d found out about such a thing.
Miss Oliver from his neighborhood had been clever about it.
She was the vicar’s daughter and for quite a while all he’d known about her was that she was as demure as could be, interested in charitable works, and exceedingly proper.
Then one day, he’d walked into the church, looking for the vicar for some reason or other.
He’d come upon Miss Oliver beating the vicar’s housemaid with a broom.
When she realized she’d been seen, Miss Oliver had attempted to blame the maid for attacking her first. Corbyn could see the truth on both of her faces.
He’d gone to his father, as he was fourteen and not at all certain what to do about it.
That’s when his father had informed him that what he’d seen was the true Miss Oliver.
All the piousness and kindness was just feminine wiles.
Until that moment, Corbyn had taken people as they came. He’d never forgotten it.
As it happened, there were plenty of manly wiles to go around too. Lord Chester was a prime example of that. He made himself pleasant to people who might shun him if he did not. But away from their eyes, he was something else entirely.
As his father had been a rather practical fellow, he’d hired the maid away from the vicarage.
Then he’d spoken to the vicar about a new effort he was championing—the ethical treatment of servants.
While he did that, Corbyn bided his time.
He’d had to bide it for months, as Miss Oliver avoided him like a black plague.
His moment did come, finally. He told her if he ever discovered she had mistreated a maid again, he would make certain that everybody in the village knew it.
She would be afraid to show her face anywhere.
He presumed that, along with her maid leaving and her father informing her of the earl’s new effort for the ethical treatment of servants, had been enough.
Just in case it had not, he’d put out a quiet word to his own household servants.
If anybody was to spot something going wrong in the vicarage, he was to know about it.
Of course, there was the chance that perhaps he was too fanciful in his ideas of Lady Beatrix. Perhaps she had told him of escaping her governess and her ambition to become a tinker simply because she had a naturally ebullient temperament. He did not know. What he did know was he liked her.
“Should I look into her,” Farber said, adjusting his neckcloth.
By her, Corbyn presumed he meant Lady Beatrix. By look into, Corbyn presumed spying, which Farber was always keen to do.
Corbyn laughed. “What on earth do you think you could find on a lady like Lady Beatrix Bell?”
“You’d be surprised,” Farber said enigmatically.
“What on earth do you mean by it?” Corbyn asked.
Farber paused and Corbyn really wondered what he was to hear. There could not be anything to hear about Lady Beatrix.
“It is going round, in servants’ circles at least. that at a dinner at her house she informed Lord Chester that she enjoyed reading some rather surprising material.”
“Like what, for example?”
“Fanny Hill, for example.”
Corbyn took that in. Then he roared with laughter. “Lady Beatrix? That book? It is absurd. Her governess would hang herself from a tree to know one of her charges had been exposed to such a thing.”
“That is why you might want me to look into it,” Farber said. “If it is not true, then somebody has started the rumor to harm her. Who and why?”
Corbyn considered it. “You do not suppose it is just some random bit that servants pass around to bring a lady down a peg?”
Farber shook his head. “I doubt it. When that happens, the target is usually someone powerful or someone in the habit of mistreating their staff.”
“She will fit into neither of those categories,” Corbyn said. “Yes, find out how this rumor came about. If someone is actively attempting to damage her, I would like to know it. Interesting that Lord Chester’s name is mentioned. I would not be surprised to discover he’s involved somehow.”
“I’ll add him to my list,” Farber said.
Farber always started with a list and went from there.
Beyond that, Corbyn was not entirely sure how he went about his business.
He knew Farber had access to Lord Chester’s back of house.
They were one of his neighbors on Portland Place and Farber had weaseled his way into most of the servants’ halls, and their stables for that matter.
He could, when inspired, be amusing, flirtatious, solicitous, or anything anyone required.
Farber’s greatest talents were speaking multiple languages flawlessly and changing himself like a chameleon to suit the circumstances.
Corbyn did not know what he would discover, but knowing that someone might be attempting to harm Lady Beatrix caused him to feel protective of her. She was an innocent lady and all a lady had, at least by society’s measure, was her reputation.
He was determined to put it aside for now.
Farber would do whatever Farber did in these cases.
Corbyn would wait for more information. In the meantime, he would set off for Lady Thurston’s annual alarming update on the state of her marriage.
Last year, Lord Thurston had leapt out of a coffin.
Every time he imagined Lady Thurston had reached the heights of absurdity, she managed to top herself.
He did not really care what Lady Thurston did this year. His sole purpose in going was that Lady Beatrix was scheduled to attend.