Chapter Eleven
After Gabriel had escorted Phoebe back to Hill Street, he walked around to Grosvenor Square again and let himself in. Parslow, his father’s town butler, appeared from nowhere as was his wont, and Gabriel, having greeted him, divested himself of his hat and cane.
“Her Grace is in the pink drawing room,” Parslow said, brushing a few imaginary specks of dust from the hat. “And Lady Cecilia is in the library.”
Gabriel, however, had no desire to sit for a dull half hour entertaining his stepmother, and nor did he want to have conversation with his vivacious stepsister.
Cecilia was the best of the bunch of girls the second duchess had presented his father with, but he had other things to do right now.
And besides which, she would be brimming with curiosity about his injuries and he’d have to elaborate on his initial lie.
Always a dangerous thing. If one was going to lie, one should keep the lie short and easy to remember.
“Might Mrs. Hawkins be downstairs?” He kept his voice casual, but, nevertheless, Parslow’s frighteningly bushy white eyebrows rose heavenwards.
“She is, my lord.”
He could see the man was itching to inquire why he wanted to know where she was, but was too polite to do so. It wasn’t as if Gabriel was even often in Grosvenor Square. And he certainly had never made it a habit to visit the housekeeper before.
“I’ll just pop down there then,” Gabriel said, keeping his voice airy.
Conscious of Parslow’s curious gaze on the back of his head, he took the discreet door that led downstairs to the servants’ domain and descended quickly to the corridor that ran towards the back of the house.
He wasn’t entirely sure where one would find a housekeeper at this time of day. Truth be told, he knew almost nothing about housekeepers as they didn’t come under the remit of a gentleman, and nor had they ever held any attraction for small boys on the lookout for extra food. Unlike cooks.
There was one at the house he shared with Ambrose in Half Moon Street, of course, but both he and his brother left her pretty much to herself.
Very rarely did Ambrose leave particular instructions for what they wanted to eat.
And often, if they were both going to be out, they forgot to inform the poor woman that dinner would not be required.
Only, wasn’t that more in the line of what a cook needed to be concerned about?
He had no idea and hoped he’d never need to find out.
He was familiar with the kitchens, of course.
Not so familiar as he was with the ones in Wentworth Castle, though.
Those had seen him so frequently the cook there had suggested he ought to take up residence.
But she’d spoiled him with all her baking to the extent he’d started to get a little rounded belly at one point.
Now, thinking about it, he patted his stomach. He was indeed feeling a little peckish.
Mrs. Stokes, the cook here, had not been in her position when he’d been a boy, but he’d ventured down here since then on the rare occasions he’d visited the house in Grosvenor Square. Usually when his stepmother was not in residence. Neither he nor Ambrose had much patience with the duchess.
Mrs. Stokes spotted him peering in at the door of her kitchen, and, wiping her hands on her apron, gave him a broad smile. “Why, if it isn’t Lord Gabriel himself.” She was addressing a waif-like kitchen maid who was seated at the enormous oak table peeling carrots. “Feeling hungry, are you milord?”
Gabriel went in. “As always.”
A tray covered with a white linen cloth stood on the table. Mrs. Stokes lifted the corner to reveal several rows of uniformly shaped patties. “Veal and ham,” she said. “I’m thinking by the look on your face you’d like one.”
He nodded. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Stokes. But they’re very small. Might I perhaps have two?”
She laughed. “Yes you might. Always hungry, you are.”
He wasted no time in helping himself to the small individual patties, stuffing one into his mouth whole as she returned the linen cloth to cover the rest.
“Quite delicious,” he managed, through a full mouth.
The kitchen maid, who looked to be about twelve and must be new as he’d never seen her before, stared up at him out of wide, frightened eyes.
Best to get to what he’d come down here for. He leaned against the table. “I was wondering where Mrs. Hawkins might be.”
Cook’s eyebrows shot up and the kitchen maid gave a visible shiver of fear.
What could be wrong with Mrs. Hawkins to frighten a girl so much?
He couldn’t remember ever having laid eyes on her here, but he had vague memories of a rather forbidding woman waiting on his sick mother.
He’d so rarely seen his mother with anyone in attendance until she was ill and confined to her room.
“I should think she’ll be in her parlor,” Cook said. “If you’re feeling brave.”
Gabriel finished the second patty and brushed his fingertips together to rid them of the crumbs. “You do make the best pastries, Mrs. Stokes. I might have to get my brother to send Mrs. Watts round to learn how to make them from you. While hers are good, yours are a masterpiece in airy lightness.”
Cook blushed in a most satisfying manner. Good, always flatter the servants when you get the opportunity had been one of his mother’s lessons to him. Let them know you appreciate them. Cook did indeed look most appreciated.
“And her parlor is where?” Gabriel asked, pushing himself off the table and having to brush the tails of his coat in case they’d picked up flour. He winked at the kitchen maid and she gave a little gasp of shock.
“That door on the left just down the corridor,” Cook said.
Gabriel bestowed his best smile on her and returned to the corridor. Sure enough, there was the required door. No doubt the next one might be the butler’s pantry, domain of Parslow. He knocked on Mrs. Hawkins’s door.
“Enter.” The voice was harsh and sharp. No doubt she thought it was a servant tapping on the wood.
Gabriel pushed it open and stepped inside.
With his lack of acquaintance with any housekeeper, he’d never been inside one of their parlors.
It was more than surprising. He’d been expecting a smaller, less ornate version of the sort of parlor ladies frequented.
And it did indeed possess a high-backed armchair in front of the small fireplace, but apart from that he realized he was in foreign territory.
The walls consisted of shelves stacked with all manner of things: tablecloths, bedlinen and towels, canisters of tea, bags of sugar, pots of spices, countless jars of preserves, boxes of candles, and an abundance of more durable items such as china, glass, and silverware. Did she perhaps live in a storeroom?
In the center of this room stood a well-polished mahogany table around which stood just two chairs. She clearly wasn’t given to partying. Perhaps Parslow occasionally got an invite.
Mrs. Hawkins was sitting in one of the chairs, facing the door, a large ledger open in front of her and a pen in her right hand.
He seemed to have happened upon her when she was doing the household accounts.
A thin woman, she wore her iron-gray hair scraped back from her face and covered with the plainest of white caps. Her whole demeanor was forbidding.
Her face betrayed no surprise at the sight of him.
In fact, it was if anything a trifle annoyed at this interruption.
“Lord Gabriel,” she said. “What might I do for you?” She sounded very much as though she would like to be rid of him as quickly as possible.
Perhaps she saw him as unimportant. Perhaps, if she did, it might be because she knew his secret, which had to be a good thing.
Gabriel closed the door behind himself and stepped further into the room. “Might I be seated?”
By the look on her face she wanted to say no, but instead she gave a small nod. Not a polite one, more of a resigned one.
He pulled the other chair out and sat down.
She regarded him out of cold, oddly pale eyes. “How can I help you, my lord?” She didn’t sound as if she meant this.
He had no intention of allowing her to put him off, so he might as well plunge right in. “You used to be my mother’s lady’s maid, did you not? Before you took on the role of housekeeper here in London.”
This did cause a slight reaction. Her eyes flickered, but all she then did was give a slight nod. “I did.” Was that wariness in her eyes now?
“Good.” At least that was out of the way.
Now to reveal to her what he knew. Or what he thought he knew might be more accurate.
Perhaps he ought to be careful about this, as it was perfectly possible she hadn’t been with his mother on that fateful day in Soho Square or that the whole story was a faradiddle his mother had told his father in order to persuade him to allow her to keep him.
Maybe, even, his mother had snatched him from some passing nursemaid, although that seemed unlikely in the extreme.
Suddenly nervous, which was unusual for him, he wetted his lips. “Did you always go with my mother when she visited her dressmaker.”
A guarded look crossed her face before she had it back to being blank. “I attended your mother whenever she went out, and whenever she needed me when she was at home both here and at Wentworth Castle.”
Well, that was good to know. He was just going to have to come out with it and ask her. He swallowed. “Were you, then, with her on the day she found me?”
Her pupils dilated slightly but otherwise she showed no reaction. She’d be an admirable card player. For a long moment she stayed silent, perhaps weighing up what she should say. “I was.”
He let out a sigh. At least he hadn’t let slip something she didn’t already know. He tried a smile. His smiles had been known to open many doors and loosen the tongues of most people he encountered. He might as well not have bothered with the dour Mrs. Hawkins.