Chapter 5
“This is a fucking disaster,” Archer said.
It had been six hours since the ladies-in-waiting had arrived, and he had not yet regained his usual self-command.
He was panicked. He was panicking. He’d been panicking, with increasing vigor and urgency, all afternoon.
“It’s not that bad,” Lamentation said. “We got the casks out of the house, at least.”
Archer ran his hand through his hair, which reminded him that he needed to cut it. And shave. And find some new bloody clothes, if he was going to keep up appearances around three London ladies for a disturbingly nebulous period of time.
“It is that bad,” Wall said. “I’ve never seen Archer pace like this. Not even when he got put off the Swallow.”
Archer froze. He had been pacing; if there had been a rug on the floor of the kitchen, he would have worn a path in it by now. But—
Hell. Damn it. If Wall could see his disarray—if Wall was bringing up Archer’s disgrace on the Swallow, which they never spoke of, not even in extremity—then Archer needed to marshal some lies and give the situation a brilliant coating of gilt.
That was what he did. He made them believe they were safe.
He had to. Because he was the one, back in the navy, who had foundered them all on the rocks. And now he was the one who had to convince them they were not on the point of drowning.
He spun one of the kitchen chairs around, straddled it, and tried to force his jaw to unlock. “It’s . . .” The words wouldn’t come. Apparently It’s going to be fine was a bridge too fucking far when he was confronted by The Woman From The Party in his own goddamned house. “It’s not . . . ideal.”
“I don’t really understand what the problem is,” said Eugénie.
Her voice, lightly accented from her native Dominica, was soft but steely.
“The girls brought loads of money with them. Gerry showed me the packet with the letter from the Monfalcone ambassador. Apparently he made budgetary allowances so that they might abide in the style to which they are accustomed. We can afford to feed them, Captain.”
Archer had seen the money too: a fantastic sum, which only made him more concerned that the ladies-in-waiting meant to dwell in Pomeroy House for the rest of their natural lives.
“The Monfalcone ambassador is part of the problem,” he said.
“That girl—Lady Ruby Ballimore—is his daughter. If she writes to him and tells him something is amiss here at Pomeroy House, he’ll tell the royal family.
I’m under no illusions that House di Sangro has any loyalty to me personally.
One word from the ambassador and we’ll all be out on our arses. ”
“Then let’s make certain nothing is amiss,” Lamentation said. “We can clean. Straighten. Maybe with all those guineas we can acquire a couple of villagers willing to work as chambermaids.”
Archer shook his head. “We can’t do that either. Because the royal family has only authorized the estate to be staffed by me and a groundskeeper. If Lady Ruby tells her father that it’s fully staffed—if she tells the earl about all of you—we’re equally fucked. None of you are supposed to be here.”
When Archer had first been hired on, the Monfalcone royal majordomo had indicated that the princess had no immediate plans to visit Pomeroy House, despite plentiful rumor to the contrary.
Archer had always assumed that if that changed—if the princess meant to descend upon the mansion in state—he would be afforded plenty of warning.
Surely, he’d thought, the Monfalcone royals knew as well as he did that a mansion of this size could not be kept in perfect repair by a single steward.
Based on the day’s events, perhaps they did not.
Eugénie’s dark brows drew together, an elegant line above her perceptive gaze. “That makes no sense. If House di Sangro wanted the princess’s ladies-in-waiting to live here, why would they not pay to fully staff the house?”
“I’ve no bloody idea. Maybe they’re out of money and hiding it very cleverly.” Archer knew plenty about that.
Wall got up from the table and moved to the stove, where he was boiling a bone he’d acquired from the butcher.
Apparently the puppies had been orphaned too young; though they’d been weaned off milk, they were smaller than Wall preferred.
According to a scientific text on hunting dogs that Wall had ordered from a Swedish catalog, the puppies now required marrow jelly.
Wall decanted the reddish, slithery substance into a series of jars as he spoke. “There’s also the problem of all the ill-gotten goods in the house.”
“We moved the casks,” Lamentation protested. “Gerry and I have spent the majority of our day moving casks to and from the cove, in point of fact.”
“It’s not just the wine,” Archer said. “We’ve got all the leftover sculptures from Dorset in the stables, and those foul-smelling cigars, and about a thousand pairs of lace stockings in one of the tower bedrooms.”
“And silks,” added Gerry in his deep bass rumble. “Lots of silks coming next week, right, Cap?”
God. Archer had nearly forgotten the silks.
“Could you tell them you’re a silk merchant?” Lamentation asked. “In addition to being a steward?”
Archer scratched at his beard. “I suppose I could try.”
The greatest problem, though he had not said it aloud, was the fact that Lady Ruby Ballimore had seen him as Professor Quenby.
And not just in passing—she had been the architect of Quenby’s downfall.
He’d not have supposed she would recognize him, without the hair powder and spectacles and stooping, except for those damned penetrating eyes.
They’d been in the same room for roughly two minutes before she started demanding to know where she’d seen him before.
If she realized he was the man who had sold the counterfeit statues to Gravesmuir, Archer would not just be out of a job at Pomeroy House—he’d be tossed in prison, probably. Or else transported. Or hanged.
But he couldn’t tell his crew that. The very idea of letting them know how close they were to disaster made his skin feel too tight.
After his dismissal from the navy, Archer had found himself devoid of ship, career prospects, and any clear sense of his future. But he’d not been left alone. Wall, Eugénie, Gerry, and Lamentation had stayed with him.
He refused to let them regret it. And so instead, he would obfuscate and bluff and lie like his life depended on it—even, if necessary, to them.
He didn’t need a perspicacious little blond to remind him that he was a scoundrel. He already knew.
Before Archer could finish racking his brain for some new scheme, he was interrupted by the soft sound of throat-clearing behind him. He spun about so fast he nearly knocked the chair over, which rather counteracted the impression of cool confidence he meant to convey.
In the door to the kitchen stood the ladies-in-waiting.
Lady Ruby was at the forefront—she seemed, somehow, to be the leader of the trio—and she held a coal scuttle clutched to her chest. Her lavish frock, which had been fresh as new cream when she’d arrived on his doorstep, was now liberally streaked with grime, and her straw hat had vanished.
Her face was even pinker than it had been that morning, and her lips were pursed, a state that did nothing at all to counteract her general impression of quivering edibility.
Archer smiled as though he’d never been so delighted to see anyone, which was perhaps the greatest lie his face had ever told.
“Good evening,” he said. “How may I help you?”
Lady Ruby extended the empty scuttle, an action that revealed even more dirt upon her person.
“Have you any coal?” She did not pause to let him answer, only continued to ramble.
“We may not need it, of course, since it’s July.
But I thought it wise to acquire some, in case we do.
Need it, I mean. I don’t know how cold it will be in our chambers overnight.
” She wound down, her face having gone from pink to rather red.
They did, of course, have coal.
But as Archer regarded Lady Ruby, a new thought floated to the surface of his mind. What would happen if they didn’t?
What if the conditions at Pomeroy House were inhospitable enough that the ladies-in-waiting simply . . . left?
They might complain to the Monfalcone ambassador, who might write to the royal family.
But Archer suspected he could talk his way out of questions, if he had enough time and distance.
He could probably pass their aspersions off as a misunderstanding, some misapprehension on the part of a trio of spoiled London ladies.
And they would be gone. There was no chance Lady Ruby Ballimore could identify Archer as Quenby if she weren’t here to look him in the eye.
He might, if they scared the ladies off, lose this position.
But he would not lose his freedom. And he would not lose his crew.
Before Archer’s embryonic plan could properly develop in his mind, Lamentation leapt up from the kitchen table.
“Of course,” Lamentation said enthusiastically. “Of course we have coal. You needn’t come all the way down here. We can bring some up to your rooms.” He took the coal scuttle from Lady Ruby’s arms, and she offered him a pleased smile.
Archer gazed at her. He recalled her from Gravesmuir’s—recalled the ruthless clarity of her words.
But she did not seem quite so ruthless now.
She was pink and smiling, for God’s sake.
She was a sweet, innocent little debutante.
While she was upstairs, she had changed her gloves into a pair that was even fussier, some delicate concoction of ribbon and lace.
He knew how to talk—even to pristine aristocrat’s daughters. He knew how to persuade people to do what he wanted and leave them feeling it had been their own notion all along.
Perhaps outfoxing Lady Ruby Ballimore would not be so very difficult.