Chapter 23
Half the party gathered in the entrance hall, spilling out onto the steps outside.
Henry spotted Julia near the front of the group, in conversation with Miss Fawcet, but she was not who he sought.
His eyes glanced across more milling figures, catching on Mrs. Seymour.
She had changed since an hour before when they’d been in the study, and her dress was a gauzy white with thin stripes down the front.
It made her hair appear even more vibrant.
He weaved through them all to her side, standing back to await the conclusion of her conversation with Mrs. Gregory.
But Mrs. Seymour’s eyes darted to him, a small smile lifting her lips. It made him feel even worse for what he was about to do.
She bid Mrs. Gregory farewell and turned to him, her smile lifting. The fleeting thought that he’d yet to hear her truly laugh crossed his mind, entirely out of place.
“I am anxious to hear your thoughts on the cliffs we are to visit, Sir Henry,” she said, before he could speak. “The sun setting across the water is something to behold.”
His gut twisted.
“But you do not appear particularly excited yourself?” she asked, head tilting.
He gave a strained smile. “I cannot go. I only came to tell you that I wish I could, but I’m afraid that I am required to remain here.”
“Oh.” A line appeared between her brows for half a second before it smoothed.
“You will be missed.” Her following smile was not nearly so bright, and she did not ask him what would occupy his time.
He was grateful, as he’d been loathe to lie to her yet again, but the fact that she’d so easily accepted that he would be too busy to accompany her planned excursion saddened him.
She gathered the group, and Henry avoided Julia’s eye as he allowed himself to be left behind when the exodus to the carriages ensued.
In moments, he stood alone with the butler. The older man cleared his throat as Henry turned to him. “You’ve had another letter, sir,” he said, handing over the object in question.
It was written in Carlton’s hand again. Henry stared at it. Two letters in one day? Had something occurred after the first had been posted to elicit a second?
“Thank you,” he said, still staring down at the sealed missive. Evidently, his inquiries of the staff would have to wait.
Henry took the steps two at a time, sequestering himself in his room, pulling off his cravat, and breaking the seal on the letter. The contents were scant. Most of it was a clipping from The London Times.
Lord Reginald Hastings requests information on the whereabouts of one Sir Henry, baronet, on a matter of business.
Carlton had included a note that he was unsure if Henry received the paper, but thought he would send it along.
Blast. Henry grabbed up a pen. He needed to respond immediately. His heart was jumping into his throat at the thought that Carlton may inadvertently reveal Henry’s location to Hastings. Doubtful that the man would, but it was still a possibility.
Carlton,
I would ask that you not give Lord Hastings any indication as to where I am.
You also asked for an update, in which I will be brief.
The person you suspect cannot be involved, I am sure of it.
I am hardly closer to the true instigator we seek, but I have made several connections and discoveries.
I hope my next will include more information.
Sincerely,
Hon. H. Ainsley
He left the letter to dry as he crossed the room to stash Carlton’s note and the clipping at the bottom of his trunk.
After splashing some water on his face and folding up the letter, he left again in search of a footman to help him post the letter.
He might have just returned to the butler, but that would not further his true aims for remaining home.
Evidently the servants were not all as loyal to Mrs. Seymour as they seemed.
Did they still serve a dead master—or someone new entirely?
What Henry had told Carlton was true. He did not believe for a moment that Mrs. Seymour was involved in the smuggling or the piracy, but the unlabeled beach being attached to the Windvale property was suspicious.
If any of the servants were involved, they would be a great starting point to climb the ladder of leadership.
It was not long before Henry found his first opportunity. A maid, holding a stack of laundered sheets. She paused to offer a curtsy, but Henry stopped her with a hand.
“You wouldn’t know where I might find Mrs. Trumble, would you?” he asked.
“I’d imagine she’d be down in her office, sir.”
“Is she often there?” he asked.
The maid thought a moment, and Henry felt a stab of guilt when she shifted her load of sheets. “Usually, yes. Unless someone is needing her. I can . . . get her for you?”
“No, no, I can find her myself. Only,” and here he paused, needing to tread lightly. “Is she in . . . one of her moods?”
The young lady’s brows furrowed. “One of . . . why, no. She seemed perfectly amiable, sir. I am certain she would be happy to help you.”
Henry smiled. “Wonderful. I could always just ask Mrs. Seymour, but with her gone, I assumed that Mrs. Trumble would be best.”
The woman’s eyes widened a little. “Oh yes. Indeed, you can always ask Mrs. Trumble. Truly, she never minds the interruption, and she has said that Mrs. Seymour does not need to be pestered.”
Henry nodded gravely. “Thank you.” He continued on.
He crossed paths with a handful of others, oblivious to his subtle questioning—perhaps too subtle—regarding the power dynamics between mistress and housekeeper. There was a clear vein of response. Nearly everyone seemed to defer to the housekeeper.
Which meant he needed to speak with her. The final footman, who’d also informed him that Mrs. Seymour did not always know what she was about, which had Henry gritting his teeth, pointed out the door to the housekeeper’s office, just down from the kitchen.
Henry knocked and was invited in. Mrs. Trumble was a severe-looking woman of advanced years. She reminded Henry a little of a governess Julia had growing up: sharp eyes, thin lips, and an air of displeasure. She set papers beside a set of gloves when Henry entered, lifting one of her brows.
“Might I help you, Sir Henry?”
“I hope so.” He put on a crooked grin—just the right amount of charming and oblivious.
Her brow remained raised.
“It is only that I was hoping for some direction. I have been told of a rather remote beach that I can access from—” He feigned a yawn. “Gads, forgive me. I did not sleep well last night. I kept hearing noises outside my window. Does your gardener work late?”
Her expression did not change. “Perhaps you heard one of the guests in the garden.”
He conceded the possibility with a tilt of his head.
“Yes, perhaps. Are the doors not locked, then? I should think—well, I would not wish to say anything ill of your mistress . . . ” He let the sentence dangle.
And there, finally, was a slight change in expression. Her mouth relaxed only a fraction.
“Go on. Your thoughts are perfectly safe with me, Sir Henry.”
He dipped his head graciously. “I only thought that for the safety of the guests, perhaps the doors should be locked. I have heard, well . . . I have heard from a few servants that there is, at times, smuggling afoot on the island, and I should hate to put my sister in danger. She is my only family, you know. I care a great deal for her.”
She lifted her papers, shuffling them together and tapping them into a stack. “You need fear nothing of the sort.”
“Then it is all tales?” he asked, infusing his words with hope.
“Certainly.”
“And you understand my concern, yes? Do you have family on the island?”
Lines around the woman’s eyes doubled. “No, actually. I came for the position. My family is all across the Channel. But as I said, you need not worry. You can tell me whichever of my staff is spreading such falsehoods.” So that she could ferret out anyone against her cause?
Or just because she ran a tight ship in the household?
Certainly, she had to know of the smuggling; there could be no doubt, especially for one who had spent so long on the island.
“Oh, I don’t recall their names.”
Her smile was sharp. “Understandable.”
He let his shoulders visibly relax. “Then on to my true question. I have heard of a private stretch of beach that can be accessed at the south of the property, but I’ve yet to find a trail.”
Her eyes darted to the wood of her desk, then back up to him. “I have no knowledge of such a beach.”
Henry clapped the arms of his chair. “Dash it. Well, I shall have to endeavor to find a different beach then. Good day, Mrs. Trumble.”
She bowed her head, and he left.
Mrs. Trumble was certainly involved in some way, however small.
If not because her conversation had abounded with falsehoods, then because her gloves, dress, and hairpins had seemed of a quality far above a housekeeper’s salary.
And Henry would know; he had been pinching pennies for the better part of half a decade.
He discreetly questioned a few more members of the staff as he made his way back above-stairs, solidifying his belief that most held Mrs. Trumble to be the true mistress of the place.
A few times, he noticed a bit of extra finery in a servant’s clothing, but nothing solid enough to tell him they were certainly involved.
One maid mentioned that a footman had “gone off” the night before, leaving extra work for the rest of them, and one complained about sand tracked in the kitchen, but again, nothing of strong import.
But the housekeeper. Could he follow her? Learn of her acquaintances? What was her part in the smuggling? Did she benefit directly or was she loyal to someone who did? And did her lack of deference for her mistress factor in at all, or was it simply a personal failing?