Chapter 7
I had been certain I wouldn’t be able to sleep until Gage joined me, but it turned out I was more tired than I’d thought.
The long days of preparation and then hosting duties, ensuring I was the last to retire and the first to rise, at least among the ladies, had made it impossible for me to keep my eyes open once my head touched the pillow.
When I was awakened the next morning by Mrs. Mackay’s light tapping against the door, it was all I could do to roll myself out of bed and don a wrapper.
I noted that Gage was sprawled out across the other side of our bed, his arms above his head, still oblivious to the world.
It was difficult not to watch him as he slept, with his features softened and his golden curls tumbled about his head.
He wore no sleep shirt, and the musculature and sinew of his bare torso was something to be admired, both as an artist and a wife smitten with her husband.
I might have stared longer, but I heard Emma’s voice raised in demand.
Dragging myself into the adjoining sitting room, I offered my daughter and her nanny a weary smile. Emma’s face split into a wide grin, her cherubic golden curls so like her father’s already escaping from their cap. My heart melted instantly.
“Aye, there ye are,” Mrs. Mackay crooned to Emma.
“I told ye that ye’d see yer mam soon enough.
” She passed her to me. “She woke half an hour early, but after the evenin’ I heard ye’d had, we decided ’twould be best tae wait tae wake ye.
So we’ve been watchin’ the birds from the terrace.
” Her eyebrows arched in gentle question, asking after my well-being as much as the night’s events.
“Yes, another murder,” I replied resignedly. “I know this isn’t what you joined us for.”
“Och!” She waved away this comment, as unflappable as ever.
“I ken exactly who ye and Mr. Gage were afore I accepted the position. Didna I tell ye I wanted a wee bit o’ excitement in my old age?
” Her eyes twinkled at her jest. Though silver-haired with wrinkles and gently sagging skin, Mrs. Mackay brimmed with the energy of someone half her age.
“I spent enough uneventful years buried away on Scottish estates wi’ my previous charges.
” Then her expression dimmed. “Though I am sorry for the lass who was killed.” She shook her head. “And with vitriol, no less.”
“Did you meet Miss Whitlock?” I asked, curious if she had any impressions of the young secretary.
“I’m afraid no’. But as always, I’ll keep my ears open. There’s bound tae be much discussion o’ the young lass o’er the next few days, considerin’ her fate.”
I could only hope some of that gossip proved fruitful to our investigation.
“Thank you,” I said.
She nodded and turned to depart, aware that I would ring for her when I needed her to return for Emma.
I settled into one of the chairs near the window to nurse and cuddle my daughter, a ritual I normally found soothing.
Unfortunately, today it gave me too much idle time to think.
A decision would have to be made about how to handle the guests.
We couldn’t allow them to leave, but precautions would also have to be taken to ensure they felt safe.
Though it seemed callous to continue with our plans for the house party, we still had more than a dozen guests to entertain, and dozens more arriving Saturday.
We couldn’t very well insist they stay and then fail to offer them any diversions.
However, we also now had an inquiry to undertake, and balancing our time could prove complicated.
That morning, the men were touring the estate on horseback and then fishing, which might allow Gage and his father to question the other men alone or in pairs as they straggled out along the trail and the riverbank.
I, on the other hand, was going to find it more difficult given the nature of activities planned for the women.
Perhaps with Alana and Lorna’s help, I might manage a brief tête-à-tête or two.
Such was my distraction that Emma seemed to finish almost moments after she’d begun.
It was a jarring reminder of how much she’d grown.
Soon enough, she would no longer require me for sustenance—a day I both longed for and also dreaded.
At times, it seemed my child and I were bound together by a series of invisible threads, and with each new milestone, each step into independence, a thread was snipped, until one day there would be no threads binding us left.
It was the goal of motherhood and yet also terrifying to contemplate.
I wondered if other mothers ever felt the same.
She lay pliant in my arms for a few minutes longer, babbling back at me and giggling when I tickled her chin.
She had learned a few words, but most of what she said was a delightful baby gibberish.
Too soon for my liking, she demanded to be let down, and I watched as she toddled about the room, exploring.
She no longer needed the aid of chairs to help her maintain her balance, but at fifteen months her stride was still far from steady.
Much of the time she staggered about like a sailor who had yet to adjust to dry land. It was comical.
I was just about to ring for Mrs. Mackay when the door connected to our bedchamber opened to reveal my sleep-tousled husband now clothed in his merlot red dressing gown.
Catching sight of him, Emma immediately reversed course, nearly tumbling onto her bottom.
Gage smiled and scooped her into his arms as she drew near.
“Did we wake you?” I asked apologetically as he turned to look at me. My heart warmed as it always did at the sight of father and daughter together.
“I needed to rise anyway,” he said with a yawn. “And I can’t think of a more adorable way to do so,” he added, pressing a kiss to his daughter’s chubby cheek.
She giggled and then insisted on being let down again.
“Done with me already?” he jested good-naturedly before setting her back on her feet. Then she was off, waddling about the room.
Gage closed the bedchamber door before crossing the room to greet me more properly with a kiss before flopping down into the chair opposite.
He peered distractedly out the window where morning mist still shrouded the land and much of the sunrise.
“It seems you were just sitting here with Trevor.” He propped an elbow on the arm of the chair, cradling the side of his face.
“What a difference twelve hours can make.”
I understood what he meant. Twelve hours ago, Miss Whitlock was alive and my chief concern was preventing a scandal.
“What time did you finally retire?” I asked.
Another yawn cracked his jaw. “Sometime after two.” One corner of his lips twisted. “Father caused a bit of a brangle with Birnam.”
“Oh, dear. Over the note?”
He nodded.
“I take it that it couldn’t be found?” If Lord Gage and Mr. Birnam had quarreled, that seemed the likeliest reason.
“Birnam swore he must have left it on the writing desk in his chamber, and his valet—a chap named Paget—claims he saw his master pick it up off the floor, read it, and place it on the desk.” He arched his eyebrows.
“Or he saw him do that with some sort of piece of paper, in any event. He didn’t read it. ”
“I take it from your expression that there’s something about this story that you don’t find credible,” I said, watching Emma as she banged on the surface of one of the side tables. All of the small breakable objects had been moved to the mantel over the fireplace days ago.
“It’s this Paget fellow I don’t find credible.
” He glowered. “There’s something evasive about him.
I’m not sure his origins are entirely respectable.
Which doesn’t preclude him from making a good valet.
But his shifty eyes and misleading comments make me think he still might not be entirely reputable. Anderley agrees.”
This last remark added a great deal of credibility to his impressions, for Anderley himself had a bit of a checkered past. He’d been born in northern Italy, where much of the region was struggling to rebuild after years of occupation by Napoleonic France.
Believing there was little future for him there, his family had sold him to a padrone, hoping he would gain valuable experience in a troupe of traveling actors.
However, the padroni who preyed on such desperate families had far more nefarious intentions in mind, instead forcing these Italian Boys—as they were called in London and other cities throughout Britain—to perform on the streets and beg for money, which was then all handed over to their padrone master.
They lived in cramped houses under horrendous conditions, and were often malnourished and mistreated, left with little hope for their future.
Anderley had run away from his padrone and made his way to Cambridge, where he’d scrabbled out a rough existence until the day he saved Gage from a pair of thieves and tended his wounds.
Gage had seen the potential in Anderley and decided to hire him, first as an errand boy and later his valet.
For Anderley was a quick learner and a skilled mimic, able to adopt the mannerisms of just about anyone, including a toplofty valet to an aristocrat, men who were often even more snobbish than their employers.
But most importantly, he was fiercely loyal—to Gage and now his family.
At any rate, given Anderley’s past, I trusted his judgment when he deemed that someone or something wasn’t entirely aboveboard.
“Mr. Birnam hasn’t always been wealthy. Maybe he knew Paget before he made his fortune and brought him along with him,” I suggested.
After all, much like a lady’s maid, valets were privy to the most sensitive details of their employers’ lives. A gentleman needed to be selective about who he placed in such a position.