Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Michael stood like a repentant child on the steps of the family townhouse—his townhouse—and asked to be allowed back inside.
The butler, used to the occasional rows between Mrs. Coulton-Jones and her rascal of a son, was inclined to welcome the master back into his home, but he coughed delicately. “The mistress has requested that the master return to his rooms at The Albany until further notice.”
“The master wants to see the mistress right this moment, Henderson,” Michael said with a touch of irritation. He knew it was not the butler’s fault, but he was fairly certain he was still the head of the family.
“I apologize, sir, but I’ve been strictly instructed not to allow entry into the house of Mrs. Coulton-Jones’s disobedient, outrageous, and unreasonable child, of whom she wishes to see neither hide nor hair.”
“By any chance, is she referring to Isabella?”
“I fear not, sir.”
“Henderson, considering that I shall be the one paying your Midsummer wages come Monday, I insist that you allow me entry.”
“I rather fear for my well-being if I should do so, sir.”
“Mother can hardly dismiss you, Henderson.”
“She has the ability to make my duties extremely onerous should she wish, sir.”
Michael heaved a mighty sigh. “I shall inform my mother that her quarterly allowance shall be slashed should she do so. Step aside, Henderson.”
The butler hesitated for a second, then moved away to allow Michael entry into his house.
Of course, his mother chose that moment to descend the stairs.
Michael had been rather anxious for the butler to allow him entry before his mother reached the entrance hall, for his enhanced hearing had caught the sound of her footsteps on the floor above as he was speaking with Henderson.
Well, if they must have their confrontation here, at least the servants would not be forced to gather outside the drawing room to listen to the argument.
“You are not welcome in this house,” she said in frigid, majestic tones.
“You cannot keep me from my own residence, Mother.”
“I can, indeed, if my child is as ungrateful and selfish as you have shown yourself to be.”
“Leaving halfway through the Season—leaving town in the middle of June—is not so great a burden, surely? Parliament will dissolve within only a few weeks, and London is already becoming insufferably hot.”
“I have obligations,” she proclaimed, “important, personal obligations with intimate friends. I have given my promises, and I cannot fail to honor them.”
“These are the same friends you see throughout the year when you are not in town?”
She opened her mouth, hesitated, then closed it. Then she answered reluctantly, “Yes. But that is hardly the point.”
The butler coughed. “Perhaps the master and mistress would prefer to resume this conversation in the comfort of the drawing room?” None of the servants were obviously visible in the entrance hall, but Michael could hear their rapid heartbeats as they clustered in the short passage leading back towards the kitchen.
“I have nothing more to say to this unruly boy,” Mrs. Coulton-Jones declared.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Parr, elbowed her way past the servants clustered out of sight in the passage and entered the entrance hall. “The cook will be sorely disappointed,” she said in a soothing voice. “She has only just now removed a gooseberry tart from the oven.”
His mother was not normally ruled by her stomach, but gooseberry tart was quite her favorite dessert.
The difficulty of the recipe—ensuring the fruit was neither too sour nor pulpy—made it a rare occurrence in his household and was one of the reasons she tolerated her slightly temperamental cook.
So Mrs. Parr dangled it in front of her mistress, knowing precisely what sort of treat to offer to a cross, spitting cat.
Mrs. Coulton-Jones froze. Michael could see the indecision in her eyes—whether to allow herself to be enticed by her favorite sweet or to refuse to be manipulated by her own servants into speaking with her troublesome son.
“I promise to be on my best behavior, Mother,” Michael said in his most contrite voice.
“You shall speak not a single word!” She pointed an imperious finger at him for a dramatic touch, then whirled around and proceeded up the stairs to the first floor.
Michael breathed a sigh of relief and gave Mrs. Parr and Henderson a grateful look before following his mother up the stairway.
But at the landing, he paused. There was the faintest hint of a foul odor, a man—he was fairly sure it was a man—who had not bathed in several weeks and who had perhaps rolled around in a chimney at one point, as well. Dirt, and old sweat, and rotting food, and coal dust.
The next moment, the smell was gone. A servant had opened a window, and he could detect a faint breeze. Perhaps the smell had come from outside the house.
But as he traversed the hallway, he began to notice small things out of place.
There was a tiny scuff mark under the leg of one of the hallway tables, as if someone had bumped into it and it had scratched the wooden floor before the table was pushed back into place.
When he entered the drawing room, he wondered if perhaps his grandmother’s hideously ugly and extremely expensive shepherdess figurine on the mantelpiece had been moved a few inches to the right, for it no longer flanked the family portrait of one of his ancestors with perfect symmetry with the overly gilded French clock on the other side of the painting.
Was he simply imagining things because of the smell at the landing? And yet, they had not seen anyone enter the house last night.
After being ignominiously kicked out of his home yesterday, he returned to the tannery to request Mr. Drydale’s assistance in watching over his mother. They still had the dark clothing they wore when invading the Ramparts, and so they took turns in watching over the Coulton-Jones townhouse.
When his mother left to attend a soirée after dinner, Miss Sauber followed and was able to observe her for much of the party through the large windows.
Mr. Drydale had insisted she form part of their team of watching his mother for just that reason—the sharper eyesight she had acquired from drinking the Blood Nectar made the task far easier for her than it would have been for anyone else.
She had also been able to easily keep up with the carriage on the way home.
Michael had hidden in the shadows of the square and watched his house for a few hours, relieved by Mr. Drydale in the early morning hours.
The Ramparts had not tried to arrest her.
The Citadel had not sent any of Jack’s men to watch the house, much less enter it.
No one had seen anyone enter the townhouse.
And yet, the placement of objects in the drawing room did not quite match his memory.
Was it simply that he had not noticed the change the last time he had been here?
Nothing appeared to be missing, as far as he could discern—but several of the objects were no longer perfectly centered on a table or shelf.
His thoughts were interrupted when a maid entered with the tea tray. The scent of gooseberries on the tart was almost overwhelming, but he also caught the distinctive bitter flower aroma of the fine tea his mother preferred.
He sat across from her and waited for her to pour tea for him, but he was not surprised when she did not.
He was actually grateful as he poured a cup of tea for himself, for he wouldn’t put it past his mother to deliberately add three or four lumps of sugar to his cup when she knew he preferred no sugar at all.
He carefully did not take a portion of the tart. His mother watched him, then sniffed as she lifted a bite to her lips.
They sat in silence for several minutes, sipping tea. He waited until his mother had finished eating her pastry, and when she was eyeing another slice with a faint hint of guilt, he stood and served it to her. She turned her nose up at him, but accepted the second piece.
As he sat back down, he said, “You needn’t view me with such suspicion. I have not come to repeat our discussion from yesterday.”
Her mouth pinched as she glared at him, fully aware that he was varnishing the truth by calling it a “discussion.”
“I came today merely to inform you that I wish to give up my rooms at The Albany and remain here for the rest of the Season,” he said.
His mother’s suspicion did not fade, and her eyebrows rose in disbelief. She had been nagging suggesting that he give up his rooms for the better part of a year.
When Richard was alive, she had not minded that Michael had removed himself from the household.
He preferred his own rooms, for she was less likely to worry about him.
He had also not needed to fabricate reasons why he could not join them at the opera, or a ball, or a card party, for it would hardly do for him to tell his family that he was required to join a group of smugglers in crossing the Channel in an attempt to find the courier who was intercepting military dispatches.
His brother would have felt obligated to make excuses for him, and Michael hadn’t wished to burden him with that.
His brother or sister would inform him if his presence were required for an event, but otherwise, he had been free to continue his work for the Foreign Office, unknown to anyone but Isabella.
And then Richard died, and the family had gone into mourning.
But when the new Season came upon them, Michael found he could not return home.
When he first entered his house after his brother’s death, he felt like a ship without an anchor while storm clouds gathered around him.
His brother had been the steadiness upon which his family had depended. Upon which Michael had depended.
He fully admitted that he retained his rooms at The Albany simply to avoid the empty spaces that his brother no longer occupied. Richard was not there, and the house was no longer a home.