early morning tea for him, and nothing in the world more important, in his book. Lucy turned her back and concentrated on her ironing. “Have you seen Mr. Henry?” he asked. “Hines?”
“Why would I?” was the sullen reply from the man sitting at the kitchen table.
Holcombe stood frowning for a moment, then hurried out—without any tea. Which was strange, and interesting. Lucy eyed the others. They showed no signs of curiosity. As far as she’d been able to tell over the months, they didn’t have any.
The scent of porridge wafted from the hearth, and Lucy’s stomach growled. Mrs. Hines could make a decent porridge, at least. She wasn’t good at much else. On the other hand, he ordered such bland dishes that it was hardly worth any bother.
Holcombe popped back in. “Hines, come with me,” he said. The cook’s husband grumbled but pushed up from his chair and obeyed. This was one of the things that showed Hines wasn’t a real butler. He snapped to when the valet spoke in that particular tone and did as he was told. The two men left the kitchen, and they didn’t come back.
Something was up, Lucy thought. He next to worshipped his routines, threw a fit if any little detail was altered. Despite months of grinding frustration, she felt a shred of hope. Any difference had to be for the better, didn’t it? She took her finished ironing and headed upstairs to see what she could see before waking her mistress.
***
When Lucy pulled back the curtains, Charlotte swam slowly up from her belated sleep. Her memory sputtered and cleared. She sat up. “You should have told me, Lucy.”
“Told you what, Miss Charlotte?”
“That Henry spends nights away from home. The knowledge could hardly hurt my feelings at this point.”
“Away…?”
“Come, Lucy, the household knows these things.”
“They don’t talk to me.” Was this it then? He hadn’t come home last night?
“I know they haven’t befriended you, but there must be gossip…”
“Never, miss. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lucy opened the wardrobe and surveyed the row of gowns. “Except… Mr. Holcombe’s in a right taking this morning.”
Charlotte threw back the covers. “I’ll dress at once and see him.”
“You know he don’t like to be…”
“I don’t care.” And she didn’t. Not a whit. Holcombe might be the most insolent of all the servants, but Charlotte was finished with being cowed.
She hurried Lucy through their morning routine. She would demand that Holcombe appear, and if he refused, she would hunt him down wherever he lurked and force him to tell her the truth. Chin up, eyes steely, Charlotte marched out of her bedchamber and down the hall. In what passed for a drawing room in this house, she jerked the bellpull. Minutes ticked by; no one answered the summons. Charlotte rang again, then gave it up and started for the stairs.
A heavy knock fell on the front door; it sounded as if someone were striking it with a stick. Charlotte looked over the banister. The knock came again, echoing through the house. Who could be calling at this hour?
The housemaid hurried out and began to undo the bolts. Charlotte heard the swinging door at the back of the hall and knew that other servants were behind her. The front door swung open.
“Miss,” said a deep voice from the stoop. “Is there a gen’lmun at home pr’haps?”
Charlotte hurried down the stairs.
“Who wants to know?” demanded Holcombe, surging out of the back hall.
“It’s the watch,” replied the deep voice. “Are you…?”
Charlotte moved faster. “I am the mistress of this house,” she said, more for Holcombe’s benefit than the visitor’s. “My husband is apparently not at home.” A glance at Holcombe showed him pale and anxious, completely unlike the snake who delighted in taunting her. Charlotte turned her attention to the burly individual on her doorstep. Bearded, in a long stuff coat and fingerless gloves, he looked like any of the men who patrolled the streets of London. His staff was tall beside him.
“Ma’am,” he said, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. “Er…”
“Is there a problem?”
The man held out a visiting card, which seemed so incongruous that Charlotte just stared at it. “I wonder if you might recognize that, ma’am?”
She took the small pasteboard square and read it. “This is my husband’s card.”
“Ah.” The watchman didn’t seem surprised. “Might you want to sit down, ma’am?”
“Just tell us what has happened!” exclaimed Holcombe, typically ignoring her authority, her very existence.