A Stroke of Malice (Lady Darby Mystery #8) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,51
blowing snow.”
I was glad now that Gage had accepted Lord Edward’s offer to send a groom with him. If only I could be certain he could be trusted.
“Mrs. Gage is right.” Gage stepped forward to grasp his valet’s shoulder briefly, staring intently into his eyes. “Watch your back. We don’t yet know who can be trusted.”
He nodded.
“And keep your scarf pulled up around your face if you’re not certain of the health of the company you’re in,” I hastened to add. “Sir Anthony ruminated often enough about the effects of bad air. I don’t know if it’s true, but given the circumstances, it’s best to be cautious.” I trusted the fact enough that I’d deigned to even mention my late husband’s name to convince Anderley of how earnest I was.
“I will.” His dark eyes warmed with assurance. They flickered toward Bree, who stood quietly to the side, her hands clasped before her tightly.
“I asked the kitchen maids to put together a sack o’ food for ye,” she stated flatly. “I set it in the sitting room. I’ll show ye.”
Anderley’s eyes widened for a second, as if stunned by this simple kindness, but he bowed to me and Gage and then followed her stiff-backed figure from the room.
Gage’s gaze met mine, and I arched my eyebrows in query, wondering if he had gotten any better explanation from his valet for their strange behavior the night before than I did from Bree. But he merely shook his head and reached down to use my fork to take another bite of stewed apple from my plate.
I waited until the door had closed behind our personal servants before pressing him. “Is that a ‘No, Anderley didn’t tell me anything,’ or a ‘No, you don’t want to know’?”
The corner of his lip quirked at the challenge in my voice. “That’s an ‘I don’t want to know.’” He ate another bite, chewing slowly as his eyes slid sideways toward the door. “I’ve learned it’s best not to pry into our servants’ personal lives. Unless it becomes problematic.”
I ruminated over his words, tempted to argue, but then I recognized the wisdom in them. After all, for all the affection I might feel toward them, and the comradery sometimes fostered by our time spent investigating crimes, Bree and Anderley were still our servants. They were employed to do as we bade. While I didn’t see myself and Gage as harsh, unfeeling employers, only intent on satisfying our own desires and whims, they were still beholden to our demands and wishes. As a consequence, our relationship could never truly be as equals, and without that, whatever friendliness might lie between us was also inherently uneven.
As such, was it really fair to expect Bree to confide every joy or pain? It should be enough for her to know I was sympathetic, and that if she ever wished to divulge some matter—large or small—I would listen.
I exhaled a long breath. “I suppose we should speak with Marsdale, then.” The conversation would not get any easier by postponing it further.
Gage dabbed his lips with the serviette I’d discarded on the table. “I sent that footman to find him with a note asking him to join us in our sitting room. I thought that might be more . . . prudent.”
Given the fact that the last time we’d interrogated him for murder he’d not only admitted us to his chamber half dressed, but then proceeded to propose I paint him in the nude, I had to agree. At least by inviting him to our rooms instead, he was likely to be fully clothed. However, when a knock sounded on the external door to our private sitting room, Gage opened it to reveal not the irreverent marquess, but my brother.
“Good heavens,” Trevor gasped, staggering inside. “I must have completed four laps of this infernal castle simply trying to locate your room.” He sank down on the sofa and rested his head back against the watery blue silk cushions, covering his eyes with his hand. The same watery blue shade covered the walls, and tinted the birds which soared with open wings over gold drapes.
If anyone was suffering the effects from last night’s overindulgence, it was Trevor. His face was haggard and pale, his forehead shiny with sweat, and his eyes—when he lifted his hand long enough for me to see them—bloodshot.
“You should be in bed,” I stated pitilessly.
“Yes, well, I would be, only I have this sister who persists in tripping over dead bodies.”