Montague crossed one long leg over the other and flicked at a piece of lint on his trousers. The barmaid placed two mugs of ale in front of him and Julius Blackwell, the Earl of Rothchild, and exited the private room at the back of the tavern, closing the door behind her.
Marcus drank deeply, his throat dry after the afternoon ride. He glanced over at his friend. “You look like hell. What have you been doing with yourself lately?”
Rothchild snorted and rubbed at the foam on his lips with the back of his hand. “It’s no wonder Prinny can’t stand your company. Didn’t your upbringing teach you not to insult people who have traveled two hundred miles at your request?”
“Not when those people are my friends.” He examined the lines around the man’s eyes and the slump to his shoulders. “And your appearance has little to do with your travels. Have you been ill of late?”
“I’m fine. London has become . . . tiring. Your missive couldn’t have come at a better time.” He drained his glass. “The fresh air of Leicestershire sounds invigorating for once.”
Marcus drummed his fingers on his knee. “You’re an earl, Julius, with a lovely country estate of your own. You can get out of London any time you like.”
Rothchild smirked. “But London has so many more diversions than the country. Speaking of which, you haven’t been to the Black Rose in a while. Madame Sable asked about you.”
“Yes, I’m sure she misses my money. As soon as this business is over with, she will be seeing more of it. God knows I could use the distraction her sort of entertainment provides.” A pair of flashing dark eyes and a tidy brown chignon crept into his thoughts. Perhaps Madame Sable had a girl similar in appearance to his new maid. The thrill he’d received when he had tapped her with his crop had been unsettling. It was the duty of his steward to discipline any of the servants, not his.
The rustle of her starched gown and the press of her soft breast against his arm lingered in his mind. Taking her in hand would exceed mere duty. Which was why playing with a woman who looked like her by proxy was a superb idea. Work the idea of his maid out of his system.
Leaning back, Rothchild tossed a leg up on the wooden table. A grin stretched his cheeks. “It has been a while for you, Marcus. Your last affair was with that widow in Russell Square. And you couldn’t play with that blue blood like you could with a girl at the Black Rose. You must be feeling very frustrated.” He rummaged in his breast pocket and pulled out a cheroot.
Marcus clenched a fist. This was the problem with friends. They tended to know more about him than was comfortable. And friends who frequented the same house of ill repute saw more than they should.
Marcus watched his knuckles turn white, and let out a bark of laughter. The same device for control that Miss Smith preferred. However, with her chapped and reddened hands she risked infection if she were to break the skin with her nails.
He frowned. His new chambermaid’s hands were reacting to her labors as though she was new to the job. She had yet to build up the calluses necessary for a servant’s work. What, exactly, had her duties been in the Earl of Westmore’s household? His stomach went tight at the idea of what sort of job would leave her hands soft and delicate. Westmore didn’t seem like the kind of man who would have the same rule against bedding a servant as Marcus did.
Exhaling through his nose, Marcus relaxed his grip. Not his problem. “My control is fine. And my play habits aren’t why I asked you here.”
“Your letter was very thin on details. What do you need?”
And that was what made friends worthwhile. Marcus didn’t have many close associates, but those he did would drop everything to help. It came as no surprise that the four men he was closest to were also the members of the House of Lords whom the government turned to for special assistance.
“I’ve been asked to find a traitor in Parliament. A flow of information has been reaching France, the last of which was a proposed treaty between England and Holland. Napoléon got wind of it and has come to his own accord with Holland. An exchange agreement that cuts us out.”
Rothchild brought his leg down with a thump and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Why would Willem agree to that? Our relationship with the Dutch king is stronger than France’s, and I’m sure we can offer better terms.”
Marcus sighed. “It might have something to do with the fact that France threatened to blockade their ports if they didn’t sign. Their business sense trumped any claim of allegiance between our nation and theirs.”
“How does this new treaty affect your business? Will your ships still be heading to Rotterdam?”
“Time will tell.” Marcus shrugged. “Most of my commerce is with the southeast Indies and the Caribbean. If I lose my route to Rotterdam my bottom line will hardly be affected.” He stood and walked to the window. The forest behind the village was thick with shadows in the darkening afternoon. “But my company is of little account at the moment. I need to discover who in the government is a traitor.”
Rothchild joined him at the window. “What do you need of me?”
“I need to know which lords have either been short of funds of late or, conversely, been spending above their means. Visit the gambling hells, the brothels, and ask around. Anything out of the ordinary could be important.”
“Gambling hells and brothels. Just another Saturday night.” Rothchild grinned. “That’s a task I don’t mind in the least.”
Marcus straightened his shoulders. “This isn’t to be taken lightly. Treason against the Crown is a capital offense. One of our peers might hang by what we discover. If a man is in dire straits for money there is very little he can’t be talked into doing.”
Rothchild blew a long stream of smoke out between his lips. “If it came to it the traitor would deserve to visit the Tyburn Tree, regardless of financial woes. Selling information to our enemy can cost British lives. A traitor’s end is no one’s fault but his own.”
Marcus nodded. Julius was right. Treason caused nothing but chaos, and that was one thing he could not abide. He took a deep breath. It would still be difficult if he were the man responsible for sending an acquaintance to hang.
He walked to his chair, picked up his coat. “Send me information as you obtain it. I’ve already sent Summerset to Paris to see what he can discover on that end.”
Rothchild raised an eyebrow. “Summerset? I thought he was a wanted man in Paris after his dalliance with that princess.”
“Said dalliance makes him the perfect man to send.”
A broad grin broke across the earl’s face. “I see. Well, if he doesn’t make it out alive at least he’ll die with a smile on his face.”
“Everything’s a lark with you.” Marcus shook his head. “Princess Catarina has contacts, not all of whom are friendly to Napoléon. Not only is Summerset seeking the name of our traitor, but if he can facilitate certain relationships between those malcontents and our government he will have done more for our country than you or I could ever hope to.” He shrugged into his coat, smoothed his hands down the seams. “I await a letter from him if he is successful with his endeavors.”
“I’m sure Summerset will succeed as he always does. I’ve never known that man not to come out of a tight situation smelling like a rose.” Rothchild picked up his own coat and draped it over his arm.
Marcus tapped his hat against his leg. “Put on your coat and come back to Hartsworth with me. It makes no sense that you stay at this inn tonight when I have a hundred guest rooms for you to choose from.”
“You know I feel cooped up when I stay at your house. I’ll be happier staying here before I leave for London tomorrow.”
“How can one feel cooped up in an estate with hundreds of rooms and three thousand acres of land?” He scratched his jaw. “I know you dislike being trapped in small spaces, but truly, you take this too far.”
Rothchild shrugged. “Yes, you have a large home. Ostentatious really.”
Marcus snorted.
“And your obnoxiously large home is packed full of obnoxiously helpful and cloying servants that you step on every time you turn around.” Rothchild opened the door to the main barroom. “No, I will be quite content being ignored in this charming establishment.”
Marcus rubbed his jaw. “Yes, my servants can be quite distracting.” His voice was low, rough, and he cleared his throat. Thoughts of his maid were harder to clear from his head. Ignoring the curious look Rothchild shot him, he held his hand out to his friend. “Thank you for riding up here, Julius. I will await what you discover.”
The men shook hands and Montague left his friend to his anonymous lodgings. His entire ride back to Hartsworth thoughts of his distracting servants, one in particular, would not leave him alone.
* * *
“Lawks, you dust as slow as my gouty grandpapa walks to village. I can see why you lost your place with the earl.” Molly scrubbed the windows of the library, the scent of vinegar overpowering. The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the gleaming glass and illuminated the room in a golden glow. The wing chair Liz had huddled behind the week before beckoned to her. She used to spend afternoons curled up in a similar chair, though much less fine, reading whatever book she could get her hands on.
She stared down at her hands, now covered with a thin sheen of wood polish. Little had she known such a simple pastime would soon become a luxury. Before she could start to feel sorry for herself, she remembered her last visit to Newgate. The stench of waste and misery so thick it clogged her throat. Her sister so wasted away and lifeless she could have been mistaken for a scarecrow.
She released a wobbly breath. Her sister needed her and that’s what she had to focus upon. Which was why she was cleaning slow enough to catch her chamber-mate’s attention. Her fingers tripped through every piece of paper they came across. As she dusted and polished, one eye was on constant lookout for a splash of purple wax.
“I like to be thorough.” Dropping to her knees, Liz rubbed the brass hardware on the desk’s drawers. The majority of the duke’s correspondence was kept in his study, but Liz had found a couple of missives in the library. Montague didn’t merely read behind the desk in his library, but did some work there, as well. New mail was arriving daily. Every search had to be repeated. “Besides, I didn’t lose my place from my previous service. This is a better-paying position and I was happy to transfer.”
Molly snorted, and cocked one grimy hand on her hip. “Well, you won’t last long if you don’t work faster. Mr. Todd doesn’t tolerate laziness. Discipline is strictly enforced at this house.”
“Discipline?” A sheaf of papers tucked under a book on horticulture caught her eye. She stood and casually reached towards the oil lamp next to the book, pretending to swipe at it with her rag. She knocked the book and papers to the floor, forced out an exasperated huff of air.
Molly shook her head. “Yes, discipline.” Turning to another window, she dipped her rag into a small bucket at her feet. “Clumsiness like that might earn six raps on your palms. The punishment I get the most is for sleeping past my morning duties. I don’t oversleep much. But those days when I just can’t open my eyes on time, it gets me twenty strokes with a cane.”
One of the letters Liz had been looking at fluttered to the ground. “Twenty . . . They beat you here?” Her voice came out a high-pitched squeak. The steward had spoken of discipline, but she hadn’t understood what it entailed. The idea that Mr. Todd might physically punish her made her stomach turn.
“Of course.” Molly glanced over her shoulder, eyebrows drawn down. “Wasn’t there discipline at Lord Westmore’s?”
“No!” She cleared her throat and bundled the papers up, stacked them on the desk. “I mean, the earl didn’t . . . uh, no. No physical discipline.”
“How strange.” Molly shrugged and turned back to her work. “It’s quite common. Servants, our navies, the primary school lads. We all get it. It’s what makes us British.”
Liz almost laughed. What an odd way to look at it. The servants at her small country home had never been abused, and she didn’t think they were any less British because of it. The upper class were a different breed.
She placed the book back on top of the papers and sighed. No purple seal. Maybe the duke hadn’t received it yet. Or perhaps he destroyed it after reading it. Would he do that if it was a business correspondence? Probably not, but she’d yet to find it with his other letters of business.
She gave the maple desk another swipe. “Well, I’ll be sure to start my duties on time. Thank you for the warning.”
“Cor, it’s not too bad.” Molly’s lips curved. “Sometimes I’ll even break something on purpose just to have a session with Mr. Todd.” She chuckled. “A couple smacks on the rump are worth it to watch the old man hem and haw about ‘order and discipline.’ ” Her voice dropped in a rough imitation of the steward’s.
Liz’s mouth gaped open. She tried not to let the disgust show on her face. To choose to let the steward strike one’s posterior was beyond her comprehension.
The image of the duke rapping his boot with his crop filled her head. The sharp hiss as it flew through the air to her hand. Now, that man looked every inch the stern disciplinarian. If he were to impose the punishment? A heavy feeling settled low in her belly. Cheeks heating, she turned her back on Molly, her fists twisting the rag into a taut rope. That would be . . . awful. Yes, definitely awful. She wouldn’t let herself think otherwise.
Molly’s laugh rang out behind her. “Ah, don’t worry. You’ll see.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “If you giggle while he canes you Mr. Todd gets so red and starts to stutter. It’s right amusing, it is.”
Liz shook her head. Over the last several months, she’d been exposed to so many different breeds of people that she’d previously been sheltered from. If the circumstances hadn’t been so horrible she would have found the experience fascinating.
She reached up to polish a silver candelabra attached to the wall next to a bookcase. Her cloth dragged over it, pulling the candleholder to one side. The bookcase next to her popped open an inch from the wall. “Oh!” She put an eye to the crack between the case and the wall but saw nothing but black.
Molly’s petticoat rustled behind Liz. “That’s one of the old servants’ passages. We don’t use them much anymore.” Her slim fingers reached around Liz and pulled the hidden door open wide. A gust of stale air blew a tendril of hair across Liz’s cheek. She tucked it impatiently behind her ear and stepped forward, into the dark. A hidden passage! Just like a Radcliffe novel.
“Where does it go?” she asked in a hushed voice, one she usually reserved for church.
Molly shrugged. “The kitchens, the ballroom, the guest rooms. It’s a whole maze of passages so that we can feed and clean up after the Quality without them having to look at us.” She rolled her eyes. “But like I said, we don’t use them much anymore, only when the duke has important company. His Grace doesn’t care if he sees us working.”
Molly threw her rag across the room. It landed in her bucket with a definite splash. “Yes!” Skipping across the room, she picked the bucket up, rag and all. “I’ve gotten good at that. Next time I wager Bill in the stable that I can land the rag in the bucket, I’m going to win.” Arching her back to counter the weight of the bucket, Molly waddled to the door. “I think we’re done here today. Let’s move on to the morning sitting room.”
Liz pushed the bookcase flush to the wall, and gathered up her own rags. “Speaking of the stable, I saw two men fighting by it last night. I expected there would be a lot of gossip about it, but have heard nothing. Do you know anything about it?”
“No.” Molly clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “But that might explain your cousin’s black eye. He got right miffed with me when I asked him about it in the kitchen today.”
“Second cousin,” Liz replied, the correction coming unconsciously. “I wonder who he’d be fighting.” And why. She followed Molly down the hall, her thoughts racing.
Her contact at Hartsworth didn’t seem like the friendliest of men, and she could well imagine him getting into a mill. But was it a coincidence that the one man who’d been hired by Lord Westmore to spy upon the duke was involved in an altercation? Chewing on her lip, Liz worried about all that she wasn’t privy to. She needed to help her sister, but she didn’t want to be a party to hurting anyone else.
She squared her shoulders. For all intents and purposes, she was a spy now, too. If Pike was involved in last night’s scuffle she would find out. And find out why. She couldn’t cross Westmore or his man, not directly. But if her mission here was putting anyone else at peril perhaps she could obstruct the earl and Pike just the same.
And maybe, just maybe, learn something she could use against Westmore. The earl had taught her a lot about blackmail. He enjoyed applying pressure to people in order to get what he wanted. Why should Liz be any different?
Thoughts rolled around in her head, her mind as turbulent as the sea during a storm. If she couldn’t find the duke’s letter she would need some other way to convince the earl to have her sister released.
She needed to gather as much information about the earl’s intentions as she could. Follow Pike if necessary. Perhaps intercept his missives from the earl. As Westmore was fond of saying, information was power.
And it was time she got a little bit of that power for herself.