Page 41 of King's Man

Mrs. Sturge’s lips tightened. “Very well, thank you Beth. Taylor?”

“For the love of…” He wedged his wig back in place. “This,” he said, pointing at Nate as he stalked past, “is why you lot had the right of it. Bloody nobs, do whatever they like and bugger the rest of us.”

Nate smiled but didn’t comment, taking note of the fact that the servants loathed their master, and that the doors would be locked tonight.

∞∞∞

“Wait here please, sir.”

The footman disappeared down a long corridor, his shoes clacking on the white marble floor, leaving Sam in a vast mausoleum of an entrance hall. Stone pillars edged the space, between which the dead-eyed gaze of austere marble busts regarded him with suspicion. MacLeod’s esteemed ancestors, no doubt.

Pirates, according to Nate, ruthless young buccaneers who’d settled in the West Indies, discovered sugar cane, and amassed vast fortunes off the backs of enslaved laborers. Now their descendants masqueraded as aristocrats. But perhaps all aristocrats were descended from brigands if you looked back far enough.

Opposite the entrance, a beautiful grandfather clock stood against the far wall, measuring out time with a patient tick-tock. A slow heartbeat in this dead space. A pair of matching footmen, no more than half an inch between them in height, stood sentinel either side of it, dressed in knee breeches, braided coats, and powdered wigs. Handsome, Sam noticed, if your taste ran to tall, athletic, and fair. A pair of human ornaments. He wondered whether it was Lord or Lady Marlborough who relished the sight of their well-shaped calves.

At the back of the hall rose an enormous staircase, sweeping up and around to an entresol overlooking the doorway. The lord of the manor could stand there and look down on his subjects like a king surveying his domain. As with everything about Marlborough Castle, it appeared designed to intimidate. And it told Sam everything he needed to know about its master.

Under the guise of gaping in awe, he attempted to create a mental map of what he could see. Double doors stood open to his left and right, through which he could glimpse more marble and opulence. An explosion of male laughter drifted through the doors on his left, from a more distant part of the house. This would be where MacLeod entertained, but his study would be part of the suite of rooms in which he conducted private business. Upstairs, more than likely. Sam eyed the sweeping staircase with distaste. It would be much too exposed to use when he came back tonight, but as he carefully scanned the hallway, he saw an inconspicuous door virtually hidden amid the walls’ wooden paneling: the servants’ stairs. These great houses all had them — passages and staircases that allowed the servants to move about the house like rats behind the wainscoting, hiding their honest work from aristocratic eyes. God forbid Lady Marlborough encounter a maid carrying her husband’s night water downstairs.

But servants’ stairs or not, Sam would need to see more than this damned entrance hall if he were to find MacLeod’s study, and that would depend on whether he was permitted inside. Nate had assured him that Lord Marlborough was not so aristocratic that he left his business in the hands of an agent, but Sam was more skeptical. In his experience, men of MacLeod’s position liked to pretend their fortunes were God-given, preferring to leave the unseemly matter of running their affairs to others. In which case, Sam would be taken to MacLeod’s man of business who might be in the wrong part of the house entirely.

A door opened and the footman who’d admitted him returned. His expression was studiously blank, but Sam could see strain around his eyes and mouth. Tension, or perhaps fear. In London, MacLeod had a reputation among his servants for brutality, and Sam could see no reason why he’d behave any differently in the countryside. While there may be no slaves in England, men like MacLeod treated enslaved workers on their plantations with unspeakable violence and cruelty. Surely such savagery must scar their souls, must bleed into the ways they treated their servants at home?

“Lord Marlborough will see you now,” the footman said. “This way, sir.”

Hiding his surprise, Sam followed the man upstairs. At the top, he found a circular landing from which two corridors led in opposite directions. The footman took the one to the left, at the end of which stood a large door embellished with a coat of arms in gold leaf. MacLeod’s suite, no doubt. But the footman stopped at another, smaller door, opened it and stood back to allow Sam to enter. “Please wait here, sir. Lord Marlborough will be with you directly.”

“Thank you,” Sam said, catching a flicker of alarm in the footman’s expression. God forbid anyone acknowledge the servants! And then the door closed behind him and Sam was alone.

Quickly, he looked around and couldn’t believe his luck.

He stood in what was either a library or MacLeod’s study. The walls were certainly lined with bookcases, although they were barren of actual books. Many shelves stood completely empty, and those that were filled contained only ledgers, a couple of atlases, and a selection of bibles. Neither novels nor poetry were to be found. Nate would consider it a travesty, Sam thought, but it was exactly what he’d expect of a man rapacious in the pursuit of money and with no love for anything beyond wealth, power, and status. Sam doubted MacLeod had read a book for pleasure in his life.

A tall window extended from floor to ceiling, an extravagant use of glass. Had this been a real castle it would have been defensively useless, but the window cast plenty of light across the huge desk that sat before it. Like everything else, the desk was large and commanding. It also appeared to be well used, which suggested Nate was right about MacLeod’s involvement in matters of business.

He looked back at the door, listening, but all was quiet outside. Hurrying over to the window, he glanced out and saw a formal garden stretching out before him — the back of the house, judging by the angle of the sunlight. One floor below him a long balcony stretched the entire width of the house, onto which a set of French style doors stood open, letting in the warm summer breeze. That might be a good way in. Now, where was the damned strongbox? It must be —

Behind him, the door handle squeaked.

Sam darted away from the window and spun to face the door, hands clasped behind his back and heart thudding. The footman reappeared. With a stiff bow, he announced, “Lord Marlborough.”

John MacLeod didn’t wait for his servant to move aside, barging past as he strode into the room. He was a big man, powerfully built with wide shoulders and a thick frame. Gimlet eyes and downturned lips spoke of a short temper, and an old-fashioned wig, yellowing with age, sat askew atop his head, giving his tan face a sallow hue. He was exactly what Sam had expected: a plantation owner playing at gentility with all the finesse of a hog taking tea. And he was dangerous. Sam didn’t need Nate’s warning to know that; he could see it in MacLeod’s flinty eyes as they peered out from the fleshy folds of his face.

Sam bowed. “Lord Marlborough.”

“And you are?”

“Holden, sir. Amos Holden.”

“American?” MacLeod crossed the room to his desk, flicking out his coattails as he sat. “Damned business over there. Hang the bloody lot of ’em, I say. Damned traitors.”

Unable to agree, Sam bowed again and said, “I’m come from London at the request of Mr. Farris, my Lord, to assure you that the contract has been drawn up and awaits your signature at your convenience.”

Those were the words Nate had given him to say. Sam had held his silence about Nate’s involvement in a deal between a brutish plantation owner and an infamous slave trader. In truth, he hadn’t needed to say a thing; Nate’s discomfort when he’d explained had been evident in the drawn line of his mouth and the slight flush in his cheeks. And it had served as a sharp reminder to Sam that Nate would sacrifice anything — even, apparently, his principles — in the name of the American cause.

MacLeod leaned back in his chair, regarding him with shrewd eyes. “A damned long way to send a man. I told him I’d be back in London in a se’night.”

“I have business in Liverpool, my lord, and was honored to oblige Mr. Farris in this matter.”

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