Page 73 of Miss Desirable
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
“We are gentlemen,” Fournier said pleasantly, “in as much as English Society allows one to use the word in an informal sense. Be a gentleman, Deems, and come with me quietly.”
Fournier had approached the former butler alone on the street, taking a calculated risk. Deems was of advanced years, and a butler’s job did not typically hone a man’s pugilistic skills. Still, the encounter might be remarked by Armbruster’s other spies.
“You raised your voice to Miss Fairchild in the garden,” Deems retorted. “I could hear you from the mews. You are no gentleman.”
“The lady raised her voice to me as well, but that is none of your affair. Come along, and you and I will have a civilized conversation on the walkway, where you need not fear I will menace you physically. You will tell me, for example, if you are in Lord Fortescue’s pay.”
Deems gave Catherine’s front door one last look, then set a dignified pace in the direction of The Boar’s Bride. “And if I were?”
“I would offer you more to betray him than he could ever offer you to betray Miss Fairchild.”
“An English gentleman’s loyalty is not for sale, something I would not expect a foreigner to understand.”
“We all need somebody to feel superior to, don’t we?” Fournier asked, tossing Victor tuppence at the corner. “And losing your post deprived you of that.”
“You know nothing about it.”
“So enlighten me, though you must admit, anybody who would spy on his employer while taking her coin has parted with all pretensions to an Englishman’s honor.”
Deems lost none of his poker-straight posture, but something defeated came into his gaze. “It’s that damned Nevin Thurlow who’s spying. When Lord Fairchild hired me, he warned me that a diplomat was a target for all manner of mischief. The household must be run to the highest standards of propriety and security and no effort spared to safeguard the ladies. I tried, by God, but there’s Thurlow, panting after the French chit and his next pint and slacking by the hour. Of course he’d take Armbruster’s bribes. Thurlow is stupid and lazy, and that makes him an easy dupe.”
“You are former military?”
“What of it?”
“Lord Fairchild trusted you, and I gather he was a discerning man. You were at something of a loss when it came to managing his wine cellar, though, so I gathered your abilities lay in more practical directions.”
They crossed the intersection, and Fournier could feel Deems reassessing his strategy.
“You think I’m former military because of how I kept the Fairchild wine cellar?”
“Exquisitely tidy, not a speck of dust on even the plum cordial, which we all know to be a gift given at Yuletide by impoverished aunties and former governesses. You overstocked the clarets and all but ignored the lighter wines suitable to an invalided lady or her young daughter. Your inventory was correct to the bottle, though. That suggests a quartermaster’s eye for details and ledgers and no familiarity whatsoever with genteel ladies and London socializing.”
They walked along in silence, while Fournier silently sent up a prayer for patience. Throttling aging butlers on the street was not prudent, but oh-so-tempting.
“The last thing his lordship asked of me,” Deems said, “theonlything he asked of me, was to look after the ladies. He alluded to difficulties encountered while serving on the Continent, though he was never specific about whether the difficulties involved Miss Fairchild or her mother. His lordship assured me the situation had been handled quietly, though my continuing discretion was imperative. I respect a man who puts the welfare of his family first, sir, and if your intentions toward Miss Fairchild are anything but honorable, I will do all in my power to thwart you.”
Ironic that a sacked butler was more loyal to Catherine than the man who sought to marry her.
“Then it was Lady Fairchild who warned you specifically against Armbruster?”
Deems nodded briskly. “After she was widowed, when it became apparent even to me that her health was failing, she said on no account was I to trust Lord Fortescue, or even admit him to the household if he should call. Her ladyship wasn’t one to take up against others, but she hated Armbruster.”
“She had her reasons. I despise him as well, for even more reasons. Miss Fairchild’s sentiments toward Armbruster make her tirade against me in the garden look like a poetry recitation. He seeks to marry her now that she has come into wealth, and he will use missteps in her past to force her to the altar.”
“If I were twenty years younger,” Deems muttered, “ten years younger, I’d treat his lordship to some pointed explanations regarding proper conduct toward a lady.”
“If I were a bit less French, I would not be reduced to accosting former retainers in the street. I could simply call him out and rid the world of him. Instead, I must learn all I can regarding Lord Fortescue if I am to aid Miss Catherine.”
“Ask the almighty Dornings. They know half of polite society, and the other half comes through the doors of Sycamore Dorning’s fancy club. They will put out the word, and you will soon know more than the man’s tailors know about him.”
“I will do exactly that, Deems, but I’m looking for the sort of information that even the lofty Dornings won’t come across, the sort that passes from kitchen to kitchen and mews to mews. I already know Armbruster doesn’t pay the trades and lives from quarterly allowance to quarterly allowance. Who are his enemies, and how can he be brought to heel?”
Deems’s pace slowed as they approached The Boar’s Bride. “I don’t care for talk and did not encourage it among the staff. Murmuring and grumbling between households only breeds discontent and slacking.”
Low wages and long hours were usually the cause of that grumbling. Fournier kept that observation to himself.
