Page 31 of The Forbidden Lord
His carriage arrived and he leapt in, his mind already awhirl with strategies as Watkins began the short drive home. As soon as he arrived at his town house, he commanded a footman to fetch Hargraves to his study at once. When the butler entered a few minutes later, Jordan was crouched on the floor, searching through the papers piled under his desk.
“My lord?” Hargraves exclaimed, peering around the desk with alarm in his expression. “Is something amiss?”
“Didn’t I receive an invitation to the Astramont breakfast a few weeks ago?” Jordan tossed aside a gilded envelope and picked up another.
“Of course. It’s in the pile with the rest of the discards. Lady Astramont always invites you. And you always refuse. This year was no exception.”
“I’ve changed my mind.” At Hargraves’s silence, Jordan glanced up to find his butler gawking at him. “Well? Surely the flighty creature won’t mind if I accept at the last minute.”
“Mind? After she receives your acceptance, her ladyship will probably spend the intervening hours in joyful contemplation of the good chance that led you to decide to grace her home for the first time in a decade.”
Jordan laughed. Hargraves always managed to cheer him.
Hargraves cleared his throat. “May I askwhyyour lordship has decided to attend the viscountess’s affair?”
The Astramont invitation suddenly surfaced, its chicken-scratch script reminding him of how very much Lady Astramontirritated him. She was an effusive, bird-witted twit with the dullest guests imaginable.
But he would be at her breakfast. Jordan rose and brushed off his dusty hands, then threw the invitation atop his desk. “Someone I met tonight is planning to attend.” He had Ian to thank for that piece of information. “I suspect she’ll not be as glad to see me as Lady Astramont, however.” Until he discovered the truth about this Emily/Lady Emma woman, he would dog her steps, unsettling her at every opportunity.
He studied the invitation, then groaned. “Two p.m.? Whoever heard of serving breakfast at that ridiculous hour?”
“If I may interject, my lord, that isn’t unusual for these breakfast affairs.”
“I’m sure you’re right. But I can accomplish mounds of work by the time these women begin breakfast. Very well. Two p.m. it is. Send a message over in the morning.”
Now that the matter was settled, he leaned against the desk and surveyed his servant. Hargraves’ duties extended far beyond those of the average butler. It was Hargraves who’d kept an eye on Jordan’s stepsister when she’d still lived with him, and Hargraves who’d found someone to protect her on her disastrous trip to New South Wales.
The man also had a knack for using the servants’ gossip network to find out information useful to Jordan at Parliament and elsewhere.
“Hargraves, do you ever speak with any of Lord Nesfield’s servants?”
“No, my lord; that lot keeps pretty much to themselves. But that’s not to say I couldn’t. I believe their coachman is courting the parlor maid at Langley House, and she’s the sister of our own Mary’s husband.”
Jordan squelched a smile. “I see. And does all of that mean you could get an introduction to the Nesfield coachman if needed?”
“I believe so. Yes.”
“Good. I want you to find something out for me.”
“Certainly, milord. If the coachman will not tell me what you need to know, I’ll find another avenue.”
That was what Jordan liked about his stalwart butler—the man was determined and devious. His small frame and servile manner took everyone off their guard, and his surprising ability to drink anyone under the table had resulted in more than one valuable piece of information for Jordan. Even better, he never asked questions of his employer. He took his orders, then set out to do the job with a thorough attention to detail. The man should have been a Bow Street runner.
But Hargraves was better than any Bow Street runner, because his best quality was discretion. In this instance, discretion was something Jordan valued highly.
“Here’s the situation, Hargraves.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “There’s this young woman …”
Chapter Seven
We are truly indefatigable in providing for the needs of the body, but we starve the soul.
— ELLEN WOOD, ENGLISH PLAYWRIGHT, WRITER, JOURNALIST,ABOUT OURSELVES
Ophelia settled her ample body on the settee across from Randolph’s chair, then slipped her aching foot out of her slipper and propped it on a horsehair footstool. She was certainly paying for so many hours on her feet last night. And now her brother was on the rampage. It was too much to be borne.
“Well?” Randolph groused. “Where is the blasted chit?”
“She’ll be down shortly, I’m sure.” Ophelia yawned. “You must give the girl time to sleep, or she won’t suit your purpose.”
