His Naughty Maid: Delightful Doings in Dudley Crescent, Book 3 Page 7

  “My wife and your sister, Lady Oxley, are friends and my wife tells me your sister was not happy about leaving. But needs must. I wish I could persuade Alicia to retire, but she loves the pageantry. I told her if she finds herself overcome in the Abbey, she must think of the child first and we’ll come home. No matter the time of ceremony.”

  “I quite agree. The King will not notice one or two of us missing.”

  “He’s too consumed with pomp,” Beaumont said. “The cost of all this folderol is staggering. I wonder if he’ll curtail his appetite to pay for it. I’m not of a mind to authorize him more funds.” Beaumont was known in the Lords as a prudent man who argued for less spending on the royal household. “But I doubt you are here to bemoan with me the spendthrift ways of our new King George.”

  “I’m not.” Charlie inhaled and crossed one leg over the other. “I need advice and help, sir. And I do believe you are the only person who can give it to me.”

  “I am at your disposal, Rockingham. Tell me your issue.”

  “I have understood from various sources that once upon a time you were connected with the Bow Street Runners.”

  “Those sources,” Beaumont said with a rueful grin, “were correct. The newspapers did not mention my position here at the time of my investigation. I requested the magistrate keep those details private. But it is true that I was one to investigate crimes.” He raised a black brow in question. “And what may I tell you?”

  “Your confirmation is helpful.” Charlie inhaled deeply. “I fear that a person dear to me has information about a crime.” For the past few days, Charlie had scoured daily London newspapers for stories that might seem irregular, especially those incidents that had occurred in and around Brighton, and as far north as Crawley. He knew that the caterer Antoine DuVal took orders from clientele far and wide outside of Brighton. As the Frenchman’s fame grew, he had become so well known for his creations that he ventured to serve in various country homes to complement the duties of the regular staff. It would be normal for him and his staff, including his pastry chef Jessica Archer, to be in attendance at all sorts of events, public and private. “I have no details from her, but I’ve listed a few—shall we call them, events?—that are worrisome.”

  “Have you asked her about them?”

  “Not yet. Before I’d done my perusal of city newspapers, I had asked her for details. She gives me none. That and the fact that she has come to London to…disappear, if you will, has me blind with worry.”

  “And this lady is safe here in town now?”

  “She is. She lives with me.”

  Nonplused by a woman living with him or the fact that she had wished to disappear into the maze of city streets, Beaumont merely blinked. “And has she family? Friends? Do they know where she is or why she is with you?”

  “She has no one. Only me.”

  The man did not bat an eyelash. Being an investigator had inured him to anomalies. “And what have you found in the newspapers? Anything to spark your interest? Any lines of inquiry you might use to draw her out?”

  “Three possibilities. One was a robbery in Crawley approximately two weeks ago. A man has been charged but he claims innocence. Another is a robbery in Brighton ten days ago. The other was a murder. Also in Brighton. In this case, the tavern keep was knocked unconscious and assaulted. The culprit remains unknown. A witness was reported to have seen the attack. So says the Brighton Herald and the Sussex Advertiser. The coroner has finished his inquest and reports that the poor tavern keep died of a savage beating. But the news stories also claim that the local borough magistrate says that no one has come forward to make a statement.”

  “You fear your lady may be a witness to one of these crimes?”

  “I do, sir. And I wish advice. Not having dealt with any criminal issue, I wish to be wise in this matter before I recommend any course of action to her.”

  “I understand. I can see you care for the lady.”

  “Greatly.”

  “I am happy to aid you, Rockingham. You have a few courses of action open to you. First, you could go to Bow Street and your lady could make her official statement about what she saw. If she knows the assailant, she can name him. However, to make the case formally, she must go to Brighton and report it there to the local constable. The other means would be to hire one or two Bow Street officers to go to Brighton to investigate the matter and return with their own findings, if any.”

  “Thank you. You’ve given me much to think about.”

  “I will add, Rockingham, that I know the magistrate for Brighton. A good man. I could write a letter to recommend you to him. You could travel down and have a talk with him. As for the borough magistrate for Crawley, I know that Lord and Lady Cartwell who live in Number 18 had reason to talk with that man last year. Before Cartwell married his wife, she was nearly fraudulently bilked of her inheritance by the previous estate manager. They brought charges against him. The magistrate, Sir William Curtin, is a fine man whom I’m certain would answer any preliminary inquiries you might wish to ask.”

  “I am acquainted with Sir William as well. A good man. All of this is very helpful, Beaumont.” Charlie had known a few details of the legal challenges of Isabelle, the new countess of Cartwell. They had been friends when children and living in the country. But he’d not seen Belle socially except once since her marriage. He had been in mourning, retired to his country estate, and she had been living here in London. So he’d not had occasion to ask for more information about her problem. “I am acquainted with the earl’s wife as we were friends when young. And Lord Cartwell was my commander during the war.”

  “A good man, Win is,” Beaumont said. “I like him tremendously.”

  “As do I. Thank you, sir.” Charlie got to his feet, eager to return home and talk with Jess about what he’d learned. “My regards to your wife, sir.”

  Beaumont rose and smiled. “I shall convey them.”

  “I wonder if I might ask you to join me and a few guests for dinner the evening after the Coronation? I know the invitation comes late but I’d appreciate your attendance.”

  “I’d be delighted. My wife would too, I’m sure. I hope you will introduce us to your lady who needs your assistance.”

  “I would like to do so. If I can persuade her to meet you.”

  “She would not venture to come to dinner?” Beaumont frowned, confused. “I thought she was in your care? In your home?”

  “She is, sir. But she questions if her status will be met with too much question.”

  Beaumont tipped his head in inquiry. “Bow Street sees each person as equally valuable. Misdeeds must be punished no matter the victim or the perpetrator.”

  “I seek to convince her of that.”

  “Do. And tell her, she lives in the right place to learn that.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was a commoner until my wife looked upon me as a man worthy of her love. Plus as friends of the Countess of Cartwell, I’m certain you know that she was a merchant’s daughter, and she too, much maligned, and her rights, much abused. Her husband, the earl, cares not for class distinctions. Nor does my wife. I say we in the Crescent are more devoted to the rights and merits of equality.”

  “I hope that’s easily proven to my friend,” Charlie said with a wry smile.

  “My wife and I will help in that endeavor. Happily.”

  “I am honored for all your help.”

  He left Number Ten and turned, not for home, but toward Hyde Park. He had to clear his head. Plan how best to assist Jess to overcome her insecurity to approach the Runners.

  Today was Monday. Thursday, the streets of London would be awash in revelers for George’s Coronation. Already, many celebrated. The ton dined and danced and drank at all hours of the day and night. Tonight, he himself as a former officer in the Horse Guards, was to be a guest of the Duke of Wellington at his home at Number One Piccadilly at his annual Waterloo celebration. Beginning Wednesday, merchants would close their s
hops. Bankers would close their facilities early. Clerics would cease daily services in churches. Even those in Doctor’s Commons would take time away to celebrate the new monarch. The Lord Mayor of London had ordered the streets cleared of all wagons, lorries, animals and hacks. Construction crews would erect barriers across major roads and even across the Thames. Many bought tickets to view the parades in seats along the king’s route to Westminster. Traffic would be a snarl.

  Charlie would be able to accomplish less each day. Which meant the sooner he put a plan to motion, the better off he and Jess would be.

  Within the hour, he ran up the steps to home. “Come with me,” he said to Peters and he led the butler to his study.

  “Bring me the past week’s newspapers.” He took out stationary from his desk and contemplated whom to contact first. “As many as you can find from the dustbin. Get me one footman to take a message to Half Moon Street and another to go across the Thames. Give them both enough money to hire a hack. And notify the coachman I need him at my front door within the hour.”

  By three o’clock, Charlie climbed into his town coach and gave directions for his three appointments.

  This time, he’d ensure that he did everything possible to resolve Jess’s objections to their mutual happiness. This time, no one would stop him from marrying the woman he loved.

  Chapter 8

  Jess hurried out the kitchen door along the alley of the mews. Mabel ran along beside her, babbling about how kind the new Countess of Cartwell was. How well did Jess know her? She was so lucky.

  “I lived near her. We were friends when we were children.”

  “But you lived in Brighton, didn’t you?” the girl questioned her.

  When Jess paused and tipped her head, Mabel said, “Umm. I ‘eard it in the kitchen, I did.”

  “Word spreads,” Jess said, discounting the gossip of servants as normal. The she hurried along. Counting the houses, she chose the servants’ entrance to Number 18 and rapped on the wooden door. A minute later, a maid in plain brown opened it a crack.

  “Yes?” The servant examined her with wary eyes, though she looked at Mabel with more recognition. “Can I ‘elp ye?”

  “You can, please. My friend Mabel is here to see…who, Mabel?”

  “Mary,” the girl piped up.

  “And I wish to see the butler.” Jess trained a full smile at the woman.

  “Mabel can come along. But you? We’ve no need for more staff. So ye can go along.”

  “I don’t wish a position, but a discussion with your butler. Tell her, Mabel. Please.”

  The girl begrudgingly told the woman to let her in. “She works in Rocking’am’s house with me.”

  “I’ll ask.” The maid wrinkled her nose, unhappy with the request. She let Mabel in, but shut the door firmly in Jess’s face.

  Jess waited, counting the seconds.

  At last an older balding gentleman attired in the everyday grey livery, pulled open the door. “You wish a word?”

  “I do. I am Jessica Archer of Lord Rockingham’s household and I wish to speak with you on a matter of urgency.”

  “Rockingham, eh? Well, I do not interfere, Archer, in the doings of our neighbors. You should know that is not—”

  “Done. I do, sir. I do know that. And I would never ask such a thing of you. If I might speak with you, sir? Two minutes only. And in private?”

  Curiosity had him raising his white bushy brows. “Come in then. This way.”

  He led her into the lower kitchen and down the cool dark hall. A maid and footman passed them, each to their duties but with questioning glances at the butler. When Jess and the butler reached what appeared to be the servants’ dining room, he entered and closed the door behind her. “Now tell me why you are here. And be quick.”

  “I will. Thank you. I must return to my own duties.” She had to assuage his fears that her unusual visit was anything to be concerned about…aside from its very strange nature. “My home was once near Crawley. And I am only lately come to London and this service. But when I was a child, I knew your mistress well, the Countess of Cartwell. And I would like to prevail upon you to ask her to see me. For a few minutes only. Please, sir.”

  “If you seek money, her ladyship does not give alms except through the church.”

  Belle was a woman of great wealth. Jess had read in the Brighton papers how Belle had lost and then managed to gain back her inheritance. As the heiress to the Swan’s Soap fortune of her family, Belle had suffered terribly when her grandfather’s estate manager had swindled her out of her due. Brighton papers rumored that she had even gone into service to survive her loss. Some hinted that she had served as governess to her future husband’s ward and that they had had a clandestine affair before marriage.

  “Sir, I assure you I have no intention of appealing to the Countess for money.”

  “Will you tell me then what it is you do wish?”

  “I’d rather not as it is a matter of personal importance to me. But if you insist, I will and hope you will respect my privacy not to share it with anyone.”

  Something of what she’d said must have convinced him of her honesty as he gave her half a smile. “Wait here. I will ask if my lady can receive you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Within minutes he marched back into the room and behind him came Isabelle Swanson, now the wife of the Earl of Cartwell.

  “Jessica! Oh, my dear!” The elegant lady in fashionable spring green rushed toward her with outstretched arms, then hugged her tightly. “Look at you! Oh! Your poor hands. You are in service? No! Why? Where? Oh, you look tired. What are you doing in London and…” She caught Jess’s hand and urged her toward the hall. “Come upstairs with me. Shrewsbury, bring us a full tea in the parlor.”

  Jess stood her ground. “Belle, I cannot go upstairs. I have no time for polite conversation or tea. Please.”

  At her words, Belle paused and considered her more fully. “Very well. You will tell me why though.”

  “I will.”

  “And you will have tea. Shrewsbury, get what we have from the kitchen quickly. You won’t find it up to your snuff, Jess, but we do as well as we can.”

  “I’m not here to pick over your cook’s skills, Belle.”

  Belle nodded at her, then glanced at her butler. “Please, Shrew, at once, will you?”

  When the man had closed the door upon them, Jess had a whimsical smile. “Shrew?”

  Belle shrugged. “Win calls him that when his head is in a rush. Shrew doesn’t mind, but I think finds it a mark of endearment. Which it is, of course. Now, as for you, do sit down. You look—pardon me if I am blunt—like a lorry ran over you.”

  “I’m not sleeping well.”

  Belle lifted a hand in exasperation. “Dear me, Jess. You’re not living well!”

  “I’m serving as a maid-of-all-work. Lowest of the low. But I’m surviving.” She picked absently at her dull grey gown. And then she let out a big sigh. “I’m in service at Lord Rockingham’s household.”

  “Lord R? Charlie?” Belle gaped. “You’re here? In the Crescent?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Why?” she asked in shock, then narrowed her emerald eyes at Jess. “You should be commanding his kitchen. Or in truth, commanding his entire staff.”

  “No, no, Belle. Not really. That’s not why I’m there. Or here. Please listen to me.” She caught her friend’s hands. “I need advice. Help.”

  “I should say so. What has happened?”

  Jess put a hand to her forehead. She had to explain so much in so little time. “I came to London in a rush and went to Liddie to help me. It’s a longer story than I have time for at the moment, but I knew where she lived. I didn’t know you lived in Dudley Crescent. I learned it only this morning from one of our maids when she mentioned your name. I thought you lived on Green Park.”

  “My mother-in-law does. Win and I live here. He prefers it. So do I. But, that’s neither here nor there. What else?”


  “I have only a few minutes away. Mrs. Moseley is a task master and I must return soon. No one on staff at Charlie’s knows who I am.” It flashed through her mind that Mable knew she came from Brighton, but that was inconsequential. Wasn’t it? “I want it that way. Need it to be.”

  Belle sought a chair. “Very well. Go on. You must sit. I need to. I’ve not gotten all my strength back after having our son.”

  Jess leaned over to squeeze her hand. “Congratulations, Countess. Well done.”

  “I wish for more children. Soon.” Belle grinned.

  “You love your husband.”

  “I do. Madly. He helped to save me. Gave me a position. I was governess here to our ward. A charming little girl.”

  “You were in service to the earl?” Jess was shocked that Isabelle had taken employment.

  “I was. It’s a long story, but do know that Win saved us both from desperation.”

  “I read in the Brighton papers about the attempts of your grandfather’s estate manager to wrest your house and trust monies from you. I know you had the very devil of a time of it. And I must say, I was the first in Brighton to cheer when I read that you were able to prove that the fellow had forged documents and you got the law after him.”

  “In essence, yes, that is what happened. But happily, I regained what was mine.”

  “I need to know how you did that.”

  Belle tipped her head in question. “How I regained my inheritance?”

  “My case has nothing to do with dowries or lands.” Jess gave a little shrug. “You know I have neither of those.”

  “I would say your greatest asset is your growing reputation.”

  Jess considered her hands in her lap. “Once true, perhaps. Now I lack any reputation.”

  “Why did you leave Brighton, Jess? And Monsieur DuVal? Why come to London to scrub floors, eh? Oh, my dear, what is the matter?”

  Jess took a huge breath, ignoring the question in favor of moving her objective. “Have you had any dealings with the Bow Street Runners?”

  “No. For my problem I dealt with lawyers and the borough magistrate in Crawley. I think you know him. Sir William Curtin.”