Page 44 of A Lady Most Wayward
Philippa turned. Olivia was pale. She had lost weight during their journey. Her usually glowing complexion was dull, and there were bruises beneath her emerald eyes. Worry, an emotion Philippa rarely felt, washed over her like a cold wave.
A footman stood to attention by the front door. Bypassing Stokes completely, she turned to him. ‘Brown, isn’t it?’
The young man’s mouth fell open, and he nearly swallowed his tongue. ‘B-Baker, Your Grace,’ he stuttered, his face darkening to crimson.
‘Ah. Yes. Baker. Of course. Please escort Lady Smithwick to my private sitting room and see a tray is brought with afternoon tea. We are famished.’
‘Y-yes, Your Grace.’ He jumped from his spot on the wall. ‘This way, Lady Smithwick.’
Olivia frowned. ‘I can wait until you are ready to go up.’
‘I need a private word with my butler.’ Philippa returned her gaze to Stokes, who had the gall to lift his chin a degree higher. ‘I shall join you shortly. A cup of tea and some sandwiches will do both of us a world of good.’ Philippa didn’t look away from her quarry. She would eviscerate her butler and hang him by his entrails.
‘All right.’ Olivia spoke quietly, and Philippa waited until the sound of her feet on the stairs disappeared.
‘I know you blame me for the duke’s death, Stokes.’ As she spoke, she strode closer to the butler. ‘I know you think I was a terrible choice for him as a wife. And I know you wished he hadn’t left me everything when he passed.’
Stokes clasped his hands behind his back, his chest puffing out. ‘It is not my place to have opinions about such things, Your Grace.’
Philippa snorted. ‘Please. You have more opinions than a priest on Sunday.’
The obstinate butler pressed his lips together in a tight line.
Taking another step closer, she noticed a small strip of stubble he’d missed in his daily shave. It gave her a perverse sense of satisfaction to identify such a glaring imperfection. ‘I don’t mind that you dislike me, Stokes. Your disapproval of my work with the Queen, your muttered reprimands about desecrating the ballroom by turning it into a training space for the Deadly Damsels, your disdain for my habit of taking whiskey with my tea. None of that matters to me. I actually enjoy our little battle of wits, in large part because I usually win. I tolerate your disrespect and derision because in the decades we’ve spent together, you’ve shown the one trait I do care about. The characteristic I hold of utmost importance. Loyalty. Perhaps it is because of my connection with the Queen, or perhaps it’s because you know I could skewer you like a pig at a Yuletide feast. Whatever the reason, I appreciate your dedication to keeping my secrets just that. Secret. If you cannot maintain this level of trust withallmy secrets, then it might benefit us both to consider a change in staff. You served the duke with admirable discretion. Despite your obvious dislike for me, you have shown the same faithfulness, for which I am grateful. I would, of course, offer you a generous pension if you feel you can no longer continue your service here.’
Stokes blinked. His back remained straight. His gaze averted. His hands clasped behind his back. He was the perfect example of a proper butler. ‘I have been in service since I was a lad of six and ten. I served the Duke of Dorsett for over four decades before he took you as his wife. His secrets were far darker than your own, Your Grace. And yet, I kept them. Just as I will keep yours. I don’t need to like my employers to be an excellent employee.’
Philippa narrowed her eyes. Was he referring to his late employer or his present one? It was impossible to tell.
Probably both.
She wondered exactly what hidden horrors the man had witnessed in his time with Lord Winterbourne. She hated to give Stokes any credit, but he truly was a superb butler. ‘Wonderful. As an excellent employee, I expect you to extend your services to Lady Smithwick in the same manner in which you do for me. Only, perhaps you could actually showhersome respect.’
‘Of course, Your Grace.’
‘We’ll both need baths brought up to our rooms. And inform Delacroix, I’m in desperate need of her skills. We shall be having visitors tonight, and I would like to look less like a… what was the term you used?’ Philippa raised her brow at him as he flushed.
‘A street tough, Your Grace.’
She sniffed. ‘Yes. Exactly. Do let the cook know we’ll need dinner for twelve tonight.’ She had asked all of the Deadly Damsels and their partners to convene for a planning session. Her invitation also extended to Commissioner Worthington’s secretary, Mr Reading. The man had proven invaluable in their last investigation. Turning to take the stairs to her suite of rooms and find Olivia, she caught Stokes muttering something about the uncouth nature of spontaneous dinner parties and couldn’t stop the small smile.
‘What?’ She turned on the stairs.
Stokes straightened his spine even further, his eyes focused on a point over her shoulder. ‘I was just calculating how many bottles of whiskey I should bring up now that you have returned, Your Grace. Although perhaps it would be best to stick with something less potent. I’ve read women of advancing years should refrain from consuming such large quantities of strong spirits. It can affect all manner of things. Wit being one, the waistline being another.’
‘Your concern for my health is gratifying. As I am equally worried about yours, I would remind you of the dangers inherent in men expressing opinions about subjects to which they have no knowledge. Wouldn’t the world be a much more peaceful place if the male species only spoke when they had something meaningful to say?’
‘Of course, Your Grace.’
‘Oh, and do make sure the tea is made with an extra dram of whiskey, won’t you, Stokes?’
Snapping his heels together, he turned toward the kitchens while she resumed her regal march up the stairs.
13
Olivia was past the point of exhaustion and facing delirium. The footman led her up a winding staircase, down a long passageway lined with portraits of what she could only assume to be Winterbournes of old, until they reached the third-to-last door in the corridor. The footman opened it to a large space with windows on the far wall looking out to the gardens.
‘Her Grace’s sitting room, Lady Smithwick.’ He stepped back, allowing Olivia to walk into the sumptuously decorated room. The walls were painted a soothing toasted biscuit, creating the perfect neutral canvas for jewel-toned furniture that managed to be both strong and feminine.
