Page 28 of A Lady Most Wayward (The Queen’s Deadly Damsels #5)
The driver was possibly a demon in disguise.
He blazed a trail from Cornwall to Exeter in record time, stopping only to change horses and allow the women scant minutes to manage their private needs.
His focus and determination were nearly a match for her own.
Philippa considered offering the man a position on her staff, but after depositing them at the railway station, he took his payment and disappeared into the busy street traffic with nary a backward glance.
The train ride to London was immensely faster and more comfortable than their journey to Cornwall, and Philippa’s carriage was waiting outside Paddington Station to take them home.
Philippa led Olivia up the impressive stone staircase, between the marble columns, and to the ornately carved door large enough to accommodate three men standing astride.
Taking stock of her dreadfully wrinkled gown, she stiffened her spine in preparation for whatever caustic remarks Stokes might make.
Without a hint of hesitation, she pushed open the door and strode into her entrance.
‘Stokes. Where are you? Napping, no doubt,’ she called out into the marble foyer and waited, tapping her toe.
Olivia’s eyes widened as the butler emerged from a hidden panel in the hallway.
Philippa had directed Callum to return to her house once his messages had been delivered.
No doubt Stokes had loved hosting an uninvited guest. Her lips twitched just imagining the butler answering the door only to be given a note from Callum in her hand instructing Stokes to make up a bed in one of the guest chambers for the dirty, bedraggled, uncombed lad.
She imagined the butler had been waiting for her arrival from that moment forward.
Plotting his petty revenge. Ghastly man.
‘Ah. You’ve returned. I very nearly called the guard, thinking the house was beset upon by street toughs.
How marvellous to find that it is merely the lady of the house.
What an interesting choice of clothing you selected for your travels.
’ The portly man had a spine so straight Philippa often wondered if he strapped a plank to it beneath his perfectly pressed coat.
‘We were attacked by highwaymen early into our journey. Certain standards had to slip while endeavouring to maintain our lives. Don’t work yourself into a lather; I can see how upsetting it is for you to imagine such peril besetting us.’
‘Indeed.’ He wrinkled his prodigious nose as though he smelled something foul.
‘As instructed, a room has been made ready for the…’ His brow rose ominously.
‘Messenger boy.’ The title might have been a euphemism for pile of rotting shit.
‘Are we starting a new custom? Housing servants in the guest wing? I must say, the maids will be thrilled.’ He flicked his gaze to Olivia before looking back at Philippa.
‘Callum is a friend who was kind enough to help me deliver some very important notes. But don’t fret. I’ll never confuse the role of friend and servant with you, Stokes. A man with such deep respect for the class system need never worry that I might breach your stalwart boundaries.’
Stokes lifted a heavy brow. ‘What a relief, Your Grace.’
‘Make up the room next to mine for Olivia.’ Philippa had taken over the duke’s rooms a year after his death.
The lady’s chambers were connected to her suite of rooms and had remained empty ever since she moved out.
Even when Hannah Simmons had moved into the house, Philippa didn’t feel right about giving Hannah her old rooms. It had less to do with propriety and more a desire to keep some space between herself and anyone else living in her house.
Even someone she came to think of as a daughter.
But for reasons she suspected were far more complex than she wished to admit, she wanted Olivia close.
‘Certainly you can’t mean—’
‘I meant exactly what I said.’ Philippa enjoyed sparring with her butler, but she would be damned if he would censure her behaviour in her own house. He could disapprove of her all he wished, but no one was going to tell her how to live her life in the privacy of her own home.
‘Perhaps I should just…’ Olivia’s voice trailed off as her gaze bounced between Philippa and the butler.
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 with all my 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 show her some 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.