Page 13 of A Silence in Belgrave Square (Below Stairs #8)

As I gaped at this bizarre personage, my heart speeding, the greengrocer scowled at her. ““Clear off,” he barked.

I raised a soothing hand to him. “It is all right. She didn’t hurt me. Now, I sympathize with you, my dear, but those are sorry specimens. I’d throw them into the gutter were I you.”

The woman seized my arm. “But I’ve got so much better. Come on with me, love. I’ve a basket full of ’em just over yonder.”

The greengrocer continued to scowl, I suspected not so much because the young woman might be towing me off to rob me, but because she was poaching on his territory. I sent him a conciliatory nod and let the woman lead me off.

“I do need some good fruit for tarts,” I said loudly enough so anyone following would hear. “They had better be worthwhile, or I am buying nothing.”

“They’ll do for ya, missus. I promise. Here we are.”

She led me around to the steps of the Covent Garden opera house, where she pulled a basket out from behind one of the porticoes. It was indeed heaped with bright pears, apples, and grapes. Where she’d found such nice ones out of season, I couldn’t say, but this woman was ever resourceful.

She plopped herself down on the steps in full view of anyone passing, but the place she’d chosen was nearly deserted, as the market was winding down for the day. We’d see anyone who came close enough to listen to us in time to change our conversation.

I tucked up my skirts and sat on the steps, her basket between us. As I bent to examine the produce, Hannah whispered to me.

“Sorry I didn’t send word. Didn’t want none to intercept it.”

My heart beat thick and fast, both wanting to hear what she had to say and fearing the information. “That is perfectly all right.”

Hannah today looked nothing like the free and easy woman I’d spoken to on the Portobello Road.

She hunched herself up, her fingers crabbed as she picked over the fruit.

I had to wonder where she’d obtained the very realistic red wig.

She’d hardly have time to dye her hair and then dye it back again before she returned to Belgrave Square.

“It’s been an interesting week,” Hannah said in a soft voice as we appeared to haggle over the pears. “An interesting household. What’cha want to know?”

“Everything. But I suppose you should relay it in some order. First, is Daniel—Mr.McAdam—well?”

“Aw, he’s a right one, inn’t he?” Hannah grinned, and I immediately felt better.

If Daniel was busily charming all those around him, then he was in good health.

“He don’t trust me one whit. I know that, because he asks me all sorts of questions about where I worked in the past. I have to dance to keep my secrets, but I’d worked out a story before I went, so I feed him bits of it at a time. I think he’s starting to believe me.”

“What about the others in the household? Do they believe you?”

“They do. Your McAdam is far more suspicious than them, which is good for me, and for him. He ain’t calling himself McAdam, you know. He’s Thomas Delamarre. Frenchy ancestry.” Dimples showed in Hannah’s cheeks.

I’d not heard the name before, but it made sense for Daniel to take a new alias for this assignment. No doubt Monaghan and others had made certain his background tale was impeccable.

“What happened to the other secretary?” I asked. “The man Mr.McAdam replaced?”

“No idea,” Hannah said. “Housekeeper says his name was Mr.Howard. A soft-spoken, polite man, she said, but one day, he packed his bags and went. There the night before—gone in the morning.”

“Sacked?”

Hannah shrugged. “Housekeeper don’t know. A few days later, in comes Mr.McAdam. Housekeeper likes him .”

I was not surprised about that. I wondered if Monaghan had removed the secretary, by whatever underhanded means he’d employed, in order to have the way clear for Daniel.

“Is Viscount Peyton truly an invalid?” I asked.

Hannah nodded. “Can’t walk more than a step, sleeps half the time.

I’ve charged into a sitting room unexpectedly, meaning to catch him walking around on his own, but I think his ailment is true.

When he has to leave his chair, he’s carried about by his big brute of a valet, name of John Fagan.

Fagan never has much to say, and I can’t decide if he’s shy or surly.

He’s devoted to his lordship, by all I can see. ”

I longed to write this down, but I’d have to wait. I’d be too obvious whipping out my notebook and scribbling like mad.

“Tell me about the household,” I said. “You mentioned the housekeeper.”

“Mrs.Proctor. She’s not a bad sort but a stickler for keeping every room in that great mansion neat.

I’m wearing out me fingers putting everything in order.

” Hannah showed me reddened fingertips poking from worn gloves.

“Two downstairs maids who live in fear of Mrs.Proctor. I’m the upstairs maid, taking over from a lass who went off to get married. No one speaks of her.”

“Why not?” I asked. Disappearing maids and secretaries caught my interest.

“Mrs.Proctor says stiffly that she deserted the master and is best forgotten. Lord Peyton walks on water, according to the staff—if he could walk, that is. In the kitchens is Mrs.McGuire, the cook, and Millie the kitchen maid. No footmen or butler. Fagan does all those jobs, in addition to valeting. Mrs.Proctor says because it saves on expense.”

Male servants were subject to an extra tax, because they were considered a luxury while female servants were deemed a necessity.

The only reason the Mount Street house had footmen and Mr.Davis was because the bills were paid by Lord Rankin.

If Mrs.Bywater ran the place, she’d have a maid of all work upstairs and one poor soul slaving in the kitchen to produce lavish meals on pennies.

“Anyone sinister among these servants?” I asked.

“No.” Hannah shook her head. “Everyone seems to be what they claim.”

“Does anyone else come to the house?” I asked. “Family, friends, hangers-on?”

“Yes, indeed. Lord Peyton’s well-liked. For family, he has a sister called Lady Fontaine.

Christian name, Mary. She arrived two days ago, come to stay for a time.

His lordship was not best pleased to see her, I can tell you.

A widow, she is, and apparently remains for months at a time, whenever it suits her.

Or, as Mrs.Proctor says, when she runs short of funds and decides it’s time to live off her brother. ”

A family member appearing hard on the heels of a new secretary and new maid was a coincidence worth noting. “What is she like?” I asked.

“Reminds me a bit of Lady Mortimer—you know, the one who pinched the spoons and left me to take the blame. I unpacked Lady Fontaine’s things, and she had many little trinkets tucked throughout her trunk and other bags.

She told me they were bits and bobs she liked and didn’t want to leave behind, but they’re odd things.

Some very costly. Others sparkly junk—little boxes and such that have been decorated to look rich but ain’t. I should know.”

“It is possible they’re presents given to her by people she’s fond of,” I mused. “Children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews.”

“I shouldn’t think she’s the sort children would be fond enough of to give gifts to , ” Hannah said. “She has a pinched-up face and a harsh tongue. Lady Mortimer was a sweet old thing—Lady Fontaine will never be.”

“You say she and Lord Peyton do not get on?”

“Not a bit of it. He called her into his study the night of her arrival, and such shouting there was.” Hannah shook her head. “Toffs can be nastier to each other than the likes of us ever will be. He wanted her to go at once, but she refused.”

Interesting. Was Lord Peyton angry because his sister would disrupt his nefarious plans? Or were they simply a brother and sister at odds?

“Is that all of the household?” I asked.

“Aye, that’s the lot. They’re quite demanding. I might have to ask for a rise in wages.” Her dimples showed again.

“What about his other visitors?” I hoped for groups of conspirators crowding the drawing room, so loudly plotting the government’s demise that Daniel would have plenty to tell Monaghan.

“As I say, he’s well-liked, but visitors don’t come in clumps or stay long, because of Lord Peyton’s poor health.

His most frequent visitor is the Earl of Pelsham.

He spends a few hours there and then goes off.

He’s been there several times already since I’ve been there, and I gather he and Lord Peyton are boyhood friends.

There have been a couple other callers, one a lady and gent called Lofthouse, the other, his doctor, Mr.Hampton.

Mr.Hampton’s already come twice. Most of the time, though, it’s quiet. Course, I’ve only been there a week.”

No hordes of angry gentlemen ready to assassinate the queen or Mr.Gladstone, I concluded. “At this rate, Daniel will never come home,” I said glumly.

Hannah sent me a look of sympathy. “He’s playing a long game, I can tell. Those can take months, sometimes years. I’m sorry, pet.”

“It won’t be years,” I said with a confidence I did not feel. “Daniel is clever. He’ll quickly discover whether anyone in the house needs to be arrested. Even Lady Fontaine, if only for being disagreeable.”

Hannah chuckled. “She’d be the first to go, if that were the only reason.” She sobered. “If your man does start making arrests, I’m in the wind. I don’t need to see the inside of a nick. Not again.”

I gave her a warm smile. “As long as you don’t steal the silver, Mr.McAdam will know you have nothing to do with anything.”

Hannah looked aggrieved. “I keep saying, I never touched them spoons. I’ll confess to the cash that was in our mistress’s desk. She was always boasting about how she kept fivers in there. Easy to take a few.”

“Well, don’t pinch any fivers from the viscount, please.”

“No fear. I’m there to watch, right? As a favor to you.” Hannah’s friendly grin widened. “You must fancy him something fierce, your Daniel. You keep slipping and calling him by his given name, plus you wouldn’t go to all this trouble if he meant nothing to you.”

“He is a dear friend,” I said stiffly.

“Not what your eyes tell me, Katie, me darling.” She continued in a louder voice. “Now, missus, you gonna buy this lot or not? I have others I can flog them to.”

“Very well, give me a dozen pears and six apples.”

“Right you are, love. I’ll toss in the grapes for nothing. Two shillings for the lot.”

“Two shillings?” I cried in true outrage. “You are mad. One and we are finished.”

Hannah let out a long sigh as she jumped to her feet. “Only because I’m in a hurry. Robbing me, that’s what you are.”

I counted over the coins and transferred the fruit from her basket to mine. Hannah flounced away, as a disgruntled seller would, quickly disappearing into the gathering shadows.

I climbed down the steps of the opera house with my now-laden basket, and immediately banged into a slim man with a neatly trimmed beard in a dark suit topped by the pale smudge of a dog collar.

“My dear Mrs.Holloway,” the man said in a quiet voice as I apologized profusely. “You do know you’re being followed, do you not?”