Page 27 of A Silence in Belgrave Square (Below Stairs #8)

Daniel heaved a weary sigh. “If they are, I can’t prove it.

Lord Peyton’s bookkeeping is excellent, and I couldn’t find any evidence of him and his mates gathering money or purchasing weapons.

The Fenians are definitely planning something, and they have agents all over the metropolis, but I couldn’t find the connection to Lord Peyton.

” His shoulders sagged. “Needless to say, Monaghan is not happy with me.”

“That is hardly your fault. How can Monaghan believe that you, by yourself, can expose the ring and thwart every plot the Fenians come up with?”

“Because he is unreasonable, and he is angry.”

“Also a killer,” I said, recalling what Inspector McGregor had told me. “I know that he—”

“Mrs.Holloway.” The shocked tones of Mr.Davis rang behind me, accompanied by a draft that told me he’d opened the door. “Have a care for your reputation,” he went on, aghast, then his voice hardened. “ You. Out.” He pointed a thin finger at Daniel and made a sweeping gesture into the hall.

“Don’t you worry none, Mr.Davis,” Daniel said merrily.

“I’d never let harm come to our Mrs.Holloway.

All right, all right, I’m going. The rest of your order is arriving tomorrow, Mrs.H.

” This last Daniel said to me as he eased past Mr.Davis.

“I’ll send me lad around instead so our Mr.Davis ain’t scandalized. ”

I strove to recover my aplomb. “See that you do.” It was a weak statement, but the only one that sprang to mind.

Daniel threw a last wink at me, and then he was gone. I heard Tess’s joyful greeting to him as he went through the kitchen, with a few of the footmen calling out to him as well. Everyone liked Daniel, with the current exception of Mr.Davis.

“Do not lecture me,” I told Mr.Davis as he drew breath to speak. “I’ve not seen Mr.McAdam in some days, and we were catching up. I can’t help it if the door blew shut.”

Mr.Davis’s expression told me he didn’t believe me for a minute.

“I care not what you get up to with McAdam on your days out. You might have a second home and ten children with him for all I know, though I presume you have more sense. But if the mistress catches you canoodling with such a man, you’ll be out before you can speak. ”

“I was hardly canoodling,” I said indignantly. “What an appalling expression. I’d never do such a thing in the larder , of all places. In any case, it really isn’t your business, Mr.Davis.”

“I recall a day when you meddled in my business.” He referred to the afternoon he’d caught me coming out of his bedchamber when I’d gone in to snoop.

I’d been worried about Mr.Davis’s absence and was trying to discover what had happened to him, but he’d been right to be angry.

“It is my concern, Mrs.Holloway. I am fond of you, and I do not want to see you dismissed. Or throwing your life away on a waster.”

A felt a trickle of warmth that Mr.Davis professed such friendship for me but was still affronted on Daniel’s behalf. “Mr.McAdam is not a waster. He has employment and looks after his son just fine.”

Mr.Davis remained unconvinced. “That is all very well, but if you wish to marry, you should take up with someone who can provide for you, like an innkeeper or a gent who owns a shop. You’ve drudged all your life—you ought to be able to put your feet up afterward.”

“No thank you,” I said decidedly. “An innkeeper or shopkeeper would be pleased to have me cook for them or assist in the shop without wages. At least my drudging brings in a salary. I am saving for my future, as you advised me, and am not thinking of marriage to anyone.”

Not quite the truth. I’d pictured myself and Daniel snug in a house together with Grace and James often enough. But that vision was hazily in the distance, not an immediate reality.

Mr.Davis continued to frown. “Thought I’d give you a friendly warning.”

“I appreciate your concern.” I moved pointedly toward the doorway Mr.Davis blocked, and he stiffly stepped out of my way. “I know it was kindly meant, but please do not make me jump out of my skin again.”

“Do not let any doors blow closed, and all will be well.”

We shared a cool stare, then I ducked around him and strode back to the kitchen. There, emotions and sensations chased each other through me so fast that I had to sit down for some time before I could carry on.

* * *

I slept very little that night. Daniel did not return before I retired, though I lingered well into the darkness, sharpening knives, making notes, and straightening the kitchen. I imagined Mr.Monaghan was keeping him on a short tether.

Once abed, I lay awake worrying not only about Daniel but about Hannah. I’d need to find out if she was still all right, alone in that house of villains. I’d ask Mr.Fielding to tell his groom—if he too hadn’t been sacked—that she was there and to look after her.

I longed to speak to Daniel again, to ask him about the things I’d not had time to: the blackmail letters, the envelopes he’d addressed, the secret police Inspector McGregor had more or less confirmed Daniel worked for, and many other things.

Most of all, I longed to snatch up Grace, take Daniel by the hand, and run with him far, far from Monaghan, the Fenians, the police, and anarchist plots.

I’d seen photographs and paintings of the Lake District, in the north of England, which appeared quite beautiful and also remote.

I could open a tea shop there as easily as anywhere, couldn’t I?

I knew from experience that such things would not be as simple. But it was nice to daydream, which had a calming effect. I dropped off in the early hours of the morning, waking when the high window in my bedchamber lightened.

The sun rose early in May so I was downstairs before anyone else, despite my interrupted sleep.

My restlessness allowed me to make a start on the meals for the day, including another couple of the star breads, one savory with roasted onions and herbs and the other sweet, with the last of the apples. I’d make an apple butter to spread on the second bread, flavored with cinnamon and sugar.

My head was still reeling with Daniel’s return and fear that Monaghan would send him somewhere worse—might have already done so—and working was the only way I could keep myself calm.

I had the doughs mixed and resting and the breakfast mostly done before Tess came downstairs.

“Sara says Lady Cynthia wants to speak to ya,” Tess informed me after she’d exclaimed over how much of the tasks I’d already finished. “She’s still in her chamber, but I’d guess you could go up to see her, since we’re so far ahead.”

“It isn’t fitting for the cook to rush up to a lady’s bedchamber,” I said as I turned to stack toast onto platters. “Cynthia knows that.”

“You could take her a tea tray,” Tess suggested. “Would save Sara some work. The mistress has Sara running off her feet, she says.”

I knew that Lady Cynthia liked to lie abed late after one of her nights out with her friends, demanding very strong tea and toast when she woke.

Tess’s idea was a good one, and truth to tell, I was curious about what Cynthia had to say. I prepared a pot of tea, adding a silver container of sugar and a ceramic pitcher of cream to the tray. Several pieces of the hot toast, dripping with sweet butter, went alongside the tea things.

I reflected as I carried the heavy tray up the stairs that I was lucky I was rarely required to tote things I made from the kitchen.

I’d collapse if I had to carry the supper dishes upstairs every night instead of putting them in the dumbwaiter that went to the dining room.

I gained new respect for Sara and the other maids for running up and down with loads like these.

Sara sent me a grateful glance when I emerged into the second-floor hallway. She had her hands full of towels and dashed from the hall cupboard toward the mistress’s bedchamber, from which Mrs.Bywater’s voice rose.

“No, this water is too cold. Take it away. Where is Sara?”

Mrs.Bywater’s bedchamber door banged open, and a footman scuttled out with a large basin of water. Sara whirled past him and inside, slamming the door behind him.

The footman started when he saw me, slopping some of the water onto the floor. He glowered at me and disappeared into the discreet opening in the paneling that led to the backstairs.

I tapped on Cynthia’s door and received a groan in reply. Taking that for permission to enter, I fumbled with the door handle and carried the tray into the room.

Cynthia’s chamber was dim, the curtains drawn against the morning light. She let out another groan as she cracked open her eyes.

“Mrs.H.,” she wheezed in surprise. “How splendid. I hope that tea is strong. My head aches something fierce.” She put a weary hand to that appendage.

“As dark as I could brew it,” I assured her. “You need to drink the whole pot. I’ve also brought some toast, fresh and hot.”

“Put it over there.” Languid fingers emerged from the bedcovers and fluttered at the nearby table. “I’ll see what I can manage.”

I set down the tray where indicated, but I did not depart and leave her to it. I poured out tea, dolloped some cream into it along with a lump of sugar, laid a thick piece of toast onto a plate, and carried both to her.

“Get that down you,” I instructed. “Then you can tell me what you wanted to say.”

Cynthia sent me a faint smile. Even in the half light, I could see dark smudges beneath her bloodshot eyes.

“Yes, Mum.” She obediently took the tea. “You know, you’re better at mothering me than my own mama.”

“You and I are the same age,” I pointed out rather coldly. “Or near as. Drink.”

Cynthia sipped the tea, raising her brows as the smooth liquid entered her mouth. She drank several noisy slurps before lowering the cup again.

“Sister, then,” she said. “My own never had much use for me.”

“I would be honored to be considered your sister,” I said. “Now eat some toast.”

“Quite the dragon, you are.” Cynthia nibbled a slice, then her face changed and she devoured the entire piece. “This toast is lovely.” Her voice gained strength. “I must have you bring up my tea every morning.”

“I hardly have the time.” I poured more tea into her cup. “Now, Sara told Tess that you wanted to speak to me. Please do before your aunt finds me here and scolds the life out of both of us.”

“No fear.” Cynthia took another noisy sip of tea.

“She’s dressing for one of her charity dos and will be some time perfecting her ensemble.

I wanted to inform you that Thanos and I have been sleuthing.

We’ve been up and down the Strand and Bond Street looking at shops that sell high-priced ink.

We found it.” Cynthia beamed at me, color entering her pallid face.

“In the Burlington Arcade. Beautiful bottles of artist’s ink from France.

I have a list of who purchased them. I went all wide-eyed and innocent and asked for the shop’s clients, saying I might want to purchase some of the same ink as gifts for my friends, but of course, I didn’t know which friends actually used it. Hold on a tick.”

Cynthia rummaged in the drawer of her bedside table and produced a sheet of paper. The handwriting on it was neat and firm, which told me neither she nor Mr.Thanos had made the list.

Squarely in the middle of it was the name of Viscount Peyton, resident of Belgrave Square.