Authors: Kate Kingsbury
“Sir Richard? I know who he is, of course.” Madeline replaced her cup in the saucer and wriggled closer. “Tell me what happened. Don’t leave out a thing.”
Cecily recounted the dramatic death, while Madeline’s gaze remained fastened on her face. “Poor Phoebe saw the whole thing,” Cecily said after she’d described the fall. “Arthur had to carry her back into the hotel.”
Madeline sniffed. “Phoebe always did like to be melodramatic. She falls in a dead faint if a horse steps too close to her.”
“Well, I suppose it was more than a little upsetting for her.” Cecily shook her head. “I just can’t imagine why someone as staid and predictable as Sir Richard would attempt to dance on a railing four stories above the street.”
“Well, he wouldn’t, of course. Maybe he was bewitched.” Madeline leaned forward. “I’m not the only witch around here, you know. There are rumors that the gypsies are back, though no one has seen them.”
“Anyone who thinks you are a witch needs his head examined. Knowing how to heal certain ills with plants does not make you a witch. People are always so swift to condemn what they don’t understand.”
Madeline smiled. “Dear Cecily. Always coming to my defense. Someday I shall repay you for your loyalty. When the time is right.”
“Well, I’m not so sure I deserve your benevolence.” Cecily stared down at her cup for a long moment. “I’m
afraid I should be practicing what I preach. I am as guilty as anyone else for my prejudices.”
“You?” Madeline’s laugh rang out. “You are the most fair and just person I know.”
Feeling a strong urge to share her misgivings, Cecily looked up. “I’ve just come from the George and Dragon,” she said quietly. “I had a talk with Michael. Simani was there, and I’m afraid I might have offended her in some way.”
Madeline’s response to her confession was totally unexpected. She climbed to her feet, and her voice sounded harsh when she said, “That woman? I loathe and detest her.”
Dismayed and bewildered by this adverse reaction, Cecily put her cup down loudly in the saucer. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware that you had met my daughter-in-law.”
“Once.” Madeline began pacing around the room, her jerky movements completely at odds with her usual graceful glide: “I met her only once, but that was all that was needed. I knew what she was the moment I set eyes on her.”
The flesh on Cecily’s arms began to prickle. “Whatever do you mean, what she was?”
Madeline swung around suddenly, making her jump. The younger woman’s face seemed contorted in the dancing flames of the gas lamps. “I warn you, Cecily. Get rid of her. As soon as possible. She will bring you and your son nothing but trouble.”
“Madeline—” Cecily started to rise, but sat down again when Madeline put a palm up in the air.
“Listen to me, Cecily. If you love your son, you will rid him of this woman. She brings trouble with her. Of the most evil kind.”
“I cannot let you say something like that about a member of my family without demanding an explanation,” Cecily said firmly, though inside she was shaking like warm jelly. “No matter how great a friend you are, I must ask you to please tell me what you mean by those unkind words.”
“Unkind?” Madeline’s wide mouth pulled into a grimace.
“Cecily, you have no idea what danger Michael could be facing. I beg you, get rid of her. I will help, if you wish.”
Cecily’s voice trembled when she answered. “I must know why you feel this way about Simani. Please, Madeline, if you value our friendship.”
Madeline’s mouth tightened. “I cannot tell you how I know what I know. I wish I could. I have no wish to harm our friendship.”
“Very well.” Cecily straightened her wrap and picked up her parasol. “I must leave now, Madeline. I wish we could have parted on a more pleasant note.”
“I’m sorry, Cecily. Please believe me.” Madeline pulled open the door. “I hope you will forgive me once you realize that my words are true.”
Sitting in the trap a few minutes later, Cecily tried to banish Madeline’s voice from her mind. Normally she would dismiss the words, putting them down to Madeline’s fanciful notions and her constant talk of spirits and myths.
But this was too close to home. This was threatening her own son. To make matters worse, Cecily herself felt extremely uneasy whenever she was near Simani, though she hadn’t been able to determine why.
Much disturbed, she failed to enjoy the trip along the Esplanade as she usually did. Her mind dwelled elsewhere, on Madeline’s words and on Michael’s relief when he had heard that Sir Richard Malton was dead.
In spite of her efforts to prevent it, the word
witchcraft
kept creeping into her thoughts over and over again.
Mrs. Chubb heaved a loud sigh of relief as she closed the door of Gertie’s bedroom. The poor girl had been quite hysterical after the fright she’d had, and it had taken near on an hour and two cups of warm milk heavily spiced with brandy before exhaustion had finally quietened the sobs.
Gertie now lay gently snoring, and Mrs. Chubb could turn her attention to the cause of all the uproar. Taking hold of her skirts, she marched up the stairs to the lobby.
Halfway across the foyer she saw the new doorman sitting behind the reception desk, his nose buried in
The Evening News.
Mrs. Chubb’s anger subsided. The culprit could wait.
The foyer was deserted, with most of the staff and guests occupied with the evening meal in the dining room. Unlikely to be interrupted, Mrs. Chubb could foresee a golden
opportunity. Patting her hair to make sure no stray wisps escaped from the knot on the crown of her head, the housekeeper swept across the carpet on flying feet.
Arthur Barrett looked up as she reached the counter, and her heart skipped with excitement when his twinkling eyes, the color of a morning sky, smiled upon her face.
“Well, if it isn’t the princess herself come to pay me a visit, to be sure,” he said in his marvelous rich voice. “What can I be doing for you this fine evening, me fair lady?”
His fair lady. She felt her heart fluttering like a young girl’s. Indeed, she felt exactly like a young girl facing a beau for the very first time. Reminding herself that she was a middle-aged woman well past the prime of life, she did her best to calm her silly notions.
“I just wanted to thank you, Mr. Barrett, for coming to Gertie’s rescue like that. I don’t know what the poor girl would have done had you not been there to take care of her.”
“Ah, ’twas nothing, I can assure you. I heard her screaming like a banshee on an Irish moor, and I did what any fine gentleman would do. I rushed out to see what was ailing the poor girl. A strong shoulder to cry on as I led her inside was all that was needed.”
Feeling more than a trifle envious of Gertie, Mrs. Chubb said warmly, “Well, she is most grateful, as I am sure she will tell you herself tomorrow when she is feeling a little better.” She allowed a smile to peek through. “Perhaps later on, when the night porter arrives, you would care to come down to the kitchen for a spot of tea before you leave?”
The doorman tilted his head to one side and gave her one of his devastating grins. “Well, now, I might be tempted by that gracious offer. Especially if you could see your way clear to adding just a drop of fine Irish whiskey to the brew?”
Mrs. Chubb clasped her hands together to stop them shaking as she pretended to think about it. “I might be able to manage a drop of Scotch whiskey, if that would do?”
Arthur Barrett sighed. “Ah, to be sure, beggars can’t be
choosers now, can they? That will be just fine, Mrs. Chubb. Very nice, indeed. Thank you most kindly.”
“Oh, not at all, Mr. Barrett. I shall look forward to it.” She nodded at him several times, at a loss as to what to say next, while he continued to smile at her in a such a way that she thought she would never catch her breath again.
Then he captivated her completely by saying in a soft voice, “Please, my dear, call me by my Christian name, the way everyone else does. Arthur it is, as you well know.”
“I do indeed … Arthur. Until later, then.” She spun around so fast she almost tripped over the hem of her skirt. Steadying herself, she cast a glance over her shoulder. Arthur still sat there, smiling at her with the face of a Greek god.
“I would like it very much if you would call me Altheda,” she said breathlessly.
“Altheda,” he repeated, making her name sound like the most romantic word ever invented. “’Tis a pretty name, to be sure. I will be honored and delighted to hear it tripping from my lips. That I will.”
“Oh!” Titillated by the thought of anything tripping from his lips, Mrs. Chubb found herself incapable of answering him, which was not like Altheda Chubb at all. She fled instead, across the floor to the stairs, completely forgetting the reason she had come up them in the first place.
When Cecily arrived a few minutes later, Arthur was back at his post by the door. He greeted Cecily with a cheery “Good evening,” giving her a roguish smile that might have turned her head twenty years ago. His charm certainly went a long way toward restoring her good spirits. Until he told her what had transpired since she’d left the hotel earlier.
“Lady Lavinia has taken to her bed, ma’am;” he said. “She is stricken with grief, poor lady, and is unable to cope with anything. She has left orders not to be disturbed.”
“Oh, dear, I was afraid of that.” Cecily pulled her wrap from her shoulders and folded it over her arm. “Perhaps I
should call the doctor to tend to her. The shock must have been devastating for her.”
“I’m sure it must have been, ma’am. But if you’ll pardon me for saying, it isn’t milady you should be worrying about.”
Cecily wrinkled her brow. “Something else has happened?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Arthur glanced around the lobby as if making sure they were alone. “It’s not my place to be carrying tales, but no doubt you will hear of it sooner or later.”
Becoming alarmed now, Cecily said sharply, “What is it, Arthur?”
“It’s the boy, Master Stanley Malton, ma’am. He’s being a holy terror, begging your pardon.”
“What has he done now?”
“I daresay, it’s not all his fault, mind. With his father lying dead and his mother taken to her bed, there is no one to discipline the lad. I would venture to say he’s had little enough of that as it is. He appears to show very little respect, or grief for that matter. Maybe it hasn’t sunk in yet that his dear father has departed to heaven and will not be coming back.”
“Maybe so,” Cecily said with a touch of impatience. “But I would like to know what the boy has been up to.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Arthur lifted his hand and began counting off on his fingers. “Well, now, let me see. He ran water into the kitchen sink so that it overflowed. He stuffed newspaper down the lavatory and blocked it. He smeared black boot polish all over the drawing room windows. Then he took the bearskin rug from the floor, draped it over himself, and gave a good many ladies in the hotel an attack of the vapors when he crawled down the corridors growling and snarling like a hungry lion.”
“Oh, good Lord.”
“That’s not all, I’m afraid, ma’am.”
Cecily groaned. “There’s more?”
Arthur solemnly nodded. “He cornered Gertie in the kitchen yard. He had the bearskin rug over him, and he clutched a baby doll between his teeth. Gertie thought it was a real baby, her being so close to motherhood herself, so to speak. Mrs. Chubb had to calm her down and put her to bed.”
“Where is he now?” Cecily asked grimly.
“Locked in the suite with his mother, though how the poor woman will put up with him, her being so ill and all, I shudder to think.”
“So do I.” She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner, its face barely visible in the dim light from the gas lamps. “It’s too late to do much tonight, but tomorrow I’ll have a word with the boy. Maybe we can get someone to keep an eye on him.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea, though who will agree to take on that formidable task, I can’t imagine.”
Cecily shook her head. “Someone will have to do it. I’ll take care of it in the morning.”
“Perhaps Mr. Baxter can be persuaded to do it,” Arthur said, amusement coloring his voice.
A harsh voice rang out behind them, making Cecily jump. “No, Mr. Baxter will most definitely not be persuaded to do it.”
She swung around to see Baxter advancing toward her, his face looking like the onset of a thunderstorm.
“I think I hear the trap,” Arthur said and stepped smartly through the main door, closing it behind him.
Cecily wrinkled her nose at his desertion, then said brightly to her manager, “I hear there has been some excitement here tonight.”
“If you are referring to that brat of a boy,” Baxter said stiffly, “then your information is correct. Since you seem to have discussed the matter thoroughly with the doorman, however …”
He’d said “doorman” in the tone of voice one would use to describe cow manure.
Cecily winced. “Arthur was merely giving me the details,” she said, meeting his brittle gaze with a defensive frown. “As owner of this establishment, I am entitled to be informed, am I not? I really think it matters not who gives me the information. Since Arthur was directly involved with the incident concerning Gertie, I asked him for an explanation. But why I should feel obliged to explain myself to you, I have not the faintest idea.”
Baxter stood there without answering, his gaze steady on her face, a muscle twitching in his temple. “I don’t like the way he addresses you with such familiarity,” he said finally.
Annoyed with herself for allowing him to intimidate her, Cecily said crossly, “Oh, piffle, Baxter. You are just being finicky, and I can’t imagine why. If you had been here when I arrived, naturally I would have relied upon you to inform me of the problem. As it was, Arthur was the first person I saw. Now, if you have some quarrel with that, I am sorry, but I have no wish to deal with it tonight. I am tired and I am going to bed.”
She waited for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, in a voice so low she could barely hear it, he muttered, “Good night, madam. I trust you will sleep well.”
She watched him stride across the floor, his coattails flapping furiously behind him, and she felt a deep ache of regret. How she hated arguing with him. Now she would have to wait an entire night before making peace with him.
She had Stanley Malton to thank for that, she thought as she stomped up the stairs to her suite. Tomorrow she would deal with them both. Baxter and Stanley. And out of the two, she was looking forward to dealing with Baxter the least.
When she awoke the next morning, Cecily decided to tackle Stanley first. Reaching the bottom of the stairs on her way to breakfast, she caught sight of Gertie crossing the foyer, and called out to her.
The housemaid bobbed a clumsy curtsey as she reached her. “Good morning, mum.”
“Good morning, Gertie.” Cecily peered closer at her flushed face. “Are you feeling better? Arthur tells me you had a nasty scare last night.”
“I bleeding did, mum. That little bugger stopped me ’eart, he did. I thought it was a real baby he was chewing on. I’ll never forget it. I never saw nothing so ’orrible in all me born days. I could kill the miserable—”
“Gertie!”
The irate voice echoed across the foyer from the direction of the stairs, and Gertie groaned. “I swear that Mrs. Chubb has eyes in the back of her head. Begging your pardon, mum, but I’d better scarper before she has me liver for dinner.”
“One minute, Gertie.” Cecily raised a hand to detain her. “I don’t suppose you know where Stanley is now, do you?”
Gertie drew her eyes together to meet across her nose. “At the bottom of the sea, I wish. Last time I saw him he was scampering out the back door, on his way to the gardens. Probably going to dig up all the bleeding roses, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Again Mrs. Chubb’s voice bellowed up the stairs, and Gertie flinched. “Will that be all, mum?”
Cecily nodded. “Thank you, Gertie. Tell Mrs. Chubb I kept you talking if she complains.”
Gertie grinned. “Don’t you worry about Mrs. Chubb, mum. Her bark is a lot worse than her blinking bite.” She marched off across the foyer, muttering loudly, “Aw right, aw right, keep your bleeding wig on. Cor blimey, there ain’t no bleeding peace for the wicked, that there ain’t.”
Thankful that Mrs. Chubb couldn’t hear the housemaid’s words, Cecily hurried down the hallway to the gardens beyond.
A loud chorus of birds greeted her as she stepped outside into the cool morning air. Dew sparkled on the smooth lawns and on the branches of the topiary bushes so carefully maintained by John Thimble, the Pennyfoot’s amiable gardener.
Cecily glanced fondly at the shrubs, then halted, her eyes widening. The two at the far end of the row had something hanging from them.
Hurrying toward them, Cecily shaded her eyes from the sun to get a better look. She hadn’t imagined it. Groaning, she surveyed what could only be the latest handiwork of Master Stanley Malton.
Tied to a lower branch of one bush, a lady’s corset swung gently from its laces. The other bush was lavishly adorned with various items of ladies’ underwear. A pair of pale orchid drawers flapped in the fresh sea breeze, and silk stockings clung to several branches, like garlands on a Christmas tree.
Gritting her teeth, Cecily headed for the Rose Garden, trying to remind herself that the boy was going through a traumatic time after the death of his father.
She saw John Thimble as soon as she passed beneath the archway. He stood bending over a white rosebush, carefully snipping at it with a pair of shears.
She greeted him warily, wondering how she was going to tell him about the lingerie clinging to his shrubs. John was fanatical about his gardens. He cared more for his plants and shrubs than he did for people. His work was his life, and he lived for nothing else. Cecily decided she wouldn’t want to be in Stanley’s shoes when John saw what he’d done to his precious topiary bushes.
He answered her greeting with a nod of his head and touched the floppy brim of his hat. John rarely spoke unless it was absolute necessary.
“Have you seen Master Stanley Malton anywhere about?” Cecily asked, not really surprised when John shook his head.
“Haven’t seen anyone, m’m.”
“Well, never mind. I’m sure I’ll find him.” Cecily hesitated, then murmured her thanks and left. She would find Stanley and make him remove the articles of clothing, she decided, since he was the one who put them there.
Poor John had never been married. He would be mortified if faced with that array of unmentionables. Stanley was exceptionally devious.
She had almost reached the fish pond when she heard the sound of voices—a shrill young voice, echoed by a deeper hoarse tone that sounded quite desperate.