Lewis grinned. “I believe Imayhave hinted that I knew where she was... and planned to elope with her or some such. I don’t remember exactly, for I had kept pace with that solicitor in all those drinks, sorry to say.”
“Lewisss...” Helen scolded.
Lewis waved away the lecture before she could begin. “I’d wager he doesn’t care a whit about the girl, just wants to keep the money in the family. Stab me, I’m half tempted to find the chit and marry her myself. I wouldn’t have to live on the meager allowance Nate wants to leash me to—”
“Don’t.” Nathaniel bit out the single syllable.
Lewis regarded him, one brow raised. “Why not? Want a second shot at her yourself, do you?”
Helen laid a hand on Nathaniel’s forearm. Had she not been there, Nathaniel knew he would probably have lost control and punched his brother again.
Instead he gritted his teeth and warned, “Don’t trifle with Sterling Benton, Lewis. The man is financially desperate. Far more so than we are. There’s no telling what he might do if he thinks you stand between him and a fortune.”
Early the next morning, Margaret began her duties in the drawing room, glad it was Fiona’s day to carry the water and slops. As she opened the shutters, she thought back to Nathaniel Upchurch’s kind attention when she’d fallen from the cart, and to their conversation on the moonlit balcony. His vow to defend her should any man mistreat her. His intense, earnest eyes had captured hers, and she had felt powerless to look away... to breathe. Tears had come from nowhere, burning her throat and filling her eyes. Oh, to have a man like Nathaniel Upchurch protect her. Love her.
Click.Somewhere nearby, a door latch opened. That was odd.
Pulse accelerating, she tiptoed to the threshold of the adjoining conservatory and peered around the doorjamb. By dawn’s light seeping through the many panes of glass, she saw a figure—a man with his back to her—gingerly close the terrace door behind him. That door should have been locked. The man turned and crept across the room. For a rash second, she feared it was that pirate Nathaniel had mentioned. But then she recognized the man’s profile. It was Lewis, coming in at dawn, his cravat untied and in need of a shave. He had obviously been out all night again. She wondered with whom.
He pulled up short at seeing her in the doorway but only lifted a finger to his lips and continued past her without a second glance. Apparently too tired—or sated—to bother flirting with her.
Margaret felt a dull stab of disappointment. Disappointment at his behavior, not at his disinterest in her. She had given up all thought of Lewis Upchurch, at least romantically. She hoped the poor girl, whoever she was, knew what she was doing.
Margaret sighed and returned to her work. The carpets were not going to brush themselves.
The masquerade . . . became the entertainment
of the century par excellence, not just with the upper
classes but much lower down the social scale.
—Giles Waterfield and Anne French,Below Stairs
Chapter 23
Around midday, Nathaniel read the staidTimesbefore turning to the livelier of the London newspapers, theMorning Post.He skimmed quickly through the social columns, thewho had been seen with whom, the engagements, births, and scandals. Suddenly he stopped, heart lurching painfully against his breastbone. His gaze flew back to the top of the column, and he read the lines again, temples pounding with each word.
Young woman found drowned in the Thames. The body has not yet been officially identified, pending coroner inquisition and family notification, but an anonymous source reports that authorities speculate the deceased might be 24-year-old Margaret Macy of Berkeley Square, Mayfair, who has beenmissing since...
What in the world? Was Margaret not somewhere in his house at that very moment? He searched his memory. When had he last seen her? Come to think of it, he had not seen her that morning. Nor had he found her on the balcony last night as he’d hoped. Had he seen her yesterday? He scoured his brain. Yesterday had been quite busy—a review of the account books with Lewis, a tedious hour with the under butler as he reported in minute detail on the inventory of the cellar, and a meeting with the council at town hall. But he believed he had seen Margaret the day before yesterday. Surely she did not have time to return to London and drown? This was mere speculation, surely. Irresponsible reporting. That was all.
He threw down the paper and rose, knowing he would have no peace until he made certain. Where would she be this time of day? In the past, he’d had no knowledge of what his mostly invisible maids did when. But since recognizing “Nora,” he had found himself keenly aware of her movements, where he might catch a glimpse of her during her daily rounds. He consulted his pocket watch and winced in thought, trying to recall where she would be at this time. Belowstairs, he believed. He did not like to intrude into the servants’ domain, but he could not wait.
From the library, he walked across the hall past the main staircase, then slipped through the servery and trotted down the basement stairs. Passing the butler’s pantry, he turned and followed the dim passage past the kitchen and stillroom, neck craning for any glimpse of her as he went. It was quiet belowstairs. The kitchen was empty. Where on earth was everyone? He pushed open the door to the servants’ hall, door banging off the wall like gunshot, startling the seated occupants within. Heads jerked around the table, and many pairs of wide eyes darted up at him. Ah, the servants’ dinner time—he had forgotten it was so early. His eyes raked over the faces gaping at him and snagged on a certain pair of pale blue eyes, as startled as the rest. He resisted the urge to go to her. Take her hand. Feel her pulse. Relief swept over him. He realized he had thrown a hand over his chest and was clutching at his ragged heart.
Hudson rose, as did Arnold.
“Is everything all right, sir?” Hudson asked in concern.
Nathaniel held out a placating palm. “Sit. Please. I am sorry to disturb your dinner.”
From the foot of the table, Mrs. Budgeon asked, “Is there something you needed, sir?”
He inhaled deeply, realizing he was out of breath. He laid his eyes on Margaret once more, satisfying himself.
“No, em, never mind. Everything is fine.”
He formed an awkward smile, gestured for them to continue, and backed from the room, closing the door behind him. He was embarrassed, but relieved.Everything is fine, he repeated to himself.Margaret is fine.
