Tonight, though, most people knew only that there had been an accident. A few stories circulated about an anonymous madman attacking the duke’s horses. A madman had killed Spencer Perceval almost exactly six years ago and another had tried to kill Lord Palmerston, the secretary of war, a month ago. One constantly read of murders attempted and committed by madmen.
Generally speaking, though—and with the notable exception of Lady Sophronia de Grey—the patronesses excluded lunatics from their list.
Tonight, all was well, and Zoe could flash her great lighthouse beacon of a diamond and dance to her heart’s content. She was alive, beautifully and fully alive, teasing his friends and astonishing the ladies, and living the life she’d wanted.
Late Wednesday night
Harrison was a London servant, born and bred. He knew every inch of the metropolis: the high, the middling, and the low. He’d made a great many friends among certain types of tradesmen and publicans. He had no trouble finding lodgings within easy walking distance of Marchmont House.
They were only temporary, he’d assured Mary Dunstan. As soon as he’d collected the money he’d secreted in various places, they would go to Ireland and start fresh. They had planned to become innkeepers in London. They would simply change locations, Harrison assured her.
On Wednesday evening, though, when he came back to the lodgings, and Mary Dunstan asked him if he’d got all the money, he said, “We want something better than money, my dear.”
Then he told her what he’d done that morning: how he’d lurked in the mews and learned the duke’s coach was setting out for Lexham House.
“I knew the route they’d take,” he said. “Don’t I know the routes they always take, wherever they mean to go? Don’t I always know everything? Isn’t it my job to know everything, even before it happens? I knew what would happen before it happened this morning. I knew it and I was ready, waiting for her when they turned into King Street.”
He’d been waiting, knife in hand—one of several he’d taken from the kitchen before he ran away. It was a beautiful knife, and Mary didn’t blame him for taking it. She’d taken things, too.
But it was to be for their inn, for the cooking.
It wasn’t for what he’d used it for.
She couldn’t believe her ears when he told her. He was drunk. She tried to make herself believe he was simply drunk and boasting. But what man boasts of such things?
“I couldn’t hang about to see the smash-up,” he said. “That’s the devil of hiring the best. John Coachman saw what I was about, and I got a taste of his whip. The horses panicked and the carriage went amok and overturned, for all his care, but it wasn’t as I pictured. No time to wait about to tally the damage. I thought she’d get the worst of it, but no. It was the horses and the coachman, curse her.”
He found a bottle and opened it. He filled his glass and drank, and stared at her. He slammed the glass on the table, and she jumped.
“Don’t look at me like that!”
“I was only wondering whether you had time to arrange for the post chaise,” she said composedly.
Mary Dunstan had had years of practice acting calm no matter how she felt. A housekeeper always had to appear to be in complete control of everything. Other servants must never believe they could rattle her. She must always be as steady as a rock. She must always be sure of herself. Those beneath her must look upon her as omniscient and omnipotent, a version of the house steward, lower in status but equally formidable. Those above her must be able to take her competence completely for granted.
“What post chaise?” he said.
“The one to take us to the boat that will carry us to Ireland,” she said.
“Ireland.” His lip curled. “Savages. Bog trotters.”
“We can’t remain in London,” she said.
“No, we can’t,” he said. “Everything’s ruined because of her. No London inn for us, thanks to her. No future here. No future anywhere. Nofuture.”
“If you don’t like Ireland, we can go to France,” Mary said calmly. “The English appreciate a proper English hostelry there. Good food and drink and clean, dry linens and spotless floors.”
He wasn’t listening. He drank some more. “Ruined,” he said. “Twenty years climbing to the top. And then, all at once, there am I, on the bottom.” He snapped his fingers. “Like this she knocked me down. And I’ll knock her down. I’ll finish her, I will, like this”—another snap—“I’ll finish her, because she finished me.”
He went on ranting and drinking, and Mary Dunstan pretended to listen calmly. But she was a paragon among housekeepers, and a good housekeeper saw ahead. It didn’t take much looking to determine what she must do.
Saturday
It didn’t take Marchmont long to replace nearly all of the upper servants. Everyone and their grandmothers, he found, wanted to work at Marchmont House.
And this time, determined to Take Responsibility, he interviewed everyone and their grandmothers. Or so it seemed. Scores of applicants came from an agency. Scores more received word of the vacancies via the servant gossip grapevine, and came on their own initiative. Osgood proposed some candidates, as did Cleake and Zoe’s sisters and sisters-in-law.
Sorting them out was tedious. It would have been unbearably so, had Marchmont done it alone. But Zoe was there, taking notes and occasionally asking a question. Mainly she left it to him until they were alone. Then she had a great deal to say, some of it hilarious, and some stunningly perceptive. Their one major dispute was about the butler. In the end, they agreed to keep Thomas in that position.
