Greys finally glanced up from his paper for more than two seconds and then set it aside, pinning his gaze on Posy. “Even I haven’t been able to best Mr. Cockfield at chess. I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you.”
Violet closed her eyes, but before she could argue with either of them, Aunt Iris’s voice sounded from the door.
Rather than utilizing her cane, her normally independent aunt was allowing the butler to assist her to the table. “Thank you, Mr. Cockfield. I cannot imagine where it could be. I’ll have to speak with Gwen about leaving it within my reach.”
The cane, Violet was quite certain, was resting in its usual spot between her aunt’s bed and the small table beside it. And if her aunt couldn’t locate that one, she kept a spare by the door of her private sitting area.
Violet pinched her mouth together. Everyone, it seemed, was enamored with Greystone’s outrageous butler.
She, of course, was not so easily fooled. Because something was off. She didn’t know what, but she was sure of it.
Violet met his gaze from where she sat with narrowed eyes, trusting him less now than she had the day they arrived.
Not because he didn’t perform his duties, and not even because of his all-too-often inappropriate comments. No, she distrusted him because he managed everything a little too well and was, perhaps, a tad too popular with the staff.
Not to mention that he was a little too charming—a little too handsome.
Furthermore, he continued to receive lady visitors who were neither servants nor her cousin’s guests. The same lady who’d come the first day had since returned, and others as well. And they all seemed to be looking to him to solve some sort of problem. Fellows made visits as well—not servants and not gentlemen of quality, but men of business.
On Saturday the week before, she’d spied him returning to the mews… riding a white Arabian.
She’d asked him about it the next day, and he’d told her he was borrowing it.
Butlers, most assuredly, did not borrow prize-winning horses.
“Are you unwell, Miss Faraday?” he asked. “You’re looking as though your tea is brackish this morning.”
Was he smirking at her again?
“The tea is perfectly fine, Mr. Cockfield,” she said through clenched teeth. “As am I.”
He, on the other hand, looked far too chipper for a man with a sprained wrist. Two afternoons prior, he’d returned sporting a bruise on his cheek and his arm wrapped in a sling.
She’d asked him how it happened, and he’d winked and told her it got caught in a door.
He had winked!
At her!
Dreadful creature.
It was a well-known fact that those who took up the vocation of butler henceforth put their employers’ needs and comforts above their own. How could Mr. Cockfield achieve this, let alone all his own nefarious goings-on, with one arm out of commission?
And of course, those goings-on must be nefarious, because why else would he conduct them secretly? And what proper reason might there be for him to be doling out money?
Perhaps what confounded Violet most of all was that she neither her aunt nor Greystone were willing to protect Posy’s virtue and reputation from him. And since they both failed to recognize the problem, Violet was going to have to deal with the situation herself.
Aunt Iris leaned back in her chair and allowed Mr. Cockfield to pour her tea, looking thoughtful before turning to Violet. “I hesitate to mention this, but if I don’t tell you, you’ll hear it elsewhere.”
Violet stiffened.
This comment captured both Greystone’s and Posy’s attention.
“Hear what?” Posy asked.
“What is it?” Violet braced herself. Such a caveat before an announcement never indicated good news.
“Lord Percival has died,” her aunt announced.
