The maid gave a start and swore as a streak of blood soiled her apron. “Hellfire and damnation! That is my last clean pinny, Veronica.” She shoved the enormous cap away from her brow and gave me a resentful look.
I sighed. “J. J. Butterworth, lady reporter and frequent scourge of my existence. What are you doing at Cherboys?”
She dropped the last grouse into place. “I call that rude. I thought we were friends.”
“We are. Occasionally. When you are aboveboard about chasing a story.”
J. J. was a freelance journalist and the most ambitious woman I had ever met. Her age was very near my own and our paths had crossed with such regularity that she was one of two women in London I considered a friend—at least when she was not gently blackmailing me to get her way about something.
“The last time we saw each other, you extorted a trip to Windsor Castle out of me under extremely difficult circumstances,” I reminded her.
“And I have kept many more secrets than I have revealed,” she said, setting her chin at a mulish angle. J. J. knew the truth about my parentage but had thus far been willing to keep my secret. Whether she did so out of true loyalty or because it meant I was perpetually in her debt, I was not entirely certain.
“Pax,” I replied, putting out my hand.
She shook it gamely enough—J. J. is not the sort to bear a grudge, particularly against someone who has inadvertently provided her with front-page features on more than one occasion. Her entrée into Windsor Castle had resulted in a spectacular story in theDaily Harbingerthat had taken down a junior Cabinet minister.[*]
“Now, why are you here?” I demanded. She often worked as a chambermaid at the Sudbury, the same hotel that employed Julien, in order to dig up tawdry stories on the great and good who stayed there, but posing as a scullery maid seemed a comedown. “I should have thought your success as an investigative journalist would have seenyou doing far more interesting and elevated things than plucking grouse.”
She pulled a face, and not just at the entrails of the bird she was cleaning. “You would think. One of the staff writers at theHarbingerconvinced the editor that he was responsible for exposing the corruption in the minister’s office. Claimed I had used ‘underhanded and unethical means’ of getting the story.”
“You did.”
“Yes, but he wasn’t to know that! I had proof, notes in the minister’s own hand. Little matter how I got them. In any event, I found myself in disgrace. Again. And I was in need of a little extra money. Naturally, when I discovered Julien was paying double rates to anyone who came with him on this excursion, I leapt at the chance. Double rates—with good reason,” she added darkly, pulling something wet and slimy from inside the bird.
“At least it is an honest day’s work,” I said with a bright smile, relieved that for once J. J. seemed bent upon something other than ferreting out a story. Although, I reflected, if she had any idea of Tiberius’ true purpose in hosting this house party, she would be back to her old tricks in a flash.
She held up one bloody bird. “These are from the moor of one of the guests due to arrive today—Sir Ruddy McMoustaches.”
“Do you mean Sir James MacIver?” I asked repressively.
“That’s the one. Imagine having nothing better to do with your time than blast away at these poor things all day.” She looked up suddenly with a sharp gaze. “He is an MP, you know. And I hear there is a count from the Continent abovestairs. Any potential stories with them? A bit of juicy scandal that might get me back in good graces in Fleet Street?”
“Heavens no,” I said airily. “Dull as ditchwater, the lot of them. Mind you do a good job on those grouse. I shouldn’t like to find feathers floating in my tea.”
She muttered something unprintable and I made her a vague promise to meet up with her later in the day. I trusted her as far as I could hurl Stoker’s favourite woolly mammoth.
Still pondering J. J.’s presence and how it might complicate our undertaking, I went to my room to prepare for the evening. Lily appeared, harried and gently perspiring, nearly an hour after I had rung for her. She bustled in and thrust me into the chair before my looking glass.
“I am that sorry, miss,” she said as she hurried to jam pins into my hair. “The guests have arrived, and as it happens, neither lady has brought a maid, so it has fallen to me to take care of Lady MacIver.” Her mouth tightened. “Polly, who has been here seven weeks less than I have, has been given the countess.”
I was well enough acquainted with belowstairs politics to know this was a serious breach of staff etiquette. The Contessa Salviati, as the highest-ranking lady in residence, had claim on the services of the senior chambermaid. Upon such slights were feuds of generations built.
Lily went on, pinning as she talked. “And Lady MacIver hasn’t hair as nice as yours, and that’s a fact. Took me half an age to pin her false curls in place, it did. Although I will say her skin is good as a woman ten years younger. Like milk it is or what is that white rock?”
“Alabaster?” I guessed.
“That’s the one.” She paused and stepped back, scrutinising the effect of her efforts. “Pretty as a picture, if I say it myself. Now, for a bit of powder.”
Before I could stop her, she pummeled my décolletage with a swansdown puff, sending great drifts of the stuff up to cloud the room. It smelt strongly of roses, but it shimmered prettily against my skin and as I wore no jewels, it would have to suffice.
I thanked her for her efforts and made my way downstairs. Thegong was just sounding as I entered the drawing room. The gaslights had been lit and the gold silk on the walls gleamed in their glow. Stoker, washed and attired in clean and formal if not fashionable clothing, joined me where I stood in front of the fireplace. I had dressed in a new evening gown of luscious violet taffeta, cut in a severe style and edged with black velvet, and Stoker eyed me with silent appraisal.
Tiberius appeared for dinner dressed impeccably as usual. But as he entered I saw new lines upon his face, no doubt etched by the strain of the situation. As I returned his greeting, I exhaled, realising suddenly that I had been rather worried about him. Whilst we had been alone at Cherboys, he had been safe enough, in my estimation; now that the house party had assembled, a possible murderer walked among us. But no harm would come to him on my watch, I vowed.
“Whatever are you thinking, Veronica? You look quite fierce.”
“Only that it will be a significant task to keep you safe now that your guests have arrived.” I counted them off on my fingers. “The Count Salviati and his contessa, Sir James and Lady MacIver—”
