“If it helps, so far, nothing indicates anyone wishes you dead, personally.” The major returned to fiddling with clock parts. “A snoop didn’t find anything in your luggage. A possible pirate you accidentally stumbled across knocked you out of their way. And a ninnyhammer thought to frighten you off by tampering with your rig. We’ve had serious killers before. They don’t leave you alive.”
Charming. The village had had serious killers and this was to encourage him to stay?
“One of us could still die or be maimed by incompetent ninnyhammers,” Grey argued. “How can I live with myself if aught happened to the twins? I dislike being responsible for others.” He heard the admission even as he said it—he wanted no responsibilities. He knew why that was. He was damaged.
“The twins aren’t exactly children,” the major corrected wryly. “I’m a dried-out drunk and I’ve just got myself betrothed and accepted the charge of helpless little ones as well as a wife. If a wretch like me can manage that, a wealthy gent like yourself can shoulder a burden or two. Don’t be a selfish boor. The twins have chosen to stay. They’re adults. Anything happens, they cannot blame you.”
“It is more important to consider if Mr. Comfrey’s death is related to the attempts to make you leave.” Jacques finished his pattern of Grey’s foot and straightened. ”Or might it have been a disagreement among thieves?”
“Neither of which improves my humor. I’ll have to add staff and hounds to begin to feel safe, keep the curricle and horses under lock and key. . .”
“Actually, we’re better prepared than most to do all that.” The major slipped the back onto a pocket watch. “We have a village of folk willing to work for room and board, and an excess of former soldiers to patrol.”
“And many people willing to do whatever you need so you’ll stay.” Jacques gestured at the artwork, then brought out leather samples for Grey’s consideration.
“Right, all I need do is lure a host of art patrons to entertain your cranky artists, and I’ll have my book written in no time.” Not appeased, Grey rose, pointed at the leather he preferred, and prepared to depart. “Tell the rabble I’ve been in, and if there are no more dangerous incidents in this next week, I shall start writing to my colleagues about the gallery opening. One more incident, and I’ll set them all out to fry, regardless of innocence.”
He wasn’t a fool. Once word of his threat spread, if anyone could identify the bad apple, the rotten fruit would be gone in days.
He had to pray they weren’t all rotten.
Seventeen
Eleanor
“I’ve never had staff before,” Eleanor whispered to her employer as Greybourne lined up an entire row of applicants who had magically appeared in the parlor of their new home.
By the time she and Andrew had returned to the inn from the market, ordered new bedding, loaded the newly-repaired curricle, and traveled to Bradford House, Grey had already set up an office in the dining parlor and gathered potential staff. How did he do that?
At least, servants expected a female to do the domestic hiring, so she was treated with a modicum of respect.
Studying the lot of candidates for maybe four positions, at most, Eleanor swallowed nervously. Old and young, male and female, they all looked so eager. . . She knew the desperation to find decent employment, but she couldn’t possibly hire everyone. “May I just choose by their references?”
“Certainly not. One must judge character.” Grey planted his solid self in the one comfortable seat in their new home’s parlor, crossed his arms, and waited—much like a lion prepared to pounce.
“Character.” Sitting on a wooden chair appropriated from the kitchen, El sighed in resignation and scanned the reference letters. Only one had applied for the position of cook, the one the lady had sent down from the manor. An easy place to start. “Miss Catherine Fields, you applied as cook?”
Her braided brown hair neatly capped, a petite young woman stepped forward and curtsied.
“Can you make fish pies?” Grey demanded, not waiting for El to form a question.
“Of course, my lord, with white sauce.” She anxiously bobbed another curtsy.
“I’m a professor, not a lord. I earned one title and not the other,” he said gruffly, increasing the anxiety of the already nervous group. “Miss Leonard, have you anything to ask?”
“Will you be able to prepare food upon request and not necessarily to schedule?” El knew Grey’s habits. He’d never recognized a proper dinner hour in her memory. A proper any hour, she recalled. He’d slipped pages under her door at midnight once.
“Yes, ma’am. Lady Elsa taught us all the tricks for pleasing a gentleman’s habits.” Her gaze flicked anxiously between both of them, most likely having no idea of how they were related or how she should address them, since neither of them were dressed in the height of fashion.
“Is that all, Miss Leonard?” At her nod, Grey gestured as if he wielded a scepter or magic wand. “You’re hired, Miss Fields. Go take a look at the kitchen and give us a list of what you’ll need.”
Looking suddenly more terrified, the girl curtsied and rushed off.
“She can’t write,” El whispered, realizing she had a better understanding of the laboring class than he did. Before he could react, she quickly sorted through the references for housekeeper. “Mrs. Barton?”
“How can she read a recipe then?” Grey grumbled.
“She can’t.” El regarded the stout older woman with interest. “This says you’ve kept your own house and your daughter’s. You’ve not worked at the manor?”
