Superstition, her foot and toes. The man was simply mad.
“Start tea,” she warned the startled housekeeper and cook, when she reached the kitchen. “Maybe hunt for weapons. We have company. Do we have biscuits or scones?” El halted at the dish shelf, wondering if they had any teacups suitable for a banker. Or did she look for tin mugs for thugs?
“Wash off that ink before you touch anything,” the housekeeper warned. “And you might want to tidy your hair and fix up a little.”
Oh, blazes, she wasn’t accustomed to entertaining, much less doing so while terrified. Why had she stupidly wanted adventure?
El scrubbed in the kitchen sink, used a window to check her reflection, and ran her fingers through her short curls. Then she gratefully grabbed a newly pressed fichu Mrs. Barton handed her to adorn her plain black bodice.
She could hear people talking outside. They’d be in here any minute. . . And that’s when she recalled she’d left Grey’s papers all over her desk—and he was bringing Percival into the house! Drat the uncivilized lord and his high-handed ways. Professor, indeed. Greybourne was brought up to be a baron.
Spying the counting boy Grey had hired, she pointed toward the hall. “Sit on the stairs. Do not let anyone up unless they’re accompanied by me or the professor.”
Silas set down the pot he was scouring, wiped his hands, grabbed a broom, and ran to perch on the stairs. Not slow, that one.
El had managed to find a cap for her hair by the time the unusual party entered the front door. Grey didn’t appear surprised that she greeted them. The wretch had probably delayed as much as possible, knowing she’d see them from her worktable.
“Mr. Comfrey’s parents, his widow. . .” He hesitated meaningfully, so El knew he wanted her to pay attention. “And his cousin. I believe you’ve met Mr. Eduard Percival.”
Cousin? The scurrilous journalist was related to the bank clerk whose family had once owned Bradford House? Before she could fully grasp this jingle-brained declaration, Grey continued.
“And Richard Bradford, who says he is the grandson of the former owner.” Grey gestured at the rough-looking Blackbeard who appeared both angry and uncomfortable.
Fighting disbelief that the family of prior owners had miraculously surfaced, El took a deep breath to tamp down her escalating fear and fury. He’d brought potential murderers into the house! Trying to regain manners learned at her mother’s knee, she replied stiffly, “Pleased to meet you. Would anyone care for tea? The dining room has a few chairs.” Unlike the parlor.
The older Mrs. Comfrey regarded the worn leather couch with a sad expression. “Imagine this still being here after all these years. So very many memories. . .” Her voice trailed off as her husband followed Grey into the dining room.
“And for you, too, Mr. Bradford?” El attempted to arrange this unlikely family together in her head. If the house had been empty for thirty or forty years, surely only the elderly Comfreys remembered it?
“I got no memories. Dad described the place, oncet. Not much like he said.” In his crude tweed and leather breeches, Black Dickie stood like an ox among peacocks in a room of frockcoated gentlemen and beribboned women.
El had a burning desire to interrogate the invaders, but the professor merely held out a chair for her. Technically, this was his house and his guests. Without any notion of his purpose in bringing this family together in their former home—or their parents’ former home, in the case of the younger ones—she had to bite her tongue on her questions.
“And you are Ezekial’s son?” the elder Mrs. Comfrey asked. “You have the look of him.” She didn’t seem to be excited about discovering a long-lost nephew or even much interested in her brother’s fate.
Ezekial must be the one who’d killed his brother and ended up in the Antipodes as a result. Blackbeard came by his threatening attributes naturally. El had no difficulty accepting he might be the son of a killer. She shouldn’t make such judgments, she supposed. Parsons, the inn’s clerk, had spent the better part of his life in New South Wales. It wasn’t unheard of that people returned and didn’t behave as criminals. Just unlikely.
“Aye,” the oaf grumbled, finally taking the empty seat near Grey and staring at the tea set as if he’d never encountered one before. “Before he died, Dad told me I had a home here and people who’d welcome me.”
And he’d met with no one but a hostile banker—also his cousin? El hid a wince and waited for the professor to pick up on this. He didn’t. He seemed more interested in Mrs. Barton carrying in the tea tray. The offering was meager, but the company didn’t seem much interested.
El deliberately bit her tongue on questions. This was her employer’s drama to play. He’d given her no indication that he appreciated her thoughts.
“I should wash.” Mr. Percival casually pushed up from his chair.
“Pump in the kitchen works.” Greybourne ignored his nemesis as Percival returned to the central hall leading back to the kitchen.
El, on the other hand, listened anxiously. Was her slow-top employer so completely wrapped in whatever he was doing that he was unconcerned about Percival’s nosy nature?
Or. . . had Greybourne noticed the boy on the stairs? El wished he had given her some warning of what he was about. She could only surmise what he needed, and she was more than a little tired of reading minds.
Sure enough, moments later, angry shouts emanated from the hall.
Imperturbably, Greybourne stood. “Excuse me a moment. It seems your cousin is lost.” He strode out, his mane of hair uncombed and flying about his head as if he were a real lion prepared to bite off heads.
Not understanding the undercurrents of the interruption, Mrs. Comfrey continued the conversation with some dismay. “Ezekial did not know we lost the house? Surely he did not think Isabel and I could pay the bank? What dowries we had were barely enough to interest a grocer. We were both fortunate to find gentlemen who didn’t need our funds.”
The journalist came from minor gentry, Eleanor recalled, applying her mind to the puzzle rather than simmer over Grey’s complete uselessness as a host or an employer. Isabel was Percival’s mother? And the Comfreys appeared to be successful merchants. The sisters must have been beautiful and brought up genteelly, with some degree of education in the social graces to marry so well.
