Page 26
“For how long?”
“For as long as it takes.”
John launched into another string of Welsh insults comparing the man to a puff of trouser gas and the shine on a dog’s bollocks.
Ransom rubbed his lower jaw as if he were deep in thought. Or trying to hold back a grin. “A refreshing change, this is, from all the respect and deference I’ve become accustomed to. I’ll expect you in London two days hence, Pembroke. Meanwhile, I’ll fabricate a file for you in the Millbank Prison register and issue a ticket-of-leave. You’re welcome to stay at my home when you arrive.”
“Will your wife mind?”
The commissioner glanced at him alertly. “Why do you assume I have a wife?”
Wondering if he’d offended the man, John said warily, “There’s a fob on your watch chain. A Celtic love knot, from a wife or sweetheart. But a man of your position wouldn’t wear a gift from a sweetheart.”
An easy smile spread across Ransom’s face. After tucking John’s file back into the bag, he said, “I’m impressed that a man nearly asleep on his feet would notice such details.” He took out a simple calling card engraved with his name and used a small pencil to write an address on it. “My wife is Dr. Garrett Gibson.”
“Doctor,” John repeated in bemusement.
“A surgeon of uncommon skill—the only licensed one in England, so far. A rare, fine woman. It will be my privilege to introduce you.” He extended the card and smiled slightly at John’s hesitation. “Misgivings, Pembroke?”
“I’m already regretting this,” John muttered, taking the card.
“The Irish have a saying: ‘Everything is only for a while.’ ”
Chapter Six
Just Pembroke to You
Enid!” came Belinda’s voice from somewhere upstairs. “Enid? Is this box full of scrubbing powder or rat poison?”
Reina set down her pencil, having lost her train of thought. In the month since hiring her household staff, there’d been minimal improvement in the quality of life at Westbrook House. As a matter of fact, in terms of expense, noise, and confusion, things were decidedly worse.
The only servant who knew what she was doing was Tuppence, whose advancing pregnancy and low spirits made it difficult for her to manage the other servants. Especially when it came to Belinda, a headstrong girl who loved to test the limits of authority. June was the only one who could command the girl’s attention. After having watched June draw and butcher a chicken, a disgusting process that involved making precise cuts and pulling out the gizzard and intestines with one’s fingers, Belinda regarded her with nothing less than awe.
“Eeeenid!” came the girl’s voice again.
Exasperated, Reina left the library room and walked down the hallway to the entrance.
The footman, Norman, was already heading upstairs. He stopped immediately at the sight of her. “Ma’am, I thought I ought to—”
“Yes,” she said immediately. “I don’t think we keep arsenic in the house, but it would be best to check the powder before she scours the floors with it.”
Norman continued on his way, gripping the railing at intervals and sighing heavily.
Reina liked him, even though he wasn’t suited for his job. Ideally a footman was tall and sufficiently muscular to lift heavy objects and, according to The Servants’ Guide to Efficient Household Administration, should be “a stately creature reflecting his master’s greatness.”
Unfortunately there was nothing stately about Norman, a small and unassuming middle-aged man who had served time for forgery. In the past, he’d succeeded at counterfeiting letters of introduction from leading mercantile houses, letters of credit from various banks, and foreign promissory notes. He’d only been caught when a forged bill from the Rothschilds had been sent for rectification and the signature, although perfectly copied, had not been written in the firm’s custom-created ink.
Reina headed back to the library but stopped as she heard a knock at the door.
She was already late in turning in a complex financial article to The Economist, and the morning had been full of distractions. It wasn’t a delivery boy; they always went to the back entrance. It couldn’t be someone dropping by for a visit; her friends knew her visiting day was Thursday.
Blast, was today Thursday?
Knock knock knock.
Maybe it was a telegram?
Really, it was too much, having to interrupt her work and answer her own door after having hired five servants. Self-consciously she smoothed her hair and skirt front, recalling she’d run out of pomade and her clothes were crumpled. When she was working hard on an article, she never gave a thought to her appearance. Once or twice, she’d discovered that she had gone all day with the buttons of her bodice fastened in the wrong holes.
