“Madam.”
“This is Lady Sheridan, Mr. Meloy,” Consuelo said. “We… we need to speak to the Duke on a matter of some importance.” She looked around the room. “I see that he isn’t here. Can you tell me where I might find him? The stables, perhaps?”
Mr. Meloy tipped his head to one side with a slightly puzzled look. “I’m afraid I can’t say, Your Grace. The Duke and I were to meet at nine to talk about the drains at one of the farms.” He paused. “He was most insistent that we settle the matter today, but he hasn’t come. I expect something happened unexpectedly, and he changed his plans.”
“Oh, dear,” Consuelo said faintly. Consternation washed across her face, and Kate saw the agent’s sharply noticing glance.
She took the Duchess’s arm firmly. “Thank you, Mr. Meloy,” she said, forcing a smile. “Perhaps the Duke and Lord Sheridan have gone off together and forgotten the time.”
“I’m sure that’s it,” Mr. Meloy said heartily, seeing them to the door. “When he comes,” he added to Consuelo, “I’ll tell him that Your Grace is particularly wanting to see him.” He made his voice sound easy, but Kate knew that his searching glance had not missed the Duchess’s discomfiture.
Outside the office, Consuelo turned to Kate, her dark eyes wide and luminous with distress, her face pale except for two bright spots of color high on her cheekbones. “What should we do?” she asked. “I can’t imagine where he can be, except-”
“Perhaps the Duke’s valet?” Kate interrupted, not wanting Consuelo to finish her sentence. The idea that the Duke had gone off with Gladys might be entirely obvious, but it was better not spoken, at least until they had more information. “At the least, he would know how his master was dressed when he left this morning. For riding, walking, perhaps a trip to town.”
But when they finally found the Duke’s valet, Mallory, a meek, mustached man with a pronounced lisp and beautifully manicured hands, he could be of no help. All he could say was that the Duke must have gone out quite early, for when he had gone to his rooms to wake him, he had already left.
“Most unusual, if Your Grace will forgive my saying so,” he said with a downcast look. “I have shaved His Grace every morning since I came into his service. This is the first morning in our ten years together that he has risen and left without a word to me.” A note of something like anguish crept into his voice. “I confess that I cannot imagine His Grace shaving himself. Nor can I imagine that he left unshaven, either. He-”
The Duchess put her hand on the little man’s sleeve. “One other question, Mallory,” she said thinly. “Did the Duke… did my husband sleep in his room last night?”
The valet’s eyes dropped. “I believe so,” he said, his voice suddenly guarded. Kate could not be sure whether he was lying or telling the truth, and she understood why. No servant, if he wanted to continue with his employment, would discuss his master’s personal affairs with his master’s wife.
Consuelo must have repented of the question, for she summoned a brief smile. “Thank you, Mallory,” she said softly. “I know how much the Duke depends on you.” To Kate, as they walked back down the long hallway, she added in a low voice, “I think the Duke and Gladys must have gone off together. There is no other explanation for both of them being gone.”
“I think it’s too early to come to that conclusion,” Kate replied. She put her hand on the Duchess’s arm. “Let’s find Winston. He may have seen the Duke, or have some idea what should be done about Gladys.”
Consuelo’s face brightened. “Oh, yes, Winston,” she cried. “He’ll be able to think of something.”
Her relief, Kate thought, was almost pathetic.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Several crime rings operated in London at the turn of the century, but one-known simply as the Syndicate- enjoyed enormous success. The mastermind, who was personally known to none of his associates, contracted the criminal work to gangs of thieves. According to Ben MacIntyre, in The Napoleon of Crime, “the crooks who carried out these commissions knew only that the orders were passed down from above, that the pickings were good, the planning impeccable, and the targets
… had been selected by a master organizer. What they never knew was the name of the man at the top, or even of those in the middle…”
Blenheim’s six footmen, like the ten housemaids, had far more to do than they could reasonably be expected to accomplish-or at least, that was Alfred’s considered opinion. Their days began early, so they could light the downstairs fires, lay the table in the breakfast room for the family and guests, and (wearing black jackets, vests, and white gloves) serve breakfast from the sideboard and hot plates. Then there were dishes to remove to the scullery, silver to polish, knives and lamps and candleholders to clean, guests’ writing supplies to replenish, and fires to maintain. After that, there was the luncheon table to lay and the meal to serve. Lunch over, the afternoon began with visitors to announce (the footmen now dressed in their short maroon livery, with white knee breeches and powdered hair), messages to carry, and Her Grace’s carriage to accompany should she wish to go out. Then tea to serve, the formal dining table to lay, dinner to serve and dishes to remove, coffee and liqueurs to serve in the drawing room, and the gentlemen’s smoking room to attend. Throughout the day, it was the task of the footmen to sound the gongs that ordered the household’s schedule, run errands for family and guests, and in general, meet the needs of the household. Alfred had heard of a footman at Harlington House, a large establishment in London, who had recorded his steps with a pedometer and measured eighteen miles in one day without leaving the house. He would not have been surprised to learn that he walked farther than that himself, for Blenheim was much larger than Harlington House.
Alfred, of course, would not have been satisfied with this situation if he had not known that his tour of duty (as he thought of it) would soon come to an end. He hated having to change his clothes several times a day, to wear the silly costumes that made him look like an organ grinder’s monkey, and most of all, to powder his hair until he appeared to be wearing a white wig. Some people might think that he cut a handsome figure when he was tricked out in his powdered hair and gold-trimmed finery, but he felt completely ridiculous, and a fraud, to boot. The other footmen at least had the comfort of knowing that their dress and demeanor took them further toward their goal: becoming a butler in a great house.
But Alfred did not aim for butlerhood. He’d set his heart on buying into his cousin’s pub near the Brighton Pier, and the position of barman gleamed a great deal more brightly in his imagination than any butler’s place, even that of Mr. Stevens at Blenheim, who cut a grand figure indeed, even if he was an old man who couldn’t see past the end of his nose.
Of course, Alfred’s dreams now included Kitty as well as the pub in Brighton. And it was because of Kitty that he’d been so deeply and thoroughly miserable, especially since he’d come up empty-handed in his talk with Bulls- eye. He’d pinned his hopes on Bulls-eye’s being able to tell him what had happened to her, but he had learned nothing, and now he was desperate.
Finally, just this morning, he’d managed to get a word with Ruth, Kitty’s roommate. He’d been on his way to the morning room with a tray of freshly cleaned lamps, and he’d met Ruth on her way upstairs. He stopped her and asked, in a low tone, what she knew about Kitty being gone.
“Funny thing you should ask,” she said, eyeing him. “Her Grace was just wantin’ to know, too.” She gazed at him frankly, taking him in from top to toe. “You’re a friend of Kitty’s, then?”
Alfred blushed and lowered his eyes. He was by nature a shy young man and inexperienced, not used to the appraising glances of pretty young women. “Yes, we’re friends,” he said, and then, feeling that he needed to stake his claim, raised his eyes and added, “we’re promised.”
“G’wan,” Ruth said, in a tone of disbelief. “Kitty’s not promised to nobody.” The corners of her mouth turned up scornfully. “Anyways, she’s a lot older’n you. Thirty, if she’s a day. What’d she want with a boy like you, I’d like to know.”
