with someone else? Or had she simply run away, as she had when she left Versailles and went off to Paris with her sister? Consuelo hadn’t wanted to tell Kate the whole story behind that dreadful escapade, but it had been more than a childish prank, much more. The two of them had had a terrible row, for she had felt responsible for Gladys and refused to allow her to spend an evening with a German military cadet who was infatuated with her. That night Gladys had disappeared and was gone for four days. Four whole days, while Consuelo fretted and worried and finally alerted the police, only to have Gladys reappear, as blithe and carefree and unapologetic as if she had been gone only a few hours.
Consuelo sat back in her chair and closed her eyes, thinking over the events of the last fortnight: She and Gladys had taken the pony cart to Woodstock, had been driven to Oxford in the phaeton, and had taken several drives over the estate and the Blenheim farms in the electric car. In all that time, had Gladys said or done anything that gave a clue as to where she might go, or what she might do, if she suddenly vanished?
And then, as Consuelo thought longer and harder, an idea began to form. Yes, perhaps there was a clue, after all. She put down her book and stood. She would The echoing reverberations of the gong shivered through the air, and Consuelo sighed. She could do nothing now, for it was time to dress for tea, and after tea, time to read to her children in the nursery. And when that was finished, it would be time to dress for dinner.
And with a clear, painful awareness, Consuelo suddenly knew how desperately she envied Gladys Deacon’s freedom, how wonderful it would be to vanish from Blenheim, how marvelous to take wing and, like a hawk or a falcon, simply fly away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Here begins the Great Game.
Ned had lied when he told Lord Sheridan that he was not afraid. His knees were beginning to quake even before he approached the terrifying East Gate, carrying the small bag he had packed at home, and he had to swallow a fearful stutter as he told the liveried porter his business. His fright mounted still higher as he was escorted down a narrow staircase and through a seemingly endless maze of dimly lit passages, at last arriving in the main servants’ area, where he was deposited at the door to the butler’s pantry and instructed to wait there for Mr. Stevens. He was almost tongue-tied with fear by the time that gentleman appeared some ten minutes later and listened to his stammering introduction and his explanation that he had been referred by Lord Sheridan and Mr. Churchill.
The butler, impeccably attired in black coat and trousers and white gloves, frowned over his gold-rimmed glasses. “Well, I dare say you’ll do,” he said, “if you can get over that stammer.” In an appraising tone, he added, “You’re certainly a good-looking lad, which will no doubt please the Duchess. If you are quick on your feet and reasonably nimble in your wits, you should get on here, particularly as you come so highly recommended. It does not hurt to have gentlemen like Lord Sheridan and Mr. Churchill in one’s corner, as I am sure you are aware. You are a fortunate young man.”
“I am fortunate indeed, sir,” Ned said, assuming a deeply deferential tone. It was true, though. He was lucky to have someone like Lord Sheridan behind him, a strong man who would stand for no nonsense from anyone-unlike his own father, who could never be counted on to defend Ned or his brothers when their mother fell into a rage. “I will do my best to be quick, sir,” he added obsequiously, “and to live up to the expectations of those who have recommended me.”
Mr. Stevens nodded as if he were pleased with Ned’s reply. “Well, then. We shall have to see you properly attired. Pages at Blenheim wear white shirts, short red jackets, and black trousers and tie.”
“Of course, sir,” Ned said. One had to dress as one was expected to dress. He would think of it as his disguise.
Mr. Stevens looked up as a liveried footman wearing a maroon jacket and satin knee breeches approached, carrying a silver tray stacked with white damask napkins, folded in a mitre shape.
“Ah, Alfred,” he said. “I was just going to send for you. This is young Lawrence. He is to be our new page, in Richard’s place. Give me that tray and take charge of him, would you? See that he’s outfitted properly, then show him around. He’s to have duty with you until he learns what’s expected of him, so he might as well sleep with you, now that Richard has moved into Conrad’s room.”
So this was Alfred, Ned thought, a resplendent-looking fellow, to be sure, with his powdered hair and white- stockinged calves and the large gold buckles on his shiny black shoes. He had an amiable face and rather a confiding manner.
Alfred eyed him casually at first, it seemed, and then with a sudden interest, as if he had recognized him. “Cert’nly, Mr. Stevens,” he said, putting his hand on Ned’s shoulder. “He looks a fine, sturdy boy. With a bit of training, I’m sure he’ll do well.” He dropped his hand and smiled at Ned. “Come along, then, lad. We’ll get you something to wear.”
Trying not to appear surprised at anything that had happened in the last few moments, Ned hurried along behind, almost running to keep up with the footman’s long strides. What good fortune he had tumbled into! This could only be the Alfred whom Lord Sheridan had instructed him particularly to observe-one of those involved in the robbery his lordship thought might be planned. Well, meeting him had been easy enough, Ned thought in some relief, and the fellow had the kind of look-open and almost transparent-that suggested an easy approach. Now, all he had to do was pump him for information about the plan, if there was one. This whole business might turn out to be very easy, after all.
Ned was right. They had no sooner reached the wardrobe closet where the out-of-service liveries and such were stored, when Alfred closed the door, shutting them both inside. He took a candle from a shelf, struck a match, and leaned forward.
“You’re the lad Bulls-eye sent to carry messages?” he demanded, in a harsh, hurried whisper.
Ned had not the foggiest idea what the question meant or who Bulls-eye might be, but Lord Sheridan had told him to go along as well as he could with whatever game seemed on offer. He nodded, not quite sure he could trust his voice.
Alfred let out his breath with such gusto that the candle flame flickered. “That’s good,” he said, almost seeming to sag with relief, “that’s damned good. Because I tell you, lad, I was beginning to feel that I’d been stuck in this place and forgotten. For all the word I’ve had, the play might have been dropped.”
Alfred’s great relief made him seem somehow vulnerable, and Ned took heart. “Oh, no,” he said, affecting a careless assurance. “The play hasn’t been dropped, and you haven’t been forgotten, Alfred, not in the least.” He paused, feeling he ought to say something more comforting. “Bulls-eye says to say that he’s been busy, but he’ll make it up to you.”
“Well, then,” Alfred said, “you undoubtedly have some word for me. What’s Bulls-eye’s plan, eh? What’s the game? Who’s t’ be the cracksman?” He became more urgent. “And what’s the word on our Kitty, boy? Has she been found?”
Our Kitty. The housemaid Lord Sheridan said had gone missing. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about Kitty,” Ned confessed truthfully, and added, “and as for the game, Bulls-eye said to tell you he’s still working on it.”
“Still working on it!” Alfred exclaimed in a tone of hollow dismay. “But the King and his party are due in a fortnight. Who’s to do the work? How’s the job to be done? That’s what I want to know!”
“Take care, there,” Ned said in a frowning whisper, “unless you want someone to hear you.” Inwardly, however, he was rejoicing. Lord Sheridan had been right! There was a scheme afoot and the Royals were the target-and he was in a position to thwart it!
“Sorry,” Alfred said nervously. “I’m rattled, that’s all. I tell you, lad, I’m glad you’re here, if only for the company. I don’t half like being left all alone in this monstrous place, where I run my legs off, days on end, with ‘yes ma’am, thankee sir, right away sir’ over and over again, and never a kind smile from anyone. And I’m worried about
