Truly, there was no need to turn a simple discussion with a subordinate into a tug-of-war for her soul.
But Bea was too clever to sway herself with a rhetoric appeal.
The situation might seem trivial, but it was in fact hugely significant, for the choices she made now would reverberate long after the moment had passed. She had to establish the tone she wanted at the beginning of her tenure, for only a naïve fool would believe her confidence would grow the longer she occupied the position. If anything, greater exposure to Kesgrave’s magnificence—the innumerable estates and pineries—would cause whatever shred of assurance she had to shrivel entirely. Indeed, the Matlock family tree was so tall and illustrious, with its lords privy seal and chief justices of the king’s bench, she already felt her shoulders bowing under the weight of its many branches.
If Mrs. Wallace objected to Bea’s lack of regard for the dignity of the duke’s staff, she would have to take up the matter with Kesgrave himself, as the unfortunate situation was all his doing. He’d had more than a decade to make the correct decision by selecting an elegant bride, a pattern card of respectability and restraint who had been raised since childhood to sit serenely on silk settees and pull bell cords with polite consideration.
Instead, he had chosen her.
Mrs. Wallace and the other occupants of the Berkeley Square residence would simply have to adjust their expectations accordingly.
Brave words, Bea thought drolly.
Regardless of how very uncourageous she felt, she could not linger at the bottom of the staircase indefinitely, for someone would surely stride by and notice her standing there stupidly. Roused to movement by the prospect, she followed the smell of baking bread and turned left when she arrived at the end of the hallway. Here, the passageway narrowed and she walked past several familiar rooms, including the scullery, meat larder and vegetable stores. The layout of the basement was quite different from the one at Portman Square—larger, of course, for that house could fit inside this one several times over, but also more commodious, with additional spaces for storage and preparation.
Like the conservatory, several of the rooms caught her attention, and if it were not for the chatter of voices—a low hum indistinguishable in both number and gender—wafting from the kitchen or perhaps the servants’ hall, she would have paused to examine their contents. The stillroom in particular, with its pretty bottles and overflowing canisters, captured her interest, but she did not dally. In Portman Square, the stillroom was next to the housekeeper’s, which meant she was very likely near her destination.
Bea’s heartbeat rose sharply.
It was absurd to feel so much anxiety about a single conversation. Stridently, she reminded herself she was a duchess. Kesgrave House was her home now, and she was free to roam its halls without limitations. ’Twas not a castle in a gothic novel with mysterious locked doors and ominous black veils scattered about. Poor Theodore was not trapped in a high tower somewhere desperately trying to gain his freedom and rescue Isabella from the evil clutches of her dead fiancé’s father. If she desired, she could inspect every nook and cranny. Certainly, she was allowed to be in the passageway outside the housekeeper’s room, and flush with purpose, she took a step forward.
But her defiance, so seemingly sharp and immutable, disappeared in an instant. All it took was one voice to rise above the others—oh, yes, just that one lone voice—and she dissolved into a frightened mouse trembling before a lion.
It was Marlow!
Marlow!
The duke’s terrifying butler!
How imposing he was, with his barrel chest and thick black brows that pulsed with disdain, and he already despised her for ruthlessly overriding his authority a few days ago.
Would she have rather stood under the graceful portico and meekly begged entrance to Kesgrave House?
Well, yes, of course, for she had never elbowed her way into any house before, let alone one so overwhelmingly large it cast a shadow on the square opposite for much of the day, and had found the experience to be deeply uncomfortable.
More discomfiting, however, was the dead body of the actor hired by a nefarious villain to ruin her reputation and end her engagement to the duke. Making her betrothed aware of the shocking and unsettling development had taken precedent over appeasing Marlow’s vanity with a show of deference.
But that was days and days ago, and now she was the Duchess of Kesgrave in fact, not supposition, and although her position was firmer, it felt more precarious. What would he do if he found her there, wandering the halls like a child lost in a forest?
Treat her with impeccable courtesy, of course. He was butler to the finest home in London save Carlton House and would never debase either himself or his office by acting with anything save the utmost decorum.
But that would just be for appearance’s sake and inwardly, silently, he would loathe her for being an inconsequential nobody whose education was so lacking she meandered through the kitchens as if to fetch a light meal for herself.
Did she really care about the opinion of a servant?
Verily, she should not.
And yet she had been Beatrice Hyde-Clare much longer than she had been the Duchess of Kesgrave, and the former could not bear the thought of her own butler harboring a secret disgust of her. ’Twould be another thing entirely if he were honest about it such as her aunt Vera or the vicious Miss Brougham, whose scorn had derailed Bea’s first season.
Marlow’s voice grew louder, and Bea, panicked at the thought of starting off her tenure with a humiliating faux pas, scurried into the stillroom to hide. Swiftly she closed the door behind her, pressed her back against it and sighed.
She was safe.
Only it was not the stillroom.
No, this room did not have shelves lined with herbs and infusions but rather cabinets, which were
