At this question, he jumped slightly.
Oh, yes, the poor footman startled as if stung by a wasp, and Bea felt again the exhilarating thrill of power. In truth, fifteen minutes had not actually passed. It could not have been more than five since she’d stepped into the hallway. But with a single word she had manipulated time to suit her purposes. Effortlessly, she had altered his reality.
It was only a minor modification, she thought, more like the exaggeration of a small child waiting to open a present on Christmas morning than an iniquitous falsification, but she had made a servant recoil and that did not sit comfortably with her. Determinedly, she opened her mouth to offer an apology and immediately found herself at a loss as to what to say. This Beatrice, Duchess of Kesgrave, was not herself. No, she was merely another character she had assumed in the pursuit of an investigation, an autocrat as domineering as Mr. Wright was obsequious, and she did not know her well enough to imagine how she would express contrition.
More likely, she would not.
The footman apparently agreed, for, regaining his composure, he promptly offered his own apology and instructed her to follow him. They had barely taken a dozen steps, however, before a slender man with prominent cheekbones and wide gray eyes stepped forcefully into the corridor and warned them not to take another step forward.
It was Parsons the butler, and he was not pleased by her presence.
Chapter Six
Despite the aggression of his pose, Parsons’s tone was conciliatory as he explained that the house was not accepting callers. “We had a mild domestic disturbance this morning that has created some confusion, and we are not entertaining visitors at this time.”
Although Bea knew few things were worse than suffering the thorough separation of one’s head from one’s body, she thought having such a circumstance reduced to a mild domestic disturbance was especially demeaning.
Poor Mr. Réjane, victimized again!
Before the footman could explain that the morning’s confusing events were what had brought the visitor to their door, Bea congratulated Parsons on being exactly the person she had hoped to see.
He tilted his head down and, as if examining her over the protuberance of his cheekbones, ignored her statement entirely. “If you would entrust me with your card, I would personally ensure that Mr. Mayhew receives it.”
How crushingly he spoke, his tone sharp and dismissive with a hint of impatience as he glared at her with studied disinterest, as if not entirely sure she was worth the effort of removing from the premises.
Bea marveled at the ease with which London butlers could adopt intimidating poses, helped along, she did not doubt, by their curious physiognomy—Marlow with his pulsating eyebrows and Parsons with his piercing cheekbones.
“The Duchess of Kesgrave does not yet have calling cards as she was only recently wed,” the footman explained quickly. “But you must not worry. I refused her marriage lines for obvious reasons.”
Upon hearing these words, Parsons inevitably appeared somewhat worried, for neither the introduction of a duchess nor her marriage lines was an auspicious development. Observing the hint of alarm that rose in his gray eyes, Bea wondered what had unsettled him: her reputation as an investigator of suspicious deaths or the general oddness of the footman’s declaration.
Despite his discomfort, he remained determined to treat her as any other visitor to the house, with polite interest, and assured her Mr. Mayhew would be honored by the visit. “Is there a particular message you wish me to convey, your grace?”
Bea admired his unwavering commitment to the fiction that she was paying a social call on his employer despite the fact that she’d announced with utter clarity that she was there to speak to him. “There is no particular message I wish you to convey, as you will accompany me to the kitchens posthaste to describe the situation in which you found Monsieur Alphonse. But this footman here—” She broke off to ask his name.
“Henry, your grace,” he immediately supplied.
“Ah, yes, Henry. He may convey to Mr. Mayhew that I am here to investigate the murder of Auguste Alphonse Réjane and look forward to discussing the matter with him as soon as he is ready to accept callers. I am entirely at his disposal,” she said, speaking quickly to allow neither man the opportunity to object, although each would be perfectly within his rights. Marching into another person’s home and demanding access to his kitchens and staff was a tremendously audacious thing to do, especially for an insignificant spinster who stammered incoherently in response to the most benign social queries.
Oh, but she was not a spinster anymore.
The footman voiced no objection but neither did he jump to do her bidding, standing in the hallway with an expression of stunned indecision on his face as he looked to Parsons for some indication of how he should proceed. The butler appeared to be in the same situation—baffled and uncertain—but having no superior present, he stared at the silver tray on the table next to the door, as if willing her calling card to appear.
“Thank you, Henry, for your prompt delivery of my message,” she said firmly, “for I am positive Mr. Mayhew will be very interested in my presence.”
As if startled from a reverie, the footman suddenly straightened his shoulders and turned his head toward Bea. “Yes, yes, of course, your grace,” he said, then scampered off down the corridor at a slight run.
Parsons opened his mouth to protest but no sound came out, and Bea, realizing her advantage, slipped past his narrow frame. Presumably, she could locate the stairwell to the kitchens easily enough on her own, as all London townhouses had the same general layout with a few modifications. If she just continued down this hallway and looked for a doorway to her right…
Mr. Parsons was appalled by this display of self-sufficiency and trotted after her. “Your grace, I cannot allow you to—”
Without question, he meant that he
