Page 38 of An Earl, His Valet, & Their Wife

Every well-honed instinct that Gerard possessed shrieked a warning of impending trouble. But he hadn’t mentioned the vicar’s presence to Michael or Katie, not wanting them to fret more than they already were. This was a threat they would face together.

“Mr. Hunter…should I arrange tea for the guests?” snapped Mrs. Calder from the bottom of the stairs. “I’m more than happy to add a little something to the pot that’ll keep them retching all night. Mr. Kenney should have swatted the rats away with a broom before they even crossed the threshold.”

Gerard’s lips twitched. “Dinnae tempt me, madam,” he replied, descending the rest of the wide stairs to meet her. “But keep eyes on the visitors at every moment. Ye remember what happened last time.”

The housekeeper scowled. “I do. No one enjoys frisking reticules and coats for trinkets, least of all me. I swear in the name of God Almighty I’ll take a skillet to their heads if they attempt to fleece the hand that feeds them again.”

He nodded. It was no empty threat; like himself, Mrs. Calder had a past. When she’d been a dressmaker’s apprentice and lived in Seven Dials—an area of London that would rival his patch in Glasgow for violence, poverty, and despair—she’d had to learn skills that wellborn ladies never would. Like him, respectability was a thin veneer, and she also viewed Michael as a treasure to be protected at any cost. “Stay vigilant ’til they go. I dinnae ken why the Ellises are here; but there is nae good reason when the ball is so soon. And bringing a damned vicar…”

“I saw that,” said Mrs. Calder, her eyes narrowing. “Tricky, tricky, tricky. So no tea tray, then?”

“Nae,” Gerard replied. “They can state their business then leave. Lord and Lady Whitmore require rest and refreshment after a dutiful day.”

“Oh! Right you are,” said the housekeeper, her whole face brightening, before bustling away.

He continued on to the smallest parlor, the one Nero and Horatia were always directed to. The room had just one narrow window; the oldest, most uncomfortable furniture; bare and bland white walls; and a fireplace that mysteriously remained unlit. All in all, it was chilly, dark and deeply unpleasant, a stark contrast to the rest of the townhouse.

At the parlor door, Gerard paused to observe the three visitors. Even more suspiciously, they weren’t perched on the wooden chairs looking annoyed at the pointed slight to their dignity, but standing and whispering among themselves. And their expressions were eager with…hell, if he had to use a word it would be anticipation.

Once again, his neck prickled, especially when he recalled Michael’s uneasiness after the confrontation with his cousin at the bookstore. Was the heir presumptive crossing the bridge from a tolerated irritation to pure malice?

Not on Gerard’s watch.

“Mr. Ellis,” he said curtly, striding into the room. “Mrs. Ellis. I am surprised tae see ye here without invitation. Is there an emergency? The wee girls, perhaps?”

Horatia Ellis stared at him as though he was a splash of bird shit on her parasol. Like her wretched husband, she was clad entirely in unadorned black: her gown, pelisse and half-boots. There was no cause for it; the Ellises weren’t in mourning nor short of coin, for Michael was generous in his allowance. They did this deliberately as proof of “virtue”, seeing color and trimmings as a sign of waste and dissolute living.

“Our daughters are quite well,” said Horatia coldly. “But some might say there is an emergency.”

“Oh?” said Gerard. “Do share.”

Nero Ellis raised one supercilious eyebrow. “We do not discuss family matters with the hired help. But I will say one thing, Hunter. You have far too much influence in this household. It is unseemly. The only man advising Lord Whitmore should be me. I am his heir, after all.”

Well, well, well. His suspicions were correct. Nero and Horatia had come to declare war. But what was their battle plan?

Gerard tilted his head and ambled over to the vicar. “Reverend. Forgive the poor manners of your escort. I am Mr. Hunter, personal valet tae Lord Whitmore as well as secretary tae him and his new countess.”

The silver-haired and rather wizened vicar visibly gulped as Gerard loomed over him, even more so when his hand was discreetly crushed in Gerard’s firm grip.

“Delighted,” the vicar wheezed. “I am Reverend Lodge. I oversaw my own parish for a great many years, however now I serve God as an examiner with the ecclesiastical court.”

Gerard froze. While he’d never paid much attention to the religious world, the ecclesiastical court in England held power over disputes in wills, inheritance…and marriages.

Bloody hell. These two weasels weren’t actually progressing their ludicrous tale that Michael was incompetent? Surely not. They couldn’t press a claim with no evidence. But if word got out, the scandal would be horrific. And as anyone could vouch, scandal didn’t need facts to grow wings.

“An examiner?” said Gerard, stalling for time. “What does that post entail?”

The vicar clicked his heels together, clearly pleased to be asked. “The court presides over many matters of business. As an examiner, it is my duty to question parties and gather information so that important and binding decisions may be made.”

“A most honorable position,” said Nero, his expression nothing short of malicious. “Above reproach. We are delighted that Reverend Lodge has accompanied us here today to discuss a most grave matter…but as I said, it will not be in front of the hired help. I suggest you trot along and do whatever it is that valets do. Starch some cravats. Dust some books. Heaven knows there are enough of them in the library, when there should be but one: the Bible.”

Horatia tittered. “Well said, husband.”

“Alas, I cannae leave,” said Gerard smoothly. “Not with trinkets tae guard.”

The vicar’s brow furrowed. “Dear me, have you had issues with light-fingered servants?”

“Light-fingered family,” he replied, glancing meaningfully at the Ellises.