Page 7 of A Hint of Scandal

Chapter Four

Maria had sent servants on ahead to organize the opening up of Westbury House in Cavendish Square so, when the considerable equipage arrived from Wiltshire at the end of January, their London butler, Allsop, was waiting on the front steps to welcome them.

Julian had, without much difficulty, been persuaded to remain at Bratton Park under the care of Dr. Ellison, in whom Maria appeared to invest great faith. The dowager had decided, at the last minute of course and with Dr. Ellison’s assurances that her oldest son would be well cared for in her absence, that she would accompany her daughter-in-law to Town in order to renew her acquaintances amongst the older ladies of the ton. Although Max harbored a strong suspicion that her real intent was to ensure he found himself a suitable spouse.

So the party consisted of the dowager, Maria, Max and Arabella in the largest carriage, as well as in a second, lesser vehicle, maids for each of the three ladies, Watkins, who was Max’s ex-soldier-servant and now valet, and Mrs. Larkin, the cook from the Dower House at Bratton Park. This latter was because the dowager insisted she couldn’t do without a cook she knew. And behind these two carriages trundled a vehicle containing everyone’s luggage.

The servants’ carriage delivered them to the mews at the back of the house, whereas the carriage bearing the family arrived at the front door just as evening fell and the typical London fog that Max remembered from his boyhood came crawling up the street and into the square.

A liveried footman hurried out to lower the step for the ladies, and Max waited inside the carriage while they descended. A number of weeks had passed since he’d committed himself to escorting the Aubrey ladies for the Season, and he’d grown a little more used to managing everything one-handed. The footman, who no doubt had been briefed by his mother, and possibly by Allsop as well, held out a hand to assist him, but Max waved him away. He wasn’t an invalid yet, even if he looked like he might be, and it grated on him when he was treated as such.

The lamplighter was just in the act of lighting the lamps in the square, their golden light illuminating not just the cobbled road but also the wide garden in the center. Max had stayed here while he’d visited the useless London doctors his army surgeon had recommended to him last autumn.

Allsop, waiting beside the wide front door, bowed to him as he followed the ladies inside. “Good evening, Captain Aubrey. I trust his lordship remains well?”

Max pulled a face. “As well as can be expected, Allsop. Which is why I’m back again. It falls to me to take on his duties and escort the ladies about Town. And no doubt my mother will want to host something here as well.” He heaved a resigned sigh.

Allsop’s gaze lingered for a moment on Max’s arm where it hung in its sling. “If I can be of any assistance, Captain?”

Max shook his head. “Since last I saw you, I’ve grown used to doing everything one-handed, thank you. And Watkins serves me well. I’ll see the ladies settled and then dress for dinner, if you can send Watkins up to me, please.”

Allsop bowed his grizzled head. “Very well, Captain.”

Watkins, who’d been Max’s soldier-servant throughout his military career and had risen to the heady rank of lance-corporal, had already laid out Max’s evening wear on the bed. So Allsop didn’t need to send him up.

“Everything to your liking here?” Max asked, as he divested himself of his sling and Watkins helped him out of his coat. Damn that arm, hanging there by his side like some unwanted appendage. He’d often thought the surgeon would have been better advised to just hack it off. Then it wouldn’t keep on getting in the way. But the musket ball that had severed the nerves and damaged his right shoulder hadn’t sufficiently damaged the arm itself, and the surgeon had worked hard not to have to amputate. “You’re a very lucky fellow,” he’d told Max. “Most musket ball damage I see ends in amputation. Or gangrene. Don’t ever think you’re not blessed by the gods.” As if that could ever be true.

Watkins nodded. “Everything is shipshape and running smoothly below stairs, Captain. I’m pleased to say that Mr. Allsop runs a tight ship and keeps everyone on their toes. I foresee no problems during your stay.” He helped Max into his breeches, something which Max had discovered was nigh on impossible to do one-handed. The ignominy of not being able to fasten one’s breeches oneself wasn’t lost on him.

Watkins, ever tactful, fastened the fall on the breeches for him and reached for his smart evening coat. He held it out for Max to thread his useless arm into the right sleeve using his left hand, then slip his good arm into the other sleeve. Max shifted his shoulders to make sure it was comfortable, and put his sling back on again. A glance at his watch told him it was time to go downstairs for dinner with the ladies.

Less than half a mile away in Great Titchfield Street, and at very much the same time, the Gilbert family were arriving at the house Ogden had secured for them for the duration of the London Season. Theirs, however, was not quite such a well-orchestrated arrival. The party consisted of Sir Ogden and Lady Gilbert, Letty and Serafina, accompanied by just two maids and Sir Ogden’s dour-faced valet, Moorcroft. Lady Gilbert had not thought to send any of their servants from Milford House on ahead and, when they arrived, they found the house shut up and cold. Clearly their landlord had not thought fit to provide them with any household servants to speak of, apart from an elderly and very deaf old lady dressed all in black who appeared to be the housekeeper.

“Where are all the other servants?” Lady Gilbert asked, in the tone of someone who was used to an army of them, which wasn’t at all true, as they made do at Milford with as few as possible. To save money.

“Eh?” replied the old lady, one hand to her ear. “Speak up, can’t you? I’m a little hard of hearing.”

That was an understatement.

“I said,” Lady Gilbert enunciated every word a little more loudly and clearly. “Where are the other servants?”

The woman, her gray hair scraped back from her wrinkled face in a neat bun, frowned in concentration. “Your servants are in the kitchen. I sent them down there.”

Ogden stepped in. “Not our servants, my good woman. The ones that normally keep this house up and running. A footman at least, if not a butler, a few housemaids, a cook. Where are they?”

As he had a deeper voice than his wife, possibly the housekeeper could hear him better. Her eyes brightened in understanding. “Oh, my master doesn’t keep a horde of servants here when the house isn’t let out.” She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “He leaves it to whoever takes the house to organize their own staff. Didn’t he tell you that in his letter?”

Serafina and Letty exchanged glances. “Home from home,” Letty whispered. “I bet there aren’t any fires lit.”

As the house possessed the unlived-in chill of long emptiness, Letty was probably correct in that surmise.

Serafina looked about herself with a critical eye. The house was not large. That much had been evident from the street, with only a single sash window to the left and right of the front door, and three floors rising above that. Five altogether if you counted the basement that must house the kitchen and servants’ hall. The empty servants’ hall.

Araminta also looked about herself and tutted. She did not look impressed.

The tiled front hallway was not large, with doors opening to either side, and a less than magnificent set of stairs rising to the floor above. The house of a middling merchant once, perhaps. But Ogden had never seen the point in keeping a house permanently in London, as the family so rarely journeyed there from Berkshire. When he had occasion to visit himself, a few times a year, he stayed at his club every time.

“Tell her she will need to set about hiring servants for us. Immediately.” Araminta’s voice reflected the strain she must be feeling. “And that she will need to prepare dinner for us tonight. Tell her we’re used to dining at six.”