11. November, 1826

11

NOVEMBER, 1826

NO. 4 GROSVENOR STREET, MAYFAIR

H amish slipped into the butler's pantry at No. 3 Grosvenor Street, assuming he'd go unnoticed, only to be nearly bowled over by Molly, the downstairs maid, racing past him and fumbling with her stays as she went. Toplofty followed close behind, similarly adjusting his deshabille.

In the sternest voice he could muster, Hamish demanded, "What in blazes is going on here?"

All he received in answer to his self-righteous demand was a half-sneer from the havey-cavey household's over-butler.

The other man paused suddenly in his rush to return to his duties as if having second thoughts. "Wot's yer problem?" he demanded, taking the measure of the livid Scotsman towering over him. And then a light of recognition appeared in his eyes. "Wot's yer business in the butler's pantry?" His voice dripped with indignation.

Hamish matched the man's glare. "You're a right Knight of the Blade, considering you just tupped poor Molly."

The bluster in the older man's demeanor evaporated. "Wot are ye up to? And what do I need to do to help ye so I can get on wit the work of the household?"

Hamish gazed heavenward as if seeking strength in dealing with the old whipster. "First of all, you can cease the churlish patter. I know you use the speech of an Eton graduate when it serves your purposes at one of the routs at Goodrum's.

Even though Hamish knew the Rutherfords' true calling was that of a rough-and-tumble gang of river pirates who now served only at the pleasure of Captain El, the Duchess of Chelmsford, he sometimes forgot their true callings.

She'd placed them in positions where they could lay low for a few years whilst they were criminals wanted not only by Bow Street, but a rival gang. Apparently, Young Rutherford had somehow compromised the wife of the gang's leader.

Just when Hamish was about to congratulate himself on trouncing the annoying old man in a simple game of mental checkers, he suddenly had the odd sensation of flying through the air and landing hard in a corner of the butler's pantry, shattering a few pieces of crockery off the shelf behind him. The old bastard had planted him a facer.

He gave his jaw a tentative rub and once his vision cleared, looked up to see Toplofty leaning over him. "I hope we understand each other sufficiently now, Dr. Douglas?" The veiled threat was delivered in perfect Etonian English.

When Hamish nodded groggily, he continued. "Now tell me exactly why you feel the need to sneak about the servants' area, and maybe I can be of assistance."

Saida had been put in charge of listing all the things they'd come up with for Mrs. Clarot to do to the gown she now was working on furiously for Georgina Throckmorton.

At first, she'd rejected their ideas out of hand. They'd never get their modiste to help unleash the devious wardrobe mayhem they proposed on such a wealthy woman.

Margot had pointed out that even though Mrs. Throckmorton spent a king's ransom on her clothes, all of the mistresses under the earl's protection added up to much more each year, if you considered all of their wardrobe allowances together.

In addition, they'd made a pact to pool their savings to come up with an additional cash bribe sufficient to make Mrs. Clarot go along with their ingenious plan. She would, of course, forever lose the woman's business, so the bribe had to be substantial.

Of course, they'd all have to attend the Cyprians' Ball as well, if for no other reason than to have a front-row seat to gloat.

When they'd finally listed all the devious things they were going to visit on the evil Mrs. Throckmorton, they stood in the center of Lily's parlor and piled their hands together to signify unity, and utmost secrecy, in their plan to visit the ultimate humiliation on the woman who'd tried to destroy Saida at the milliner's shop.

And then they danced around the room, cackling like elegant witches. All they needed, Saida thought with a smile, was a big cauldron bubbling in Lily's kitchen garden.

Hamish leaned against the wall in the servants' passageway next to Miss Venable's parlor and gave out a huge sigh. He was afraid he might be sick after what he'd just heard Lord Framlingwood's mistresses planning.

All he'd wanted to do was find Saida and tell her what was in his heart. Instead, he'd discovered the hard way what the remaining unmarried mistresses got up to in their Monday afternoon teas. He had no idea women could be so vicious in revenge. Georgina, of course, deserved everything they'd described, and more, but he worried about all of them. Especially Saida.

How in the name of Zeus could he protect her at such a raucous gathering as the Cyprian's Ball? He'd been called to the scene of one of those balls the year before. The physical damage some of the revelers were able to wreak on one another was truly unbelievable.

Anything went at the events, and excessive alcohol, not to mention lewd acts, were rampant. He'd need help to either nip this dangerous plan in the bud, or figure out a way to watch over the mistresses whilst they charged off on their attics-to-let mad plan.

Only these stubborn women would think attending a debauched masque ball was a good idea whilst a murderous madman was on the loose and stalking them.

He shook his head in the darkness, pushed away from the wall, and headed back toward the butler's pantry at No. 3. The last thing he wanted was to get in touch with the fierce Captain El or her minions, the Barrister Forsythe and the runner Colwyn. But now that he knew Framlingwood's wild mistresses' plan, he had no choice. He couldn't protect the women on his own.

Sythe leaned his office desk chair as far back as it would go and studied the ceiling as if the answer were written in the plaster. How in the hell had he allowed himself to get caught up in Framlingwood's never-ending multiple-mistress farce?Just when he thought he'd managed to control one small piece of the puzzle, a whole cascade of unintended challenges landed yet again in his lap.

He banged his feet back down onto the floor and pointed his letter opener at the physician who was supposed to have been the solution to all of their problems with one of the mistresses. Yet now, here the blasted man was, telling them a Banbury-like tale of how the Earl of Framlingwood's remaining three mistresses were hell-bent on a demented scheme to attend a depraved Cyprians' ball merely to wreak revenge on a supposed slight against one of them.

And the object of the women's dark revenge was none other than the vicious, tonnish wife of one of Prinny's bankers.

"You know this is all your fault." Sythe's tone was so half-hearted, they all realized he didn't really blame the physician. "I think it's only fair you explain their plan again. I'm afraid I had a hard time following your circuitous recounting the first time."

"Please, I think you'd better call me Hamish. I came in close to the end of their plotting, but it appears they're going to pay a modiste to do something to Mrs. Throckmorton's costume that will not only reveal her identity, but embarrass her in the process." Hamish steepled his hands together and looked as though he might be praying to be anywhere but Stephen's Lincoln's Inn office.

Col leaned forward, his shoulders tense. "With all the unsavory characters who show up at those balls, and all the gossiping amongst servants, I wouldn't be surprised but what our blackmailer might hear a rumor that Framlingwood's harem plans to attend."

Hamish interrupted. "I'm sorry, but that ‘harem' you're referring to includes a woman for whom I'm responsible. I don't want anything to happen to any of them, especially Saida, no matter where they go."

Col's eyes widened. "Sorry, I forgot myself. I just can't help blaming Derek for this never-ending mess he's put all of us in the midst of."

"But you have to admit, we're all technically in his employ, so we've sort of put ourselves in the soap, if you know what I mean." Sythe flashed both of them a wry look. "However, I'm only a lowly barrister, not a criminal mind, nor even a privileged aristocrat. I'm completely out of my depth here. You two are going to have to help me out."

Col stared a moment at Sythe and then swung his gaze toward Hamish. "You know we're all going to have to attend that damned ball, disguised as God knows what, to make sure nothing happens to them."

Sythe gave out a long, hissing sigh. "I was afraid that's what you'd say."

Hamish raised his index finger as if he had a question on his mind. "What about Captain El?"

"What about her?" Sythe asked.

"Should we tell her what's going on?"

Sythe and Col gave out a collective groan.

"I'm surprised you even asked that question," Col said. "In fact, knowing the duchess and her vast network of informers, I wouldn't be surprised but what she knows already."