“Mr. Eversham! Setting out for Eversham Manor, are ye?”
Gareth’s jolly voice broke through his reverie, and Richard stood up with a smile of greeting. He was used to Gareth’s battered face, but one of the children gave a little squeak of fright before she was hushed by the nursemaid.
“Not today, Gareth. I wondered if I might have a word.” He glanced about him at the family, now all agog. “Privately.”
Gareth didn’t ask questions but led Richard into his inner sanctum—a small officelike room—and closed the door. A fire was burning comfortably in the hearth, and there were a number of cups and trophies set on the mantel, mementos from Gareth’s boxing days. Fame had come at the price of Gareth’s good looks, but he’d done well enough out of it to purchase this inn.
Richard seated himself in one of the battered old leather armchairs and after some brief chitchat, Gareth said, “You’re here on business then, Mr. Eversham?”
“I am. Have you had any interesting guests through here, Gareth? Around May, the time of the Bossenden Wood riots? I’m interested in quality rather than riffraff.”
Gareth considered the question, rubbing his thumb along a scar on his cheekbone. “May, eh? Well there was a few gents passin’ through here. Don’t rightly remember their names, but after you was here the last time, I took your advice and starting keepin’ a little book.”
With a grin he went to the desk and opened a drawer, removing a battered notebook and holding it up.
“Now, May . . .”
After much page turning and some frowning, he came up with a list of names. Among them were two gentlemen who had been traveling to Kent at the same time. One of them was unknown to Richard, but the other was very familiar. Lord Horace Gilfoyle. Now what on earth was Tina’s intended doing passing through the Great Southern Inn just before the Bossenden Wood riots?
Archie had been waiting outside the house in Mallory Street for what seemed ages, trying not to look too obvious. Now and again he would stroll off and back again, pretending he was enjoying the sunshine. Luckily there was a small garden square at the end of the street, and he was able to lurk by the iron railings, gazing up at the plane trees and generally pretending he was waiting for someone.
Richard Eversham might be his employer, but Archie much preferred these little jobs for the Guardians. It reminded him of his younger, more carefree days, and although he willingly accepted his current role of middle-aged butler, there were times when he still hankered for adventure.
Eventually his wait was rewarded.
A woman left the house, her modest outfit proclaiming her a servant although something about the way she set out, her walk confident, her chin up as she gazed about, told Archie she wasn’t just any servant. No, indeed. She was a superior sort of servant. He waited by the railings—she was heading his way—pretending to do up his shoelace.
As she reached him he stood up, timing it just right, and bumped into her. It was perfect. The woman cried out, dropping her reticule, and Archie stumbled, offering a barrage of apologies.
She took a breath, stepping back, and brushed herself down as if the contact had disarranged her. He stooped to pick up her reticule and held it out to her. She looked up.
Archie just managed to hold on to his dignity and not gasp out loud at the vision. She was older than he’d expected, not a young woman, in her thirties perhaps. Definitely a superior servant. Her hair was very dark, almost black, with bouncy curls escaping her straw bonnet. Her eyes were almost black, too, and he felt her gaze like a punch in his stomach.
“Ma’am? Please, accept my apologies. I am shattered by my clumsiness. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
She considered him a moment more and then nodded, her full mouth softening into a smile. “I accept your apologies, sir. I will not let your clumsiness spoil my afternoon off.”
She had a faint accent. Spanish, Italian? He wasn’t certain of its origin.
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As she moved past him, he fell into step beside her. She glanced up at him beneath her brim—she was small in stature, although curvaceous in all the right places—and there was a curious gleam in her eyes. She wasn’t afraid of him, just amused by his clumsiness, and he found himself wrong footed in a way unusual for a confident man of his years.
“My name is Archie Jones,” he offered with suitable humility. “I am a butler in Jasmine Street. It is my day off, too. May I walk with you, Mrs. . . . ?”
Another of those direct looks from her snapping black eyes. “Senorita,” she corrected him. “Or Miss, if you prefer. Miss Maria Baez. And yes, you may walk with me, Mr. Jones. I am taking a trolley bus to Camden. I often do so on my afternoons off. There is a tea shop there that serves turron.” She noticed his blank look. “It is a Spanish sweet, for Christmas, but at this tea shop they have it always. Delicious.”
Better and better, thought Archie. “Because of my clumsiness, Miss Baez, I feel I should buy you tea. And some of this turron? Please, do me this honor.”
He’d amused her again, he could tell by her smile, but he didn’t mind. As long as she agreed it didn’t really matter if she thought him a buffoon, or just a lonely butler seeking love. He had a job to do, but this job looked like being more like a pleasurable interlude than the missions on which Mr. Eversham usually sent him.
Senorita Maria Baez was attractive and exotic, and suddenly he wanted to know all about her.
Maria was enjoying herself.
Mr. Archie Jones the butler was a charming fellow, there was no doubt about it. She stole a glance over her prettily patterned teacup and found him gazing back at her.
“Do you like the turron, Mr. Jones? It is made of honey and almonds, and sometimes a little chocolate or vanilla or coffee.” She popped a square of the sweet into her mouth and smiled in childlike delight. “Delicious!”