The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

Miss Flint opened her mouth to speak, but Mrs Gripes snapped, “She’s a servant like the rest of us. But from her lofty manners, happen she thinks she’s the Queen of Sheba.”

Baxter chuckled.

Was Miss Flint just a simple maid? Did her issue with Baxter stem from a need to ward off the amorous advances of a superior? Oliver didn’t think so. Despite her uncouth outburst, she spoke like a lady and possessed an air of hauteur only found amongst those of good breeding. No. His father would not have left the property to a maid.

Suspicion flared.

Miss Flint looked at him dubiously. She appeared reluctant to contradict the housekeeper’s explanation, even though he sensed she wanted nothing more than to put Gripes in her place.

Something else bothered him, too.

Miss Flint had clung to his arm as if he were an errant knight come to rescue her from the clutches of a wicked baron. Now her wary gaze spoke of mistrust.

“And may I ask, sir, what business you have here at Morton Manor?” Mrs Gripes continued.

Oliver couldn’t wait to see the shock on their faces when he offered his name. Nor could he wait to see how they would react upon discovering Miss Flint was now their mistress. But his eagerness to bring an end to their petty squabbles, and ask questions about Rose, was hampered by the beast of a man who appeared in the doorway at the end of the hall.

“What’s going on here?” he barked as he shuffled towards them. The man was as short and solid as a beer barrel. The muscles in his shoulders bulged from his upper arm to his ear. “How’s a man to rest with all this commotion?”

Miss Flint took a step back.

“Ah, Stokes.” Mrs Gripes sneered. “It seems Miss Flint has been causing trouble again.”

“Trouble?”

Stokes took another clumsy step closer. The smell of stale sweat drifted through the air. The skin around his mouth and nose was red and flaky. Red veins littered the whites of his eyes. From the sheen of perspiration covering his brow, it was clear the man was ill.

Oliver stepped back, too. The last thing he needed was to spend a week in bed with a fever. That was unless Miss Flint was playing nursemaid.

Stokes narrowed his eyes as he examined Oliver’s attire. “And you must be Lord Cunningham,” he said. “The earl warned us you might come.”

Lord Cunningham?

Why in heaven’s name would Cunningham want to visit such a dismal place as Morton Manor? His father had no business with the pompous lord.

“Warned you?” Oliver scoffed, deciding to play along with the charade. “And did he also advise you to treat a gentleman with such disrespect?”

Stokes beckoned Baxter to his side, and the fellow scuttled over like an obedient pet. “Oh, he told us how to deal with you, my lord, have no fear.” Stokes set about untying the rope.

As one can predict an imminent storm from the earthy smell and the sudden charge in the air, Oliver noted Stokes’ heavy breathing, noted the tension pressing down upon them.

“I’d think carefully before attempting anything foolish.” Oliver flexed his fingers in preparation. An uppercut to Stokes’ jaw needed the power of a hundred men behind it if he had any hope of silencing the oaf.

With his hands now free, Baxter rubbed the red skin at his wrists and then whispered something to Stokes.

“You bloody idiot.” Stokes snarled and swiped Baxter over the head. “How many times ‘ave I told you? Women ain’t to be trusted, especially not the pretty ones.” His cold, sharp gaze found Miss Flint. “I’ll deal with you once I’ve thrown the nabob out on his ear.”

“Oh, I’m not leaving.” Oliver clenched his fists at his side. He was a boxer not a brawler — the loser of a bout was the one who failed to contain his anger. “I’ve only just arrived.”

Stokes growled. Despite his failing health, he lunged at Oliver. While most men froze at the sight of an ugly brute looming large, Oliver stepped back, looked for the opening and punched Stokes hard on the jaw.

Miss Flint gasped at the sharp crack.

The man staggered back, shook his head and came at Oliver again. “It will take more than a dandy’s punch to take me down.”

With flaring nostrils and a few blasphemous curses, Stokes tried to grab the lapels of Oliver’s coat. Oliver swerved to the left and hit Stokes on the temple, and the beast crumpled to his knees.

Baxter charged, but it was Mrs Gripes’ whip with her chatelaine that caught Oliver’s cheek and knocked his hat off his head.