Scandal of the Year by Olivia Drake Page A

manservant, and all-around helper to James. He’d trusted no one else to accompany him on the long voyage from the West Indies. It had been a godsend when Thornton had agreed to house Roland for the duration of James’s employment at Crompton House.
    “A pity he can’t come and help with my daily chores,” James said with a grimace. “I’ve developed a new appreciation for the hard work of servants.”
    A deep chuckle came from Roland as he stirred up the coals into flame and then put the kettle on for tea. “Dat be somethin’ I like to see, mon. You, bowin’ to dem fancy gents and ladies.”
    Thornton nodded sagely. “The house must be busy, what with Miss Blythe Crompton making her debut. Such a pretty girl surely attracts many suitors.”
    James frowned, unwilling to discuss her. “Yes, but most of the time I’ve been stuck in a basement room, cleaning lamps or silver spoons.”
    Except when he’d taken the tray up to Blythe’s bedchamber. They’d shared a long conversation about India, and at the end of it, she had given him the peacock feather along with a flirtatious smile. The memory burned in him, as did the fervent look she’d aimed at him at dinner only a few hours ago. Her attraction to him was unmistakable, as was his own lusty reaction to her. He didn’t know what the devil to do about it except to avoid her.
    And that wouldn’t help his investigation. He needed to encourage her interest in the hopes of gleaning information to prove his case.
    “What is your news?” Thornton asked, setting the candle down on a rough-hewn table. “Have you been able to verify that the Cromptons are imposters?”
    “Unfortunately not,” James said. “That’s why I’m here. I was hoping you could help me with something.”
    Thornton waved at the table. “Pray sit down, sir, and tell me how I may be of assistance. Or would you be more comfortable upstairs in the parlor?”
    “This is perfectly fine. I dare not linger more than a few minutes, anyway.”
    They settled into hard wooden chairs across from each other while Roland scattered tea leaves in the simmering water in the pot. Thornton looked old and drawn, and James had a sudden concern that he was asking too much of the man. But as the former manager of the Cromptons’ estate in Lancashire, Thornton was the ideal person for the task at hand.
    “I need you to make a journey for me,” James said. “I’d go myself, but obviously that’s impossible at the moment.”
    Looking mystified, Thornton cocked his grizzled head. “As you wish, sir. Where am I to go?”
    “To Lancashire. My memory of the Cromptons is not quite as clear as I’d hoped it would be. So I’d like you to visit the estate on my behalf and see if there might be any paintings of George and Edith in their younger days.”
    “Ah.” Thornton nodded sagely. “And you want me to bring these portraits back here to you?”
    “Precisely. Not only will it help in identifying them, it will also give me the necessary proof when the case comes to court.”
    They paused for a moment while Roland silently brought them mugs of tea.
    Thornton added a lump of sugar to his cup and stirred it with a pewter spoon. “But is there not a housekeeper or caretaker who will question my presence there? Mrs. Barnaby is retired now, and her replacement won’t recognize me.”
    James reached inside his coat. “I’ve forged a brief note of introduction for you. The penmanship is a fair imitation of George’s.”
    After serving dinner, James had been lucky enough to spot a business letter addressed in George’s hand and left on a tray in the entry hall for delivery in the next day’s mail. He had spirited it away to his room and hastily practiced the man’s handwriting.
    Now, he passed the folded paper to Thornton. “I’ve explained that you’ve been tasked with fetching some paintings to London. You’re to have full access to all areas of the house. If you cannot find any pictures of the