The Gentleman and the Rogue by Bonnie Dee, Summer Devon Page B

his book, and went to investigate.
    The housekeeper stood in the middle of the sitting room, fists on hips, glaring at the half circle of servants—the ones who had permission to enter the family quarters. Dicky, the maids, and, of course, Jem. None of them noticed Alan in the doorway. The servants' attention was focused on Mrs. C., Jem's name for the fierce protector of the Watleigh house. She pointed at shards that had been carefully wrapped in a handkerchief. Now it lay on the cloth atop an occasional table—a smashed figurine. Judging from the pieces, it was the shepherdess, one of the more repulsive ceramic pieces collected by a forgotten ancestor.
    “I know Jane is not responsible,” Mrs. C. declared. “As I sent you in here, Dicky, you and only you could be the culprit. This is the end , I tell you.”
    Alan hadn't ever seen her on her high horse with the other servants, and this was impressive. She was as loud and full of hellfire as a preacher from the pulpit. Poor Dicky looked on the edge of tears. Mrs. C. went on. “The master agreed with me. One more incident, and you'll be turned out. I promise you, Dicky, this is—”
    Before Alan could reveal his presence and point out he'd agreed to no such thing, another voice interrupted her tirade. “Here now, Mrs. C. You got the wrong end of the stick. Weren't Dicky. Not at all. I took a fancy to the thing, see. Just wanted to take a closer look, and wham , smash , it slid right out o' my butter fingers. Terrible mistake. I shoulda confessed my sin right away, of course.”
    Dicky visibly started. “But,” he began. He opened his mouth once or twice, then jerked again when Jem's elbow jammed into his side.
    “My excuse is like this.” Jem might have been chatting with the housekeeper over a cozy cup of tea. “I got busy polishing Sir Alan's boots and fobs and whatnot. Clean forgot my crime when Mr. B. told me about a recipe for boot polish. I'm supposed to use champagne, if you can believe it. On boots. Such a terrible waste drove all other thoughts outta me nob.”
    Alan tried to hold back a laugh that emerged as a cough. Mrs. Crimpett started, just as Dicky had, except with considerably more grace. She whirled to face him. “Sir. I beg your pardon. You're just in time.”
    “So I understand.”
    “I would consult Mr. Badgeman, however, he is preoccupied, packing to visit his sick aunt,” Mrs. Crimpett said.
    “That's the story, is it?” muttered Jem.
    She ignored him and went on. “And I'm not sure I believe Jem's version of events.”
    “Why not?” asked Alan, determined not to meet Jem's eyes. “Have you had any indication that he is a liar?”
    “He's attempting to protect Dicky from dismissal, sir. And as we decided when last we spoke on the matter—”
    Alan had had enough. He raised his voice. “I made no sort of agreement. And while I'm sure we're all sad to see that objet d'art go, I'm sure we won't dismiss any servants over its destruction.”
    “But sir, we can't allow clumsiness to go unchecked in a household so filled with treasures. It's as bad as hiring a thief.”
    Alan definitely didn't want to meet Jem's eyes now. “I hardly think one ugly smashed statue is worth such a hue and cry,” he said.
    “But sir…” She tried again.
    Alan wished he could shake this off and allow her to have the last word. Mrs. Crimpett was afraid of Badgeman, but he would be absent for God knew how long.
    She had always called him Master Alan, and he'd been the younger son. Then he'd limped home from battle, in constant pain and uninterested in the household. It was past time to establish himself as the highest authority on the premises.
    “Mrs. Crimpett.” He drew himself up to his full height and glared down at her like the captain he'd been. Twice in one day he'd drawn on his abandoned role. “No more. We will not discuss this matter any longer, do you understand? You will all return to your duties. At once.”
    Without a murmur, the servants