Even my own good woman had a tipple in the kitchen. I am hereby tendering our joint resignations, for I won’t stay on without her.” This piece of bravado was quite ignored.
“What on earth are you saying, Siddons?” Lettie demanded.
“Drunk as lords, the lot of them. It was that carton of wine His Lordship left in the stable for the servants that done the mischief. Cuttle passed around the bottles last night, and they all indulged—to excess, I fear, ma’am.”
Lettie stared as if he were insane. “His Lordship left wine for the servants?” she asked in confusion.
“So it seems, ma’am. It was his man Cuttle who doled it out.”
“I see,” Lettie replied, breathing deeply to control her anger. “Would you be good enough to ask Lord Havergal to step down for a moment. I would like a word with him.”
Siddons bowed and left.
“Now Lettie,” Miss FitzSimmons said placatingly. “I’m sure there is some good reason. You cannot make a fuss when he has been so nice.”
“He has not been nice, Violet. He has behaved abominably. How dare he encourage my servants in his vices!” She was still ranting five minutes later when Siddons appeared to announce that Lord Havergal was not in his room.
“Not in his room? But where is he then?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. I have his valet, Cuttle, waiting outside. A trifle the worse for drink, but capable of speech. It was him that fed wine to my missus last night.”
“Send him in,” Lettie said through thin lips.
Cuttle walked forward with the awful precision of the drunk man trying to appear sober.
Lettie took one glance at his flushed face and bleary eyes and knew his condition. “Where is Lord Havergal? And I’ll have no foolish stories,” she said angrily.
“He stepped out, mum.”
“He did not step out the door. I have been here since we reached home.”
“He stepped out the window, like.”
“Where was he going?”
“To meet the Duke of Crymont, mum.”
“I repeat, where?”
“He’s putting up at the Royal Oak.”
“That is where Havergal went?”
Cuttle shrugged and looked at his slippers. He seemed to have lost one on his way downstairs. Or perhaps he’d forgotten to put both on.
Violet listened closely and thought she had figured it out. She clutched at Lettie’s sleeve. “Miss Devereau!” she exclaimed, “He has gone to try to lure Miss Devereau away from the duke, Lettie. How romantic! A runaway match!”
Lettie’s heart lurched painfully in her chest, and her cheeks paled.
Cuttle gave Miss FitzSimmons a belligerent stare. “Ho, Miss Devereau, is it? His Lordship ain’t one to hoodwink his friends. Miss Devereau is the duke’s bit o’ muslin. It’s a Miss Hardy His Lordship is seeing. A redhead, he says.”
Lettie felt she was being consumed with flames from within, yet her outer shell felt like ice. “I see. You will pack His Lordship’s bag and your own and remove them to the front step. When he returns, you will please tell him he is no longer welcome in this house.”
Cuttle frowned. “Eh?”
“You heard me. I want Lord Havergal and all his servants and his carriages and his wine out of this house. He is never to darken the door of this house again. Pray tell him I said so, if you can remain sober long enough. Now leave.” She lifted a dismissing hand and waved it in Cuttle’s direction.
Cuttle shook his head. “He was right. You are a Turk,” he grumbled, and left to do as he was bid.
Lettie and Violet exchanged a stunned look.
Violet was the first to find speech. “I can’t believe it,” she said simply. “The nephew of an archbishop. Crymont, I mean.”
“I can well believe it. This explains everything. Why we were not introduced to the ‘ladies’ this afternoon. I wonder that Havergal shrank from that, when he has subjected us to every other imaginable indignity. Coming here with his mouth full of lies and his drunken servants. He admitted he wanted his money for gambling. Feeding
“What on earth are you saying, Siddons?” Lettie demanded.
“Drunk as lords, the lot of them. It was that carton of wine His Lordship left in the stable for the servants that done the mischief. Cuttle passed around the bottles last night, and they all indulged—to excess, I fear, ma’am.”
Lettie stared as if he were insane. “His Lordship left wine for the servants?” she asked in confusion.
“So it seems, ma’am. It was his man Cuttle who doled it out.”
“I see,” Lettie replied, breathing deeply to control her anger. “Would you be good enough to ask Lord Havergal to step down for a moment. I would like a word with him.”
Siddons bowed and left.
“Now Lettie,” Miss FitzSimmons said placatingly. “I’m sure there is some good reason. You cannot make a fuss when he has been so nice.”
“He has not been nice, Violet. He has behaved abominably. How dare he encourage my servants in his vices!” She was still ranting five minutes later when Siddons appeared to announce that Lord Havergal was not in his room.
“Not in his room? But where is he then?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. I have his valet, Cuttle, waiting outside. A trifle the worse for drink, but capable of speech. It was him that fed wine to my missus last night.”
“Send him in,” Lettie said through thin lips.
Cuttle walked forward with the awful precision of the drunk man trying to appear sober.
Lettie took one glance at his flushed face and bleary eyes and knew his condition. “Where is Lord Havergal? And I’ll have no foolish stories,” she said angrily.
“He stepped out, mum.”
“He did not step out the door. I have been here since we reached home.”
“He stepped out the window, like.”
“Where was he going?”
“To meet the Duke of Crymont, mum.”
“I repeat, where?”
“He’s putting up at the Royal Oak.”
“That is where Havergal went?”
Cuttle shrugged and looked at his slippers. He seemed to have lost one on his way downstairs. Or perhaps he’d forgotten to put both on.
Violet listened closely and thought she had figured it out. She clutched at Lettie’s sleeve. “Miss Devereau!” she exclaimed, “He has gone to try to lure Miss Devereau away from the duke, Lettie. How romantic! A runaway match!”
Lettie’s heart lurched painfully in her chest, and her cheeks paled.
Cuttle gave Miss FitzSimmons a belligerent stare. “Ho, Miss Devereau, is it? His Lordship ain’t one to hoodwink his friends. Miss Devereau is the duke’s bit o’ muslin. It’s a Miss Hardy His Lordship is seeing. A redhead, he says.”
Lettie felt she was being consumed with flames from within, yet her outer shell felt like ice. “I see. You will pack His Lordship’s bag and your own and remove them to the front step. When he returns, you will please tell him he is no longer welcome in this house.”
Cuttle frowned. “Eh?”
“You heard me. I want Lord Havergal and all his servants and his carriages and his wine out of this house. He is never to darken the door of this house again. Pray tell him I said so, if you can remain sober long enough. Now leave.” She lifted a dismissing hand and waved it in Cuttle’s direction.
Cuttle shook his head. “He was right. You are a Turk,” he grumbled, and left to do as he was bid.
Lettie and Violet exchanged a stunned look.
Violet was the first to find speech. “I can’t believe it,” she said simply. “The nephew of an archbishop. Crymont, I mean.”
“I can well believe it. This explains everything. Why we were not introduced to the ‘ladies’ this afternoon. I wonder that Havergal shrank from that, when he has subjected us to every other imaginable indignity. Coming here with his mouth full of lies and his drunken servants. He admitted he wanted his money for gambling. Feeding
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