His night tray? Jonathan frowned. He didn’t recall ordering anything. But now that he thought about it, his digestion had settled and he did feel a little bit hungry. “I don’t recall ordering anything, but what is on this night tray?”
Jonathan opened the door. A lanky, red-haired footman stood there with a wooden tray containing crackers, cheese and a pot of tea. “Well,” he said, “I don’t recall ordering anything, but you can take that back and get a serving of stew, some crusty bread and an apple. I think I might work a while tonight. I don’t want tea, but you can bring up a brandy and a fresh snifter.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Retreating footsteps clacked on the bare wood of the hallway floor and faded into silence.
What was that all about? Some start of Warner’s, no doubt. The man was competent as a valet. He turned Jonathan out as fine as fivepence, dressed in punctilious correctness. But he was not someone Jonathan relied on. Margery had found him and hired the man as a wedding gift. It was one of those small, wifely gestures that he had hoped for, so even though the fellow wasn’t the best servitor Jonathan had ever had, he continued to use his services.
Perhaps the night tray had been something Margery recommended. Perhaps she had observed that he ate with poor appetite tonight. Oh, and just perhaps he could whistle a fortune down out of the hills to replace his losses on the continent. It seemed as likely.
Warner was a replacement for the valet Jonathan had inherited from his father. The old fellow had been an excellent man, but had requested to retire after the Duchess began to run the household. Sometimes Jonathan missed the old fellow, who had a quiet way about him and always seemed to know exactly what was wanted without making a great to-do about it.
There came another tap at the door. “Your Grace?” Mr. Hammonds voice inquired.
“Yes, I am within,” Jonathan replied, opening the door to the butler. Mr. Hammonds held a tray with the items that he had requested.
“David, one of the new under-footman, says that you refused your tea. Was there something wrong with it?”
“Nothing, except that I did not request it.”
“How very odd,” Mr. Hammonds looked truly puzzled. “Her Grace was certain that your doctor had prescribed a sleeping draft, and that it could be added to a pot of tea.”
“That was months ago, on the anniversary of my father’s death. As was Dr. Dermott’s suggestion, I have long since graduated to a snifter of brandy and a deadly dull book. As you can see, I am engaged in recording items from the trade fair.”
“I am sorry to have troubled you, Your Grace. I feared that the boy had given offense.”
“No, no, Mr. Hammonds. I simply do not require the tea. I’m sure that he is a very fine lad. A new hire you say?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Just beginning on his third week. It is my hope that he will do well, since he is one of my grandsons. I wonder where he might have gotten orders to bring up a night tray?”
“He said that Warner sent him up with it. But Warner should have known that I am no longer taking the medicine Dr. Dermott prescribed. In sooth, he gave me only enough for the one week. The stuff is fearsomely habit forming, you know.”
“Quite, Your Grace. I’ll make inquiries in the morning. I am sorry to have disturbed your work.”
Jonathan closed the door and once again footsteps retreated down the hall.
Jonathan had just gotten his pen nip sharpened to perfection, and uncorked the ink bottle when there came a knock at the door. “Your Grace?” The voice belonged to Mr. McAhmladhson, the steward.
Jonathan opened the door. “Yes?”
“I’m right sorry to be disturbing you at this late hour, Your Grace. The housekeeper has reported that Sally Ann, the scullery maid, has gone missing.”
“Missing? When was she last seen?”
“She was crying over the big pots, Your Grace. Fair fit to break your heart, according to Betty. Said she needed some air and was going out for a walk.”
“A walk? At night? Does anyone know in which direction?”
“Down toward the lake, Your Grace. The cook also said that she seemed agitated. It was a good bit earlier when she was last seen.”
“A lover’s tiff, I would guess. Let me pull on my boots and hunting jacket and I’ll come out with you. I wasn’t accomplishing anything, anyway.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Your Grace. Mr. Hammonds said you’d sent the tea back downstairs.”
“Since I didn’t order it, that should come as no surprise to anyone.” Jonathan turned away and rummaged in the closet for his boots and hunting coat. Where was that fool valet when he needed him? “Do we have anything with her scent on it?”
“Her mob cap, sir. Miss Singer found it on the path by the gate toward the lake.”
“If we are coming in on some idiot girl’s assignation, Mr. McAhmladhson, I’ll have your guts for garters, sure as the moon rises up over the lake.”
