Percival stepped outside his study and looked around. Lucas, the footman who was on night duty, stood at quiet parade rest in the hall. McClellan was nowhere to be seen.
I probably offended his proud Scottish conception of what is right and proper.
“Lucas,” Percival said.
“Yes, My Lord,” Lucas said immediately, snapping into full attention at the sound of his name.
“I need for you to guard this door and do not let the young person who is inside out. Restrain . . . uh . . . him by any means necessary should an attempt be made. I need to check on some things.”
Percival clattered down the back stairs at a great rate, and burst out into the kitchen. “Chef Michaels!” he called from the doorway.
The night chef, a lanky, cadaverous man, turned from the pot of soup he was stirring. “Yes, My Lord?”
“Do you remember Bentley’s Bakery?”
“Why, so I do, My Lord. It closed down not quite two years ago. Mistress Bentley sold off the kitchen equipment shortly before going to the poorhouse to eke out the rest of her days. I trust she got what she richly deserved.”
That was certainly not what Percival had expected to hear. “That is a very strange thing for you to say, Michaels.”
“I suppose it might be, Your Lordship.” Percival winced at the not-quite-right honorific, but Michaels was originally from America where they had very odd notions of things. “The old biddy wasn’t quite right in the head, I don’t think. After Baker Bentley passed away, tis said that she had his apprentice running the shop. I spoke to her kindly one afternoon when I was picking up your mother’s sweet rolls. Next thing you know, I heard that the young woman had run away, and the shop was closing down. Old Mrs. Bentley never set foot in the kitchen, you know.”
“That is an interesting story, Michaels. Do you think you would recognize the girl?”
“I think I could, if she’s not changed too much, Your Lordship.”
That was one too many misuses for Percival’s sensibilities, although he suspected that Michaels sometimes did it on purpose to see him wince. “Lords sail on ships, Michaels, they are not ships. The correct honorific is 'My Lord’. Would you mind coming upstairs to identify a young person I caught stealing from Mother’s chamber?”
“Stealing?” Whatever pert rejoinder Michaels had been about to make, his jaw now hung open in astonishment. “I’d be more than glad to, M’lord, but surely it can’t be her.”
“Come up and see, Michaels. It is a matter of some urgency, as I feel sure that McClellan is itching to call the Watch.”
“No doubt, no doubt. He takes locking up and keepin’ things secure most serious, he does.”
Percival lead the way back to his office. The young woman sat in a miserable lump, feet drawn up and her chin resting on her knees, in a most unladylike fashion. She put her feet down at once and sat up straight when she saw them enter. Her eyes glittered like expensive green emeralds in the candlelight. She had been crying, he suspected, but she made not a sound as she stood up to face them.
Michaels stared at her from a moment. “Why, as I live and breathe! It is Tiffany Bentley. What are you doing dressed up as a boy, Girlie?”
Tiffany’s chin came up at that. “I told you not to call me that. You got me beaten, you know.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Michaels crooned, shocked regret coloring his voice, “No, I didn’t know. Did she turn you off, then?”
“Oh, no. She knew who did the baking, the cleaning, and everything else. No, she locked me in Father Bentley’s room, and told me to think about the kind of girl he would have expected me to be. But I showed her! I dressed in Father Bentley’s clothes and took my real father’s old clasp knife and picked the lock. I’ve been on the street ever since.”
“Tiffany, I had no idea. No one had heard of you or from you. I thought that perhaps you had married your way out of the old harridan’s clutches. Everyone knew that she was a wicked old witch of a thing, and that she made life hell for you. But the streets! Good lack!”
As Percival listened to this exchange, he made up his mind to take a chance on the little thief. “Michaels, if I hire her to work in the kitchen, will there be any trouble from you? You know my rules.”
Michaels drew himself up smartly. “My Lord!”
There was no error in the honorific this time, only shocked rebuke. “I’ve known Tiffany Bentley since she was barely tall enough to see over Baker Bentley’s counters, standing on a stool! My captain used to send me to him to get our hard tack made for the ship, and to pick up some soft rolls and biscuits. My old captain had a sweet tooth, he did. Carried him off, our last trip across the pond, an’ left me stranded when war broke out. I might tease the young’un a bit, but she is more like a daughter than aught else.”
Percival nodded thoughtfully. “You would speak for her, and be responsible for her behavior?”
“Wait a minute!” the little thief burst out. “I speak for myself, and I’m responsible for myself. I don’t belong to nobody!”
“Quite so,” Percival said, amused by her fiery rejoinder, even in her current predicament. “But if Michaels will speak for you, then I’m of a mind to offer you a position. If you are half as good a baker as the two of you claim, it could bring a huge improvement to our current dining. Michaels has a fine hand with a roast, and there is none better when it comes to preserving and jarring up provender for the winter months, but he makes these things he calls journey cakes on which you could easily break a tooth or two.”
Tiffany opened her mouth, then closed it. “A position, My Lord?
