It was not a question that any of them were prepared to answer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The servants in this house are utter rascals, every one. They seem to plot among themselves to do as little as possible and get as much as they can, honestly or dishonestly… I should like to hang a few and burn the rest at the stake.
Ned was a brash young man and not easily cowed, but even he could not help feeling abashed by the great palace within whose formidable walls he now found himself. Blenheim was so large and forbidding, so obviously the home of the great and powerful, that he could not help feeling very small and powerless-which might be exactly the reason, he thought to himself, why people built such grandiose houses for themselves: to make their authority seem even more immutably powerful to those beneath them, and to quash feelings of insurgency in any who dared to rise above their station. But once one knew this, he reminded himself resolutely, one had already begun to revoke the other’s power. That thought-and the recollection that he was here as a spy, not a servant, gave him strength, and he hardened himself against his feelings of vulnerability.
After Ned had changed into his new clothing, Alfred supplied a green apron that extended below his knees and set him to cleaning and polishing the nursery boots. That chore done, he was sent off to tea with the scullery maids, kitchen maids, and odd man, and after that, was instructed to bring in a dozen buckets of coal and line them up in the lower hallway, where the footmen would carry them upstairs so that the maids could stoke the bedroom fires. All the while he did these chores, Ned was mulling over what Alfred had said to him about Bulls-eye and Kitty and the King, and wondering what Lord Sheridan would make of it all and how he would manage to get the information to his lordship.
He had just put down the last two buckets of coal when Alfred appeared. “You’ve been sent for,” he said shortly. “Lord Sheridan’s asked to see you, in the billiard room, right away.” He wore a suspicious frown. “Didn’t mention you was friendly with upstairs, now, did you?”
“Friendly, my hat,” Ned replied, taking off his apron. “His lordship’s an acquaintance of my father’s.” He made a face. “Haven’t seen the guv for a while, and the nob prob’ly feels he has t’ jaw me for it.” The explanation sounded a little lame, to his ears, but Alfred didn’t seem to notice.
“My guv went off to Australia when I was five,” Alfred replied reminiscently. “Missed his lashings a fair treat, I did.” He gave an ironic chuckle. “Well, come along, then. Hang up that apron and wash those hands and I’ll show you the way. When you get back, it will be nearly time for dinner, and you can help Conrad and me bring the food from the kitchen to the dining room.” He looked at Ned critically. “And don’t forget to put on your gloves. Gloves is part o’ the uniform. The blue bloods don’t like to see our hands-reminds ’em that we’re working and they’re not.”
The billiard room-a large oak-paneled room hung with trophy bucks, mounted game fish, and stuffed birds, with a large brown bear standing on its hind legs in the corner-was in the lowest level of the family quarters, next to the gun room. Lord Sheridan was not alone, Ned discovered when he was admitted. The gentleman with him, a brash-looking young man with red hair and a roundish, florid face, was introduced as Mr. Churchill, cousin to the Duke. The two men, both of whom wore evening dress, appeared to have just finished their game when he came in.
Lord Sheridan racked his cue. “Well, Ned,” he said, taking out his handkerchief and wiping the chalk off his hands, “you certainly look like a page.” He eyed Ned’s costume approvingly. “White gloves, too. They’ve put you to work, I take it.”
“Drudge work,” Ned said, looking down at his hands in the unfamiliar gloves. “Blacking boots and hauling coal.” Anxious not to be thought complaining, he added quickly, “I don’t mind, of course, sir. It’s all part of the job. I shan’t muck it.”
“I know you won’t,” his lordship said. “Have you managed to get a word with Alfred yet?”
Ned straightened his shoulders. “Oh, yes, I have, sir.” He grinned. “He immediately leapt to the conclusion that I’m a messenger or go-between or something of the sort, sir. From a fellow named Bulls-eye, at the Black Prince in Woodstock.”
“Bulls-eye!” Mr. Churchill exclaimed in dismay. “At the Prince!”
“Yes, sir,” Ned said, wondering how this Churchill fellow came into it. But since Lord Sheridan had allowed him to stay, he supposed that the man could be trusted. “Alfred said he didn’t like being alone here,” he added, “and he was glad I’d come, if only for the company. He asked me about Kitty, and seems to’ve been… well, rather fond of her. He’s awf’lly cut up about her leaving without telling him where she’s going.”
“Did he say anything about the Royal visit?” Lord Sheridan asked.
“Yes.” Ned stopped, trying to pull out Alfred’s exact words. He felt it important to report as accurately as he could.
“Well, get on with it,” Churchill urged impatiently. “Don’t keep us in suspense, young fellow!”
Lord Sheridan put his hand on Churchill’s sleeve. “Give the lad a moment, Winston,” he said quietly. “He’s recalling details.”
Ned threw his lordship a grateful glance. “About the King,” he said. “Alfred is worried that the Royal party are coming in two weeks, and he doesn’t know anything about the plan. ‘Who’s to do the work?’ he was asking me. ‘Who’s to be the cracksman?’”
“The cracksman!” exclaimed Churchill, with relish. “You were right, Sheridan! There is a robbery plot afoot!” He dropped his voice, rubbing his forehead in a dramatic gesture. “And I had the ringleaders right in front of me, at the Prince. In my very grasp!”
“That was the pair you talked to, then?” Lord Sheridan asked.
“One of them was called Bulls-eye,” Churchill replied. He gave an exaggerated moan. “Oh, what a dunce I am, to be taken in by that damned red-bearded rascal’s hail-fellow-well-met! I’m a fool, a bloody blockhead!”
Ned had no idea what this was all about, and he privately thought that Mr. Churchill’s histrionic mummery was foolish and self-centered. But he plowed on, addressing himself to Lord Sheridan.
“The thing is, you see, sir, that Alfred doesn’t know anything about what’s going on. He’s had no word and he feels as if he’s been cut off. ‘Stuck in this place and forgotten,’ was the way he put it. Whatever the plan is, he’s not in on it.”
“Interesting,” Lord Sheridan remarked.
Churchill put on a frown. “Unlikely, seems to me. P’rhaps he suspects you, and he’s trying to throw you off the scent. Make you think he doesn’t know.”
Ned shook his head. “Alfred isn’t… well, he isn’t that sort of person, at least as far as I can see. That is, he’s not devious. He’s… well, trusting, if you know what I mean. Maybe because he feels so desperate, and has nowhere else to turn. He asked me to find out from Bulls-eye what’s going on, and tell him.”
Behind his detached demeanor, Ned felt a twinge of guilt. Alfred was quite a decent fellow, and here he was, ratting on him, spilling his secrets. But that was part of his job, wasn’t it? A spy couldn’t have friends.
Churchill’s frown deepened. “Sounds to me as if they’ve given it up,” he said. “Pulled out. Having one of their people disappear-the woman, I mean-well, it must’ve made them think twice. If you ask me, she funked it and took herself off to London, or wherever she came from.”
“Let’s not grab at straws,” Lord Sheridan said in a thoughtful tone. “They may have put someone else into the house.”
“Another servant, you mean, sir?” Ned asked quickly. “Well, if that’s the case, the new man hasn’t got in touch with Alfred. He thinks I’m his new contact. I’ll stake my life on that,” he added, feeling that he ought to defend Alfred, who somehow struck him as a person who needed defending.