The Duke Identity (Game of Dukes #1)(19)

“Owe ’im everything, I do. ’E provided for my care, saw that I got trained in a trade. And I ain’t the only one ’e’s ’elped. With the Corn Laws leaving folk starving in the streets, ’e funds the free kitchens o’ the parish churches and finds work for the men where ’e can. The government may not care ’bout the common people, but Bartholomew Black does.”

Her assertions astonished Harry.

“And contrary to Jim’s palavering, the master was busy this week looking after poor Miss Mavis—Mrs. Todd, I mean,” Mrs. Gates put in. “A more loving father I’ve never met.”

“Poor Mrs. Todd.” Mrs. Crabtree clucked her tongue. “She relies upon ’er papa during ’er spells. Lord knows she ’as no one else.”

The cook and housekeeper shared a knowing look.

Recalling his instructions to collect any information about Black and his family, Harry asked, “What about her husband?”

“That one.” Mrs. Crabtree snorted. “All ’e cares ’bout is filling ’is coffers. If Mr. Black weren’t there to keep ’im in line, ’e’d ne’er show ’is face around ’is own ’ouse.”

He filed the fact away. “And Miss Todd? Is she close to her parents?”

“Poor girl always looked up to her father, not that she saw much of him,” Mrs. Gates said. “She and her stepmama are fond of each other, but Mrs. Todd needs her peace and quiet.”

“Both of which are in scarce supply around Miss Todd,” he muttered.

Mrs. Crabtree chuckled, and Mrs. Gates looked as if she was fighting a smile.

“You’re faring better than most, Bennett.” Approval glinted in the housekeeper’s bespectacled gaze. “Most of your predecessors didn’t last a sennight. Ran off with their tails between their legs. Takes brawn and brains to keep up with our Miss Tessa.”

“Now she may like to play ’er tricks,” Mrs. Crabtree said in a consoling tone, “but beneath that pluck, the girl’s got a ’eart o’ gold. Treats all o’ us below stairs wiv kindness, ne’er forgets a birthday, is always the first to ’elp when there’s trouble. Remember when Mr. Black’s old valet broke ’is arm, Mrs. Gates?”

The housekeeper nodded. “Miss Tessa went personally to visit him and bring supplies to the family. She visits the orphanages, too, you know. I don’t know what the children like more: the food she brings or the tricks she’s taught Swift Nick to perform.”

“Like ’er grandfather, that one,” Mrs. Crabtree declared.

It was a compliment, Harry knew. Still, he was having a difficult time reconciling this new perspective on Black and his granddaughter with what he knew of them.

Heavy steps shuffled into the kitchen, and Mrs. Gates greeted the newcomer. “Good morning, Lizzie. Is Miss Tessa ready for her tray?”

Lizzie, a robust woman with a perpetually downturned mouth, shook her head. “Told me last night that she weren’t to be disturbed this morning. Wanted to stay abed, she said.”

The words roused Harry’s suspicion. “From what I’ve observed, Miss Todd is an early riser.”

“A week and you got her pegged, have you?” Lizzie’s arms crossed beneath her ample bosom, her expression reminding him of a bulldog’s. “Well, I’ve been with Miss Tessa ten years, and I daresay I know her better than you.”

Of the staff, the lady’s maid had been the only one to take an antagonistic attitude toward Harry.

Aping her mistress, no doubt.

“It is my job to understand Miss Todd’s patterns,” he said.

“It’s my job to see her wishes obeyed,” Lizzie shot back. “And she don’t want to be disturbed.”

Rather than argue, he headed for his charge’s bedchamber.

The house had servants’ passages constructed throughout, and he took the stairs to the first floor, Lizzie huffing and puffing behind him. He paid her no mind, opening the panel and exiting onto the hallway. Passing gilt-framed landscapes, he strode towards Miss Todd’s suite and knocked briskly on her door.

“Miss Todd, this is Bennett,” he said.

When there was no reply, premonition knotted his gut.

“She’s still sleeping.” Lizzie’s indignant voice came from behind him. “Stop that racket before you wake her up.”

He knocked louder. “Answer me, or I’m coming in.”

“Don’t you dare open that door!” Lizzie screeched.

He tested the door handle. Locked. Of bloody course.

Rearing back, he charged shoulder-first at the door. The barrier flew open, and he had an instant to register the empty room before an icy torrent rushed over him. Dumbfounded, he swung his head up, swiping at his spectacles to clear his vision.

Through the clinging droplets, he saw an empty bucket over the door. It was suspended by a system of ropes and pulleys, the mechanism triggered by a string tied to the door handle. He might have been impressed by the complexity of the apparatus if he wasn’t so furious.

Steam fogged his lenses.

“Told you not to open the door,” Lizzie said.

At his smoldering glare, she shrugged and left.

A drop of water slid down his brow. He ripped off his spectacles, searching his coat pockets for a handkerchief. A snarl left him when that came out sopping wet as well.