Page 37 of A Countess Never Tells

Joan clucked her tongue, looking sympathetic at last.

He held the note out to her. “So I was wondering if you would be so kind as to take this note to Miss Tate, so I won’t lose my job.”

“Oh, well, yes, sir.” Taking the folded paper from him, she looked up at him and smiled. “I can get this up to Miss Tate right enough.” Her smile turned more interested. “I’d ’ate a nice-lookin’ footman like you to be out o’ a job just because o’ a little dirt on your clothes.”

Ash beamed back at her. “Thank you, Joan.” He made a bow to her. “I’m ever so much obliged.”

“You’re welcome. Mr. …?” She looked at him expectantly.

“Malcolm. Ashton Malcom.” Ash took her hand and kissed it, turning on every ounce of charm possible. “I’m very much in your debt, Joan.”

“Well, Mr. Malcolm,” the girl batted her eyes at him, “since I’ve got me ’alf day this Saturday, if you’ve a mind to walk in Hyde Park in the afternoon, maybe I’ll see you there.”

“Thank you, Joan.” He winked at her. “I’ll see if that can be arranged with Mr. Hartley.”

Joan blushed to the roots of her red hair.

“’Til Saturday, then.”

“I’ll be waitin’ for you, Mr. Malcolm.” She smiled bewitchingly at him once more then turned back toward the house.

Ash waited until the maid had entered the house before leaving by way of the gate. As he strolled along the street, receiving some outraged stares due to the disrepair of his clothes, he made two notes to himself. One was to replace his footman’s livery forthwith and the second was to send a small nosegay of field flowers to Miss Foster on Saturday with regrets from Mr. Malcolm that he was unable to meet her. It simply wouldn’t do for his alter-ego to jilt the poor girl without so much as an explanation.

****

Nearing the end of the second volume of Clarissa, Kitty almost didn’t hear the hesitant knock on the door. She pulled the brown silk reading ribbon down between the pages before closing the book and setting it on the table. “Come in.”

The door opened to admit Mrs. Hayworth, her brother’s housekeeper, and a young girl no more than fifteen. “Good afternoon, Miss Tate. I hate to disturb you, but Joan here has a note to deliver to you. I’m sure I don’t know why she wouldn’t let me bring it to you.”

“Because I promised Mr. Malcolm, the footman, I’d deliver it myself, Mrs. Hayworth.” The girl clutched a small square of folded paper, sealed with blue wax, in her hand. “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Tate.” The girl curtsied and brought the note to Kitty.

“You say this note is from a Mr. Malcolm?” Kitty knew no one by that name and was immediately suspicious. Was this a ruse perpetrated by Lord Baltimore to lure her out? Her senses snapped to attention.

“Not from Mr. Malcolm, miss. He’s a footman sent from Lady Phoebe with the name o’ her new mantua maker you said you wanted.” The girl seemed eager for her to take the note.

“Thank you, Joan.” Kitty looked at the envelope, turning it over in her hands. She cocked her head. The writing wasn’t Lady Phoebe’s. They’d corresponded too long for Kitty to mistake it. “And how did you come by it?” She looked at the housekeeper. “Why didn’t it come from Barr?”

“Oh, because poor Mr. Malcolm’s livery was muddied where he took a fall on his way ’ere, miss.” Quite chatty now, the maid settled down to relate all the details. “He was afraid Mr. Barr would report him to his butler for looking disreputable and then he’d get the sack.”

“I doubt the Wymer’s butler would sack a footman just because his suit got muddy.” Mrs. Hayworth shook her head. “These young footmen get notions about such things.”

Kitty still wasn’t convinced. Baltimore hadn’t accosted her at all, yet. This could be the perfect opportunity. “What did Mr. Malcolm look like, Joan?”

“Very ’andsome, he was, miss.” Joan’s eyes lit up, her voice more excited. “Not tall, as footmen go, but he ’ad a good build. Blond ’air and the bluest eyes you ever saw. Like starin’ into the sky, miss.” She sighed and smiled. “I think we’re walkin’ out on Saturday afternoon.”

Kitty sat upright as though someone had poured cold rainwater down her back. “Did he say anything else, Joan?”

The girl put her head in her hands and thought a moment. “No, Miss Tate. Or just ’is name. A funny sort o’ Christian name, it was.”

“What was it?” Kitty held her breath.

“Ashton Malcolm.”

Ash. Kitty sighed, releasing the breath she’d been holding. Thank goodness. “Thank you, Mrs. Hayworth, Joan. I’ll write to thank Lady Phoebe directly.” Sitting on the edge of her chair until the servants left, Kitty then slumped in her seat, broke the seal, and unfolded the note.

Dearest Kitty,

Please arrange to meet me this afternoon at three o’clock for a ride in the park. If you can, meet my carriage at the corner of St. Albans and Buckminster. We need to plan strategy.