Page 25 of The Gilded Masquerade
Standing, he looked to Grayson’s desk and the several timepieces on decorative stands beside a tray of watchmaker tools. Fascinating. He was not aware his valet had a private avocation. “I appreciate the gravity of the scheme, but I trust you will find a way. Of course, the colonel could be induced with a bottle of brandy, but I daresay the downstairs staff will rather likely know all the answers to your gentle inquiries without causing suspicion among my family.”
“Indeed. The lot of them seem privy to all England’s tittle-tattle before making its way above stairs. When would you require this accomplished, sir?”
“After breakfast.”
He almost chortled at the shocked expression on Grayson’s face but thought better of it.
“Very well,” Grayson said, running his hand through his hair. “You may trust me with the matter.”
Chapter IX
Darcy’s Detective
It seemed to Grayson that the young lady’s identity was a tightly concealed secret. Not even cook —who made it her business to know everyone she prepared for—had any information, nor had Wickham the steward or Lady Anne’s lady’s maid.
Truth be told, he was quite enjoying his mission. Playing detective suited him and gave him a pleasure that being a gentleman’s gentleman had never afforded, something not even watchmaking and collecting provided. Not a soul within the manor would have suspected him to partake in such a scheme. It tickled his delight for one never knows what they are capable of unless their kind employer puts their trust in them.
Trudging through the snow toward the Pemberley stable and carriage house, he shivered, not from the fridged temperature but from the creeping ill-ease about Mr. Darcy’s endeavor. So many different outcomes could prove disastrous for the young lady, and the master’s, reputations.
“I say, you there! Young Peter!” He called out to the stable boy who assisted his father the stable master in the care of the horses and carriages.
“Morning, Mr. Grayson,” the boy said, stopping.
“Why, you are quite nipped from the frost,” he remarked, warm breath rising.
“Aw, ’tis nothing, sir. I fancy the snow!” the youth said.
“Ah, but these old bones do not share your enthusiasm. Good Lord, let us haste to the coach house.”
“Yes, sir.”
Entering the massive structure, the collector of fine watches enjoyed the luxurious array of conveyances, gaze settling on her ladyship’s new phaeton waiting for Spring. “Is your father within?” he asked.
“No, sir. A carriage broke a harness up on Old Peak Crossing and Da rode up to attend with Mr. Garvies.”
“Right you are. Perhaps you can assist me since you are a stablemaster apprentice,” he complimented.
The boy beamed. “One day I will be head coachman.”
“I have no doubt, young Peter. The master would like an accounting of last night’s groomsmen and carriage employment.”
It was an unlikely route of investigation but the last one he had within the confines of the estate. Not even last night’s calling cards had shed light on the mysterious woman.
“’Tis easy enough. Da keeps a tidy journal.”
“May I have a look?”
“It’s for Mr. Darcy, you say?”
“Most assuredly, and I will be sure to convey your kind assistance. In fact, I will see that cook sends you some of her ladyship’s favorite hot chocolate as a token of gratitude.”
“Oh yes! I’m sure ’tis no issue.”
The lad walked through the carriages, disappearing into the stablemaster’s office.
Bearing a smile and a book, young Peter returned, reiterating, “This is for Mr. Darcy, right?”
“He will be most gratified by your precautions.” He opened the ledger, eyes scanning down the long list of carriage, coachmen, destinations, and returns. Lambton Inn, Fairhaven, Ravenwood Lodge. “Were you present last night, Peter?”
