A Measure of Menace (Kat Holloway Mysteries #7.5)

Chapter 1

October 1883

“ L ord Clifford has arrived,” Mr. Davis, the Mount Street house’s butler, announced as he entered the kitchen.

I glanced up in surprise from my worktable, where papers, my notebook, and several cooking tomes were strewn about me. I’d seized the opportunity of having no family in the house to go over my recipes for the next social Season, which would begin in January. I’d be expected to come up with a myriad of meals for whatever gatherings my mistress, Mrs. Bywater, had planned, and I wanted to be prepared.

“I beg your pardon?” I demanded of Mr. Davis.

The Bywaters had taken Lady Cynthia, their niece, with them to their country house in Somerset to enjoy crisp autumn weather and the shooting. I knew neither Mr. nor Mrs. Bywater would actually creep through wet grass to aim a shotgun, but they would happily eat whatever their friends bagged. Mrs. Bywater was one for brisk walks but no exertion beyond that.

Cynthia, I imagined, would suffer continuous ennui. While she delighted in vigorous activity, she was not keen on her aunt’s and uncle’s rather vapid acquaintances in the country.

They’d left most of the staff behind, except Mr. Bywater’s valet and Sara, the upstairs maid who doubled as a lady’s maid. Mrs. Bywater had decided that anyone else would be too much expense in train tickets.

We were to keep the house in order and well stocked for the Bywaters’ return later in the winter. I’d half expected Mrs. Bywater to insist we take less pay, as the family would not be in residence, but I suspected Cynthia had prevented that.

“Lord Clifford asked that I make up a room for him,” Mr. Davis answered, clearly annoyed. He’d wanted this quiet time to inventory the wine, and Lord Clifford had the habit of pinching bottles from the cellar. “He tells me that he requires only a light repast for supper.”

I gazed around the empty kitchen in dismay. The dresser held a small box of aging potatoes and a few herbs. A pot of stock slowly burbled on the back of the stove as always. I’d retained enough in the larder to feed the staff, but there was little more than that.

“Oh, does he just?” I all but snapped.

“Indeed. Mrs. Redfern is settling him in, being very civil.”

Which meant that Mrs. Redfern was as annoyed as the rest of us.

Lord Clifford was Lady Cynthia’s father. Mr. Bywater’s sister had married him, connecting the Bywaters’ ordinary but well-off family with penniless aristocrats.

Lord Clifford was a rogue of the first water, who had more or less swindled his way into his title. By now, all other claimants had passed away, so he really was the Earl of Clifford, but at one point, he had definitely not been first in line.

I rather liked the rapscallion, who had an absent-minded kindness in him, and he had suffered the loss of two of his children. But whenever Lord Clifford appeared, trouble soon followed.

“Well, his repast will be very light.” I slammed my notebook shut and tossed down my pencil. “I can nip out to the market, but I doubt I will find anything at this hour.” It was late afternoon, and anything good in the markets would be gone.

Mr. Davis, having no reply to this, stalked from the kitchen and continued down the passageway to his butler’s pantry. The banging door sent a cold draft that fluttered my papers at the table.

I tidied my books and notes before I rose and snatched up my coat and basket. I ordered Tess, who’d just come in but lingered in the scullery to chat with Elsie, the scullery maid, to start slicing the potatoes. I’d given Tess the afternoon out, as we weren’t busy and I’d wanted the time to work on my menus, so she was bubbling with good spirits.

“Right you are, Mrs. H.,” she said cheerily, sailing into the kitchen.

“Put them in a bowl of cold water, so they won’t turn brown,” I instructed before I charged out of the scullery door, trying not to mutter under my breath about unheeding lordships who couldn’t be bothered to send word ahead.

The cool air as I ascended to the street calmed me somewhat—it was a lovely autumn evening—but Lord Clifford had caught us at a decided disadvantage.

However, I, a mere cook, could not turn out an aristocrat from his daughter’s home or refuse to feed him. If I dug in my heels and informed him he’d have to find a meal elsewhere, I’d soon be out a post, and when all is said and done, I am a practical woman.

Also, I was a bit curious as to why Lord Clifford had abruptly turned up. Mr. Davis had made no mention of his wife accompanying him, or Lady Cynthia either. Why he wasn’t at his country estate engaged in shooting fowl like the Bywaters and every other gentleman in Britain was a mystery.

The greengrocer in Oxford Street had slim offerings, as I’d suspected. I filled my basket with a few small cabbages, choosing those with the fewest dark spots, some additional potatoes that weren’t too soft, and carrots that were the crispest of the lot.

I had some salt pork in the larder, but that was hardly fit for an earl, so I stepped to the nearest meat market for sausages the butcher hurriedly wrapped for me. He was about to close up shop and not happy he had one last customer to wait upon. I thanked him sweetly, paid over the coins, and headed home.

Once Tess and I had chopped everything, I put the vegetables and sausages together in a pan along with the potatoes that Tess had already prepared, stirring vigorously with my metal spoon to relieve my pique.

When the meal was complete, I sent it up with a few homemade buns, hot from the oven. I always had fresh dough handy so I could bake what I needed to. For sweet, Lord Clifford would have to make do with cheese and a few sliced figs. Mr. Davis raised his brows over the offering, no doubt worrying about what wine would go with it.

He sighed and took himself upstairs, his stiff back telling me he hadn’t recovered from his irritation.

The staff were happy to tuck into the remainder of the dish, rounded out with the salt pork and more buns. I ate with them, though I usually took my meals alone or with Mrs. Redfern. Someone needed to keep an eye on the under servants—the footmen in particular were wont to be too boisterous. Mr. Davis and Mrs. Redfern were upstairs waiting on Lord Clifford, so it fell to me to be their minder.

Mr. Davis returned before I’d finished my repast.

“Lord Clifford requests to see you, Mrs. Holloway,” he announced in his haughty butler’s tones. “Right away, if you please.”

I dabbed my mouth with my napkin then stood and carried my plate to the kitchen. I set it on the table and laid my napkin over it, indicating I’d return. I was still hungry and did not want the others to pinch my food.

“He gobbled up his meal fast enough,” Mr. Davis said to me once we were in the passageway. “Never seen a man eat so intensely. Didn’t make much conversation, only demanded more wine once he’d slurped down the first glass.”

“And wishes to see me?” I asked with misgivings. I gestured toward the back stairs. “Shall we?”

Mr. Davis shook his head. “He stressed that you should come alone. Which suits me. I’d like some of that supper myself.”

“I have a plate warming for you on the stove,” I told him.

Mr. Davis sent me a grateful nod and made his way into the kitchen, finished with Lord Clifford. I dropped my grease-stained apron into the laundry room as I passed it, smoothed my hair, and climbed the stairs to the main house.

It was very quiet with the family gone. I missed Lady Cynthia, who liked to bound down to the kitchen and chatter away, regaling me with tales of her unconventional friends. Her conversation these days was full of Mr. Thanos, a clever but shy young man who lectured at the Polytechnic in Cavendish Square. I was pleased with her interest.

I entered the large dining room to find Lord Clifford by himself—Mrs. Redfern must still be busy opening up rooms for him. He was seated at the head of the table, in Mr. Bywater’s place. The table, even without its extra leaves, held eight, and Lord Clifford looked small and alone in the vast space.

Lord Clifford’s hair was a light shade of brown touched with gray that receded from a high forehead. He’d let his moustache and sideburns grow thicker since I’d last seen him, possibly to compensate for losing more hair on the top of his head.

He shoveled in a last mouthful of the meal I’d prepared for him, wiped his lips on the linen napkin, and beamed at me, though his smile held some sadness.

“An excellent repast, Mrs. Holloway. I should have expected no less. What did you call this dish?” Lord Clifford tapped his empty but sauce-streaked plate with his fork.

“Bubble and squeak,” I answered. “I am afraid there was little else to feed you.”

“Bubble and what?” The earl chuckled. “Excellent. I must have our own cook learn to prepare it.”

“I’m certain she already knows, your lordship. It is a common dish below stairs, made with leftover cabbage, potatoes, and sausage or bacon. Except I bought most everything fresh tonight and added some carrots for body.”

“Well, it was excellent, whatever you call it.” Lord Clifford pushed the plate away. “Do sit down, Mrs. Holloway. I need to speak to you.”

I curtsied stiffly. “That would be quite inappropriate, your lordship.”

“Pish-tosh. There is no one here. It’s why I sent old Davis and Mrs. Redfern away. I have something I wish to tell you, most urgently, and no one else can overhear.”

With one hand, he shoved out the chair next to him. I contemplated it, then moved down the table to the chair above the one he wished me to take and conceded to sit in that. It did feel good to let my legs bend, but I held my hands in my lap and kept my back straight.

“Very well.” Lord Clifford breathed the words in exasperation. “I came to you because I heard my nuisance in-laws were out of the house. I’m in a bit of a bind, Mrs. Holloway, about a very delicate matter.”

I kept my face impassive, not wishing to betray the alarm that filled me at his every word. “What is this delicate matter?” I made myself ask.

Lord Clifford traced designs on the tablecloth with the handle of his fork. A few drops of dark sauce fell on the linen, but I said nothing about it.

“You see, I owed a chap a powerfully large sum of money,” he said after a few moments of silence.

Oh, dear. Lord Clifford could be a bit of a confidence trickster, but he also, according to Cynthia, sometimes wagered heavily or became enmeshed in dealings he could not afford to be, and so had to borrow money to get out of them.

“A moment, your lordship,” I said, as his precise wording struck me. “You said owed. Do you not owe this man any longer?”

“No.” Lord Clifford drew a sharp breath. “Because he’s dead. Bashed on the head, or knifed, or something, a few days ago.” He dropped the fork to the plate with a clatter and fixed me with a desperate gaze. “Some think I did it. I did not. I need you, Mrs. Holloway, and that clever fellow, McAdam, to prove I am innocent.”