The Rosebud Burglar (a Victorian Romance) Page 2

  “What are you doing here, anyway?” she demanded. “Why aren’t you at work in the fields?”

  “Just givin’ me dogs a bit of a run, Miss. I mean, Lady Grenville. Loikes to stretch their legs, they does.”

  For the first time, she noticed the two hounds ambling nearby. “See to it that you take this bicycle to the manor straight away,” she commanded imperiously. “Leave it near the old brewery.”

  He nodded, gazing at her. Although she was accustomed to that kind of look from most males she encountered, she found that his scrutiny made her uncomfortable. Her current state notwithstanding, she knew that she was regarded as a beauty. She took for granted the way gentlemen jockeyed to write their names on her dance card so that they could gather her close to them, if only for a short time. How they exclaimed on the fairness of her skin, the soft sheen of her dark hair—as if she’d been ignorant of these attributes until they mentioned them. She could tell, when they leaned close in the garden on summer afternoons and begged her for the privilege of fetching a lemonade for her, that they were merely trying to look into the indigo blue depths of her eyes.

  But this man’s stare was disconcertingly direct—bold and appraising. She realized that the wet fabric clinging damply to her skin was molding itself against her, vividly outlining the curves of her hips and her long, graceful legs. In horror, she saw that her bodice and gown were torn so as to expose a creamy shoulder and a goodly portion of her bosom. Agitated, she held the bodice closed as well as she could with her fingers and tried for a dignified exit.

  “I shan’t tell my father about this,” she said, not entirely sure of what she meant.

  “That’s very kind of you, Lady Grenville,” he answered, his expression suspiciously close to a smirk.

  She hurried away, her mind already turning toward ways of getting into the manor without being seen. What time was it? She must make haste, if she was to bathe and change in time for the ball that evening. Blast that unmannerly blackguard by the pond! Why had he been able to leave her feeling so…uncertain of herself? It was not a feeling to which she, Raine Grenville, was accustomed.

  It was rare for her to have any dealings with her father’s tenants. With any luck, she thought, she would never have to encounter the man again.

  • • •

  Lady Grenville was in a state, by the sound of things. Raine, listening to her mother’s voice from behind a tall rack of wine bottles in the wine cellar, tried to make sense of the commotion. She wished that it would end, or move elsewhere, so that she could slip through the housekeeper’s room, down the east wing corridor and then up the back staircase that the servants used. Once on the second floor, she could make her way to her dressing room without being seen in this condition.

  “I didn’t think. I just didn’t think,” Raine heard her mother say, her voice betraying the beginnings of panic.

  What could be prompting such a fuss? Preparations for the ball were admittedly extensive, but they’d been underway all day and must be nearly completed. Half-dozen maids on hands and knees had polished the dance floor in the ballroom with stiff brushes and bees’ wax. Banks of fresh cut flowers brightened the suite of rooms opening off the ballroom that was being readied for refreshments. Servants were finished trimming the tapers on the dozens of yellow candles that would provide, from their perches in majestic candelabrum, the illumination for the evening. From the enticing aromas emanating from the kitchen, Raine could tell that the cooking of the fifty or so dishes that would be needed was well in hand. It certainly seemed like another successful ball was about to take place at the Grenville estate.

  Lady Grenville’s voice rose again. “When I sent Alcott off to have the surgeon attend to his arm, I didn’t give a thought to the plate.”

  Now Raine understood the cause of her mother’s alarm. As the family’s long-serving family butler, Alcott was the only one in the household entrusted with the key to the pantry safe, where the plate—the silverware—was kept. Dour and conscientious, Alcott took his duties seriously, keeping the key on his person at all times. It was even rumored that he slept on a cot in the pantry, to ensure that his domain remain undisturbed at night. From what Mrs. Denholm, the housekeeper, was saying, Raine deduced that Alcott had gashed his arm on some broken glass. It seemed the injury was serious enough to make him forget about the safe and the key when a concerned Lady Grenville sent him round to the surgeon to have the wound dressed.

  “What if he doesn’t return in time?” Lady Grenville said anxiously. “No one will be able to eat. The ball shall be ruined! Oh, I can’t think why Alcott was so dreadfully careless as to cut himself today of all days.”

  A new, unfamiliar voice was heard. “Oye think Oye kin hep ye, m’loidy.”

  Curiosity made Raine forsake the shelter of the wine rack. She leaned out of the doorway as far as she dared and saw a coarse, soot-covered man sidling up to her mother. It was the sweep who came twice weekly to tend to Seldington Manor’s numerous chimneys.

  Lady Grenville’s aristocratic nostrils widened delicately, either at the aroma or merely the sight of the unkempt creature before her. Rarely did she deal directly with a tradesman. A brittle beauty who conveyed an appealing impression of helplessness, her auburn hair and exquisitely large doe-brown eyes, set in a face renowned for the fineness of its features, made Raine’s mother seem like an aging wood nymph in an autumn forest.

  “This lad Oy’ve got wi’ me, ’e kin open it fer ye.” Having said this, the sweep thrust a small, shabbily-dressed boy towards her mother. Raine noticed that the boy’s feet were bare. And filthy. She knew many sweeps used young assistants to clear chimneys that were too narrow for grown men, but this lad could be no more than five years of age, could he? In spite of that, there was a wise and weary old man’s look in the thick-lashed hazel eyes that peered out from beneath an untidy mop of matted, straw-coloured hair.

  “’Is father, rest ’is soul, was a screwsman. Spent some time in Newgate for it, ’e did, when ’e got nicked. ’E taught the lad all ’e knew before the gin got ’im. Kyle here can open any safe, anywhere. ’E’s got a real gift for it.” The sweep delivered this endorsement as if Kyle’s talents were on the order of those of a Saville Row tailor instead of criminal skills passed along by a blackguard father.

  “Is that true?” Lady Grenville asked hopefully. “I’d be quite grateful for his assistance in this matter.”

  The boy was led into the pantry and brought to stand before the safe, which was much larger than he was. Raine strained to see what was happening, but several footmen and a housemaid blocked her view.

  “Oye need a twirl,” the boy announced.

  “What on earth is he talking about?” Raine heard her mother ask.

  “’E means a picklock,” came the chimney sweep’s oily voice. “Kyle, Oy’ve something in me wagon that should work. In the back. Step quickly and fetch it.”

  The boy ran off. He was back in five minutes, during which time Raine wondered why the sweep would carry about with him an instrument suitable for safecracking. Was he sizing up homes whose chimneys he cleaned for opportunities for theft? It was an unpleasant idea. Perhaps she should speak to her mother about discontinuing his service here. After he attended to the safe, of course.

  The boy squirmed through the small throng of adults and disappeared from Raine’s view. Whatever he did for the next few minutes must have held the rapt attention of those gathered, since no one uttered a word save for the sweep.

  “You’re gettin’ it, Kyle,” he said encouragingly. “Stay wi’ it.”

  She heard a click. The door to the safe must have opened just then, because there were audible sighs of relief from the watchful servants.

  The sweep rubbed his grimy hands together, pleased. “Amayzin, ain’t he, m’lady?”

  “Indeed.” Now that the crisis over the plate was averted, Lady Grenville’s composure reasserted itself. She appeared eager to move on to other things. “Mrs. Denholm, see to it that t
he sweep is compensated for his trouble. You will,” she said to the sweep, “make sure the boy receives a share.”

  “Of course, M’lady.” The sweep bowed. Lady Grenville swept away, several servants trailing anxiously in her wake.

  It was just in time. The dressing-bell was rung, to alert guests in far-flung rooms of the manor that it was time to begin dressing for the ball.

  Raine made her escape. As she left the wine cellar, she glimpsed Mrs. Denholm giving some coins to the sweep. She was quite sure that the little barefoot boy, Kyle, wouldn’t see so much as a ha’penny of the bounty.

  Chapter Two

  “Raine! You didn’t!”

  “I did.”

  “What was it like? I want to hear everything.” Elspeth settled herself into a cane-seated birch chair in Raine’s bedchamber, awaiting details. She was already dressed for the ball, in a white tulle gown that overwhelmed her small, thin frame. Two years younger than Raine, Elspeth favored their mother. Her auburn hair was of a dull shade, though, and her soft brown eyes were not as arresting, set as they were in a plain, honest face filled with unremarkable features.

  “We haven’t time now, Elspeth. I must have my bath in short order, or I’ll miss the quadrille.”

  Elspeth sighed, disappointed. “I wished I dared try it,” she said wistfully. “I wished I’d even thought of it, but I’m simply not as imaginative as you are. I should like to ride a bicycle, too.”

  Raine wasn’t listening. With the help of Branwen, the girls’ maid, she quickly shed her torn, muddy clothing.

  “Shall I mend it, Miss?” Branwen looked doubtfully at the dress.

  “Dispose of it,” Raine said carelessly.

  Branwen moved off to the dressing room that adjoined the bedchamber. From a carved mahogany armoire that dominated one wall, she removed the gown and underclothes that Raine would wear to the ball, laying them out carefully on Raine’s featherbed. Then she carried the ruined gown away.

  Now, wearing only a thin muslin wrapper of robin’s egg blue, Raine held a long, pleated sleeve out of the way as she tested the water in the hip bath with one finger.

  “Not hot enough,” she declared. “I shall have to have Branwen bring more.”

  “Raine, you haven’t time.” Elspeth sounded exasperated with her. “It is hot. I can see steam rising from it. And besides…” She lowered her voice. “Those pails of water Branwen has to carry up the stairs are quite heavy. Have you ever tried to lift one?”

  Raine chuckled. Elspeth could be so whimsical at times.

  “Of course not. Don’t be absurd.”

  “It is one thing for her to carry them up for your bath once, but to make her do it again because you weren’t here in good time—”

  “Where do you get such extraordinary ideas, Elspeth? If I wanted to bathe twenty times each day the girl would be obliged to bring water for me twenty times. That is the natural order of things. It is her job, so of course she doesn’t mind. Not that it would matter if she did. I am a bit surprised that you are more concerned for Branwen’s comfort than for mine, not caring at all that I could catch a chill by bathing in cold water.”

  With an aggrieved air, Raine slid out of her wrapper and eased herself into the bath, pretending to shiver a little.

  “Her face gets all red when she carries them.”

  It wasn’t like Elspeth to be so obstinate.

  “Then she should find another sort of position elsewhere.” Raine began lathering her arms with gillyflower-scented soap, admiring their willowy length but frowning when she found a small scratch on the otherwise flawless skin of her right forearm—a memento of her bicycling adventure, no doubt.

  “Would you like me to have Branwen dismissed, so that she’s free to seek a line of work that is not so arduous?”

  “You wouldn’t!” Elspeth fumed. “Branwen has been with us for years.”

  Raine allowed a beguiling smile to touch her lips. Elspeth could never tell when she was teasing. Naturally, she would not have Branwen dismissed: it would be far too much trouble to train a new maid to her liking.

  “I shan’t. This time. But do remember that I can. Someday you’ll have a household to manage, Elspeth. You must learn to deal firmly with servants, else they’ll take all sorts of liberties with you.”

  Elspeth, partially placated, left then to go and greet the arriving guests.

  Raine, troubled, finished her bath in silence. There was a time when Elspeth would not have had the temerity to disagree with Raine, even over a matter as trivial as bath water. Docile and serious, she took her every lead from her older, more vibrant sister. Raine wasn’t sure she liked Elspeth’s recent shows of independence. She, Raine, was the leader, Elspeth the follower.

  That was the natural order of things.

  • • •

  “I wouldn’t advise it, Lord Grenville. If you increase the rents again, you’ll have a rebellion on your hands.”

  They were strong words from a man usually given to understatement. From behind his massive oak desk, Edward Grenville regarded his land agent uneasily. As always, Jakes looked out of place in the refined setting of Edward’s study, with its book-filled shelves and massive, hand-painted globe. From the distant ballroom came the abbreviated notes of the orchestra, tuning up for the first dance. The plaintive scales of the violinist reminded him that he must conclude this business quickly, or his wife would come to the study looking for him. Just now he could not bear to have his beloved sanctum disturbed.

  “Surely you’re exaggerating, Jakes.”

  “Not a bit of it, sir. The farmers are already sayin’ as how they can’t keep enough crops from the land they work to feed their own families. You’re charging more than most anyone else in the county, and there’s them that resent it. Some have moved on to other estates. Among the ones who stayed, there’s a lot of dangerous talk goin’ round.”

  Edward scrutinized Jakes. Was the man speaking truthfully? Accurately? The expression on Jakes’ weathered face was, as always, difficult to interpret, but his deep-set black eyes met Edward’s gaze unwaveringly.

  “Very well, Jakes. You may disregard my previous instructions.”

  Jakes bowed formally, an odd motion for such a large, work-roughened man. “Yes, m’lord.”

  When he was gone, Edward slumped back in his armchair, surveying the leather-bound ledger lying open in front of him. How had things come to such a dire pass? The notations in the ledger would hold no special terror for him had it not been for the destruction, five months past, of the textile mill in the north his family had owned for more than a half-century. He supposed he should have paid more attention to its maintenance. Rotted by age, further weakened by the gnawing of rats, the wooden timber of the mill had succumbed easily to the fire, feeding it with its own materials until it grew large enough to consume not only the mill but the adjoining warehouse, which Edward also owned. The monetary loss had been staggering.

  Why had he not recognized how fragile was the line which separated luxury from penury? It was not entirely his fault. Since he’d been born, he’d known only plenty. There’d been little need to concern himself closely with business affairs, not even when his father died and he inherited the estate. A man holding title to 10,000 acres, Seldington Manor, a townhouse and a red-brick villa in London—the latter for a string of mistresses—along with innumerable horses, carriages and hounds could surely indulge himself in any way he wished.

  And so he had, foolishly paying little heed to the ever-increasing lines of credit extended to him by merchants here in the country and back in London. They were confident that the Earl of Grenville would make good his debts, rather than risk disgrace. He wished he were as confident.

  The horses alone were an absurdly costly enterprise, holding him accountable to an assortment of corn dealers, saddlers, harness makers and blacksmiths, not to mention the men he employed to feed, groom and otherwise care for them. It was unthinkable that the glossy beasts be hitched to any carriage l
ess elegant—or less expensive—than a four-wheeled barouche, a hooded landau, or one of the low-built victorias that his daughters so enjoyed.

  Edward felt trapped. What was he to do? Sell off his fine carriage horses and hunters and replace them with hacks? Dismiss the coachmen and allow his wife and daughters to be seen riding in Hyde Park in dusty, improperly maintained carriages?

  He might as well advertise his situation in the London Times.

  His wife’s penchant for entertaining also helped to tip the scales against solvency. The ball that was about to get underway would add even more figures to the wrong column in the ledger, and there’d been three just like it in recent months. And quite apart from the evening galas (which really were required, if one was to keep pace with one’s friends), the cost of simply maintaining the estate was staggering. Did Glynis have any notion that Seldington Manor—filled as it was with family members, guests and servants—used a ton of coal a day? Could she even guess at what the salaries of three dozen servants totaled?

  He chided himself. It was wrong to blame Glynis. She was no more extravagant than others of her set. She’d not been raised to concern herself with financial affairs. The very idea would seem ludicrous to her. No. It was his failure, not hers.

  A pile of bills sat on the desk, beside the ledger. There were notices from the greengrocer, the butcher, the best tailors, milliners and hosiers in London, the chandler, the coal porter and the waterman who delivered the heavy casks of water needed for cooking and bathing. All demanded payment.

  And taxes! He’d spared nary a thought for them a twelvemonth ago. Now, they weighed as heavily on him as shackles and chains on a prisoner. Paper, coal, salt, tobacco, soap and tea, candles and carriages and windows—for all the necessities of life, the Crown demanded an outrageous share.

  Edward reflected on his conversation with Jakes. He could not raise the rent and, since the destruction of the textile mill, it was his only real source of income. He’d formerly owned interest in a railroad line and a highly productive coal mine, but had sold them to try and ease his debts. He cursed the tradition of entailment, which had long held sway in England. Great landed families passed their estates down through the generations intact by binding the inheritors in a morass of legalities. Because of this blasted policy, Edward—just as other Grenville males—could not sell off a portion of his land. He was only entitled to take income from it.