“So late in the year, is it no’?” Grif suggested.
“Indeed it is,” the woman said, peering at Grif suspiciously. “I thought it rather odd that Lady Dalkeith did not mention her houseguests in her letter. One would think she would encourage her old friend to welcome her guests in her stead and until her return, wouldn’t one?”
Ah, but he knew what the old battle-ax was about and smiled charmingly. “One would think it, aye. But then again, Lady Dalkeith would no’ yet know that we’ve arrived a wee bit early, would she, then?” he asked. “And therefore, any such encouragement would come in her next letter, would it no’?”
Lady Worthall’s pudgy face scrunched up in confusion.
“Good evening, Lady Worthall,” he said, and, tipping his hat, he walked on before she could question him further. He did not look back, walked directly to the house, jogged up the steps, and quickly stepped inside. Only then did he release his breath and have a look out the small portal window to see if she’d followed him.
Dudley joined him there, trying to peer over his shoulder. “Worthall,” Grif said gruffly. “God blind me, but that old woman is a meddlesome bother!”
“There’s bound to be some talk, sir,” a stoic Dudley said as he calmly held out his hands for Grif’s gloves and hat. “We canna avoid it.”
Dudley was right, of course, Grif thought, stepping away from the window. They would eventually be discovered, if not by Lady Worthall, then by someone else. Not one of them believed they could perpetuate this lie forever. The question was, how long could they? A month? A year? A day?
“I’ve been to the kirkwarden to review the parish registers, sir,” Dudley said as he put Grif’s things away.
“Aye? And?”
“Mi Diah! Ye’ve no’ seen such confusion! There’s register after register, and no’ a legible Amelia found in any of them save the ones ye’ve already found!” He picked up a silver tray upon which were two folded pieces of vellum. “I think ye’ll have better luck finding our Amelia among the likes of these,” he said.
Grif grinned; the vellums were addressed to The Honorable Griffin MacAulay, Lord Ardencaple. Quite honestly, he loved the sound of that.
He broke the seal on the first one. It was an invitation to another ball, this one hosted by Lord and Lady Valtrain. He had been introduced briefly to Lady Valtrain at the Swindon Ladies Society tea. Apparently, he’d complimented her well enough to be remembered.
The second vellum was likewise an invitation, to a supper party, extended by Lady Seaton. In her handwritten note, Lady Seaton claimed to be both delighted and thrilled to have made his esteemed acquaintance, and that she very much hoped he could attend, as this would be an “intimate affair.” Grif had been in London long enough to know that intimate meant no fewer than two dozen persons, perhaps even more.
He turned a broad grin to Dudley and held up the invitations. “We’ll find our Amelia yet, by God. I’ll send ye out with the replies posthaste.”
“Aye, sir,” Dudley said. “Ye’ll find parchment in the sitting room.”
Grif happily started in that direction, but was brought to an abrupt halt by the unmistakable sound of a woman’s voice. For a moment, he stood frozen, then slowly turned and looked at Dudley. “MacAlister?”
Dudley looked to the corridor that led to the kitchen stairs and sighed wearily. “It would seem we’ve gained a cook, sir.”
“A cook my arse,” Grif growled, and slapped the invitations in Dudley’s hand. “Put them in the sitting room, would ye, while I have a word with me valet.”
He strode down the corridor to the narrow hallway and the stairs leading to the kitchen below. But as he started his descent, the scent of something wonderfully delicious reached his nose. As he and Hugh and Dudley had failed miserably in the task of cooking, smelling something that delicious slowed him a step or two.
He saw Hugh first, leaning against a long wooden table, his arms folded across his chest, watching intently as a woman chopped carrots with the efficiency of an executioner.
“Ah!” Hugh called cheerfully as he caught sight of Grif. “Ye smelled a heavenly aroma, did ye no’?”
Grif didn’t answer, just slowly walked into the room, his eyes on the young red-haired woman. She did not spare him a glance, just kept chopping.
“I’d like to introduce ye to our new cook, Miss Brody,” Hugh said, obviously pleased with himself. “Miss Brody, curtsey if ye would to the right honorable Griffin MacAulay, earl of Ardencaple.”
Miss Brody curtsied without missing a stroke. Hugh beamed proudly.