She wasn’t surprised to find no one available in the foyer or any of the immediate surrounding rooms to help her with her luggage. Her uncle’s staff was every bit as disinterested in their work as the Haldon staff was proud of theirs.
She’d heard one or two of Benton’s more democratic residents refer to Baron Eppersly as “a great champion of the downtrodden.” In truth, her uncle’s propensity for employing the old, the infirm and—primarily—the disreputable, had nothing to do with generosity and everything to do with cold calculation. A body in dire need of food and shelter was unlikely to voice complaint over the trifling matters of irregular pay and a few careless swats of a beefy hand.
Fear, however, was a long way from gratitude, and desperation hardly qualified as a skill. As a result, most of the skeletal staff at the house spent the majority of their time either begrudgingly seeing to the baron’s demands or doing nothing at all.
“There she is!”
Mirabelle jumped at the deep bellow that echoed from the top of the stairs, but as it was one of the few voices she didn’t fear at her uncle’s home, she turned to greet its source with a smile.
On any other occasion, Mirabelle might have made a concerted effort to avoid the likes of Mr. Cunningham. The man was loud, coarse, and outrageously crude. He also, for reasons that eluded her, invariably smelled overwhelmingly of vinegar and bad cabbage.
And wasn’t it a sad statement of her predicament, she thought, that she should be relieved to see him now? But then, in comparison to the rest of the guests, Mr. Cunningham was very nearly good company. For all his repulsive habits, he was a good-natured sort. She might have even gone so far as to call him jolly. He’d never been one to carelessly toss cruel insults in her direction, and he’d always had the manners to at least keep his hands to himself.
“Mirabelle, my girl,” he bellowed, and as always, ignored the fact that she had long ago reached an age where it was no longer appropriate for him to use her given name. “Good to see you! Good to see you!”
As the sound and smell of him drew closer, she took an instinctive step back, and wondered, not for the first time, why anyone who spoke with enough volume to wake the dead would find it necessary to always repeat himself.
“It’s good to see you as well, Mr. Cunningham. Are you headed out?”
“No, no. Not feeling quite the thing, you know. Not quite the thing.”
“I’m sorry to hear of it,” she said with at least some level of sincerity. “Nothing too serious, I hope?”
“Not at all. Not at all. Touch of the ague, I think. Deuced time to come down with it.”
“It is,” she replied, because she felt as if she ought to say something. “Can I do anything for you?”
“Well, since you asked, my girl—would you send someone up with a bit of broth? I rang the bell, but no one came. Not a soul!”
She’d have been surprised to learn someone had. The odds of a functioning bell pull outside her uncle’s bedchamber and study were slim. The odds of a servant troubling themselves to answer a bell that had originated outside her uncle’s bedchamber or study were slim to none. And the odds of both events occurring at once were non ex is tent.
“I’ll see to it, but just the broth? Isn’t there anything else you’d like?”
“Well, I wouldn’t object to the broth being carried up by the blonde maid with the generous bosom.” He brought his hands up to cup in front of his own appreciative chest. “Wouldn’t object a bit. Sight like that would perk any man up, eh?”
His face lit up, and in a way that had Mirabelle taking another step in retreat. She knew that expression.
“Perk a man up! Right up!” He laughed boisterously at his own joke, sending a cabbage-soaked breath in her direction. “Don’t you get it, girl?”
“I do,” she gasped.
“Not that I’d be able to do much more than stand to attention, mind you,” he admitted over a lingering chuckle. “Or that she’d pay one jot of notice if I did, not with the likes of Lord Thurston in residence. I did hear right, didn’t I, girl? Thurston will be joining us?”
“Yes. Unless he falls off his horse and breaks his neck on the way over,” she added, and with just enough hopefulness to have him chortling.
“I’ve caught sight of his lordship once or twice at Tatter-sall’s. Deuced good-looking man—the rotter—don’t tell me you wouldn’t care for a bit of what he could offer.”
“Only if the bit is his head, and it’s offered on a platter.”
“Oh-ho, I don’t believe it. Don’t believe a word of it. You may be able to fool others, girl, but not me. Known you since you were knee-high, haven’t I? Practically an uncle!”
“If only,” she murmured. If she had to have an embarrassing uncle, she’d have preferred this one. “I’d wager the baron would trade me for that roan mare you’re always bragging about.”
“My Gertie? Trade my only child for a mere niece?” He shook his head. “Wouldn’t make any sense. Any sense at all. And she throws fillies besides—doubt you’d be as accommodating.”