Read Online The Dowager's Daughter by Mona Prevel - Free Book Online

you pass the time.”
    Marcus rose from the table and, presuming the interview to be over, John did likewise, not at all happy with the turn his life had taken.
    That’s it, he thought. As soon as I get back, I am going to tell Marcus and his cronies in government to go to the devil. I fail to see how I have helped the cause in any way. Perhaps the money put in the right hands helped hasten the downfall of that damned policeman, Fouche, but I have my doubts—that rascal is his own worst enemy.
    Marcus shook his hand, then grimaced. “I suggest that the first thing you do on reaching the house in London is to soak in a nice, hot bath—two would be better.” He scrutinized John’s face. “And for goodness’ sake, have Jenkins shave off that ghastly fuzz. I cannot for the life of me understand how you could lower your standards in such a fashion. You look like the very dregs of society.”
    “That is the point, brother dear. One can hardly blend in with the aforementioned dregs dressed like one of Brummell’s cronies, now can one? At least, and not live to be taking messages to Wellington.”
    Marcus raised a brow. “My—and you called me testy. Get out of the wrong side of the bed this morning, did we?”
    John remembered his spoiled breakfast. “One could say so.”
    “Never mind. A good night’s sleep at the London house will sort you out Jenkins has everything in hand. Your clothes ready to go and the necessary money to pay for the trip. Reliable chap you have there.”
    Without more ado, Marcus took his leave, stopping at the door to bestow upon John a breezy wave of farewell. As the door slammed, John gritted his teeth, taking umbrage at the way Marcus chose not to see the wretched life he had thrust upon his only brother while on the other hand, his own had not changed one iota.
    One thing he was sure of. He would not get a shave until he was good and ready.
    Determined to put the problem of her mother’s nocturnal escapades to the back of her mind for the time being, Althea spent the morning conferring with the housekeeper, Mrs. Denchforth. She had made a spot-check of some of the rarely used guest chambers in the east wing, and having detected a decided scent of mustiness in several, ordered a general airing and cleaning of a dozen or so of the rooms.
    On being dismissed, the housekeeper, apparently smarting from the imagined disparagement of her domestic skills, pulled eight of the chambermaids from their usual duties. She delivered a blistering tirade, pointing out their shortcomings in the field of domestic service, then sent them scurrying to the east wing of the Hall to rectify the matter of the neglected guest chambers. She followed at a statelier pace, her ample bosom thrust forward in what Althea presumed to be outraged dignity.
    Althea sighed, and returned to her own apartments. She had not meant to lay criticism at Mrs. Denchforth’s door. Given the dampness of the English climate, it took no time at all for an empty chamber to take on a whiff of mildew. Try as she might, Althea thought she would never be able to achieve that all-important rapport with servants that contributed toward harmony both above- and below-stairs.
    On entering her chambers, Lizzie, who was closely scrutinizing the lace on one of Althea’s morning dresses, looked up and smiled. “Had a set-to with the old she-dragon have you, my lady? That woman has one girl or another reduced to tears nearly every waking hour.”
    Althea forbore to remind her abigail that she should not be so forward, and at no time should be referring to the housekeeper in such a disparaging manner.
    Lizzie enjoyed such liberties on the strength of a friendship between them that harked back to when they were both in leading strings. As the gatekeeper’s daughter, she had grown up in the house, which was an integral part of the massive granite portals to the estate, and sometimes had been the only child on hand of Althea’s age for her to play