Chapter 7

Since dawn, James had been cleaning silver utensils in the butler’s pantry near the cellar kitchen. It was late morning now, and the heap of dirty rags beside him had grown into a mountain. So had the pile of gleaming knives and forks. God only knew what ingredients were in the pasty concoction he was using, but it stunk to high heaven. The stench blocked out even the aromas of baking bread and roasting meat wafting from the kitchen.

He rubbed at a stubborn bit of tarnish on a soup spoon. A family dinner party was scheduled for this evening, and of course the table couldn’t possibly be set with the same silver service that had been used at the ball a few nights ago. That would have been far too convenient.

But at least he’d been assigned to serve tonight. After three days on staff, he finally would have the chance to take a close look at George Crompton.

Was the man his cousin—or not?

James cooled his simmering impatience. As the newest man on staff, he had been assigned every dirty task disliked by the other footmen. His temper was further eroded by the fact that he was isolated down here in the cellar, where the only natural light trickled through a window slit located high in the wall. Having spent most of his adult life in the West Indies, he was accustomed to being out in the sunshine and fresh air, not buried away like a mole in a dank burrow.

He itched to join the other servants working above stairs. At least then he might finagle a way to search for evidence to prove that George and Edith Crompton were imposters.

Hearing voices, he stepped to the doorway and peered into the dimly lit corridor. Outside the laundry room, a stout maid was handing a pile of folded linens to the Hindu servant, Kasi.

The sight galvanized James. He had wanted to interrogate the old woman ever since his arrival here. She was the only one who had lived in India with the Cromptons. But Kasi had been forever upstairs, tending to the needs of the family. She didn’t even take her meals with the staff.

Blast the silverware. He could not waste this prime opportunity.

Tossing down the spoon, he seized a clean rag and scrubbed the black tarnish from his hands. He snatched up the obligatory white gloves and tugged them on as he rushed out into the corridor.

The laundry maid had vanished. So had Kasi.

But luck saved him. He caught a glimpse of her orange sari as she rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

In hot pursuit, James strode swiftly down the passageway. The scents of starch and dampness hung heavy in the cool air. He spied the Indian woman as she started up the narrow wooden staircase that led to the upper floors.

“Wait, please!” he called.

Holding the pile of folded undergarments, she stopped on the second step and turned to gaze impassively at him. A tiny red dot glinted on her forehead in between her eyes.

Was that the Evil Eye he’d heard whispered about by the other servants? They all seemed in awe of the woman.

“Pardon me,” he said, giving her a respectful bow. “I hope you’ll permit me a moment of your time. I wanted to inquire as to how long you’ve worked for the Crompton family.”

“I am ayah to sahib’s little girls.”

“Ayah … is that a nursemaid or a governess?”

Her plump brown features took on a placid look. In her musical voice, she said, “Ayah feed babies, play games, sing to sleep.”

Questions gripped James. If Kasi had been with the Crompton girls since they were born, then she must be privy to the truth. She must know if the master of the house was the real George Crompton—or a swindler who had cheated James out of his inheritance.

Of course, Crompton would have paid this woman handsomely to keep his secrets. He would not have taken the risk of bringing her to London with the family without being absolutely certain of her loyalty.

James needed to win her trust. So he formulated a lie that would explain his interest in the family’s background. “You’ve known them for quite a long time, then. I was wondering what manner of man is Mr. Crompton? You see, I would like to move to India someday, and I’m curious if you think he might write me a reference.”

Kasi shrugged. “You ask sahib. I do not know.”

“Don’t go yet.” James mounted the steps in an effort to stop her from leaving. “Please, I would merely like to know your assessment of him. Is he a kind master? Is he honest and obliging? Or is he perhaps cold and ruthless in matters of business?”

The Indian woman stared at him. Under the scrutiny of those dark currant eyes, a prickling ran over his skin, and he had the sudden illogical sense that she could read his mind and see his true purpose.

Nonsense. He couldn’t have given himself away with a few questions. No one here knew that James was really George Crompton’s cousin and heir.

The scuff of approaching footsteps broke the silence. A maidservant in mobcap and gray gown trudged around the corner. She was toting a large breakfast tray. Upon seeing them on the stairway, she halted so fast that the dishes clattered.

It was Meg, the saucy maid who had given up on flirting with James. Her startled attention was focused on Kasi.

The Indian woman scowled, her eyes narrowing to slits. Meg sucked in an audible breath, stepped swiftly backward, and bumped hard into the wall.

The breakfast tray tilted. James leaped down the few steps and grabbed it from her. But he wasn’t fast enough to stop one of the covered dishes from flying off. Toast and china scattered all over floor. Miraculously, the plate didn’t break.

Halfway down the long corridor, a man stepped out of the kitchen. James silently cursed the bad timing. Godwin, the head footman, was a nitpicking taskmaster who’d kept a close watch on James.

“What’s the matter there?” Godwin snapped.

“It was merely a slight mishap,” James called. “No harm done.”

“See to it that the mess is cleaned up,” Godwin ordered before vanishing back into the kitchen.

Meg was still staring at the staircase. “’Tis the Evil Eye,” she whispered.

James would have laughed out loud had she not looked so genuinely terrified. And if he wasn’t so frustrated from being thwarted in his interrogation of Kasi.

The Hindu woman had vanished up the stairs. Blast it, he would have to delay any further questioning until another time.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he told Meg. “Kasi is harmless. Now, you’ll need to replenish this tray. Where were you taking it?”

“To-to Miss Crompton.”

All of his senses snapped to alertness. Luck had handed him an opportunity on a silver platter—quite literally. “You’re too shaken to carry something so heavy. I’ll deliver it myself.”