me that he had hired Faircourt House on my behalf from the marquess. I’m sure that you and Mrs. Peasley will serve us well. He promised to provide me with a running footman, too, since none of my lads knows London at all.”
“Indeed, sir, you will find our Jeremy entirely satisfactory. Quite dependable, and I should know, sir, for he is my nephew and knows the city as well as I do.”
While he talked, Mr. Peasley had made gestures toward someone inside the house, and several men hastened into the street now to unload such baggage as the coaches carried, and to direct the outriders and men-at-arms around to the mews. Within minutes, the personal servants and the nursemaids and their charges had been whisked upstairs, and Balcardane and his party had passed through a grand marble entrance hall, up a wide marble stairway, into a splendid yellow-and-white saloon. The room boasted boldly modeled plaster decoration, coffered ceilings, modillioned cornices, pedimented doorcases, a floral carpet, and ornamented furnishings. A neatly dressed maid under Mr. Peasley’s direction began to serve refreshments as soon as the three ladies and the gentlemen were seated.
Pinkie had all she could do to conceal her awe. She had seen a number of noble homes in Edinburgh, and she had lived for the past decade in one or another of two sprawling Scottish castles, but she had never seen the equal of Faircourt House. From outside, the house had seemed elegant, to be sure, but it had been no more than well-arranged bricks, stonework, and iron. The marble entry with its tall columns, black and white marble floor, and swooping stairway had taken her breath away. The saloon, with its elegant furnishings, delicately gilded in what she would soon learn was “the French taste,” made her wish Mr. Peasley had shown them first to their bedchambers. She was certain that dust from the road still clung to her skirts and was even now depositing itself on the lovely blue damask upholstery.
After a sip from her cup, Lady Agnes exclaimed, “What very fine tea this is!”
Peasley said, “Lady Rothwell sent it, your ladyship. She expressed the hope that it would prove to your liking. The house contains a proper tea-drinking room, of course, but after your long journey, Mrs. Peasley and I thought you would prefer to relax in here for a time. Oh, but that reminds me, my lord,” he added, clapping a hand to his breast, then reaching inside his coat. “His lordship sent this message for you. I put it where I should not forget it, and here I’ve nearly gone and done so.”
The earl, who was taking a mug of ale from a tray the maid held out to him, accepted the letter with his free hand. He was looking for a place to set down the mug when one of his own footmen entered, observed his need, and quickly drew forth a side table for his use.
“Thanks, lad,” he said, setting down the mug, then breaking the seal on the letter. With a shrewd look at the footman, he added, “You got yourself sorted out right quickly, did you not?”
“Aye, my lord.” The young man glanced at the maid and the butler. “Fergus Owen thought ye’d be wishful to ha’ some of yer ain folk about, not meaning any disrespect to ye, Mr. Peasley.”
The earl said, “This is Dugald, Peasley. He is generally a dependable lad.”
“Indeed, my lord, he looks it,” Peasley said, regarding the tall, well-built young footman with approval.
Pinkie sipped her tea, resisting the impulse to get up and wander about the saloon. She would have liked to look more closely at the gilded pier glasses and mirrors, and the paintings on the walls, or just to look out the window to see what she could see. She noted that Lady Agnes was as fascinated as she was, and was not troubling herself to conceal the fact.
The dowager was a plump little woman in her late fifties with soft features and pale blue eyes. Her once mouse-brown hair had turned splendidly white with age, which she thought a great
“Indeed, sir, you will find our Jeremy entirely satisfactory. Quite dependable, and I should know, sir, for he is my nephew and knows the city as well as I do.”
While he talked, Mr. Peasley had made gestures toward someone inside the house, and several men hastened into the street now to unload such baggage as the coaches carried, and to direct the outriders and men-at-arms around to the mews. Within minutes, the personal servants and the nursemaids and their charges had been whisked upstairs, and Balcardane and his party had passed through a grand marble entrance hall, up a wide marble stairway, into a splendid yellow-and-white saloon. The room boasted boldly modeled plaster decoration, coffered ceilings, modillioned cornices, pedimented doorcases, a floral carpet, and ornamented furnishings. A neatly dressed maid under Mr. Peasley’s direction began to serve refreshments as soon as the three ladies and the gentlemen were seated.
Pinkie had all she could do to conceal her awe. She had seen a number of noble homes in Edinburgh, and she had lived for the past decade in one or another of two sprawling Scottish castles, but she had never seen the equal of Faircourt House. From outside, the house had seemed elegant, to be sure, but it had been no more than well-arranged bricks, stonework, and iron. The marble entry with its tall columns, black and white marble floor, and swooping stairway had taken her breath away. The saloon, with its elegant furnishings, delicately gilded in what she would soon learn was “the French taste,” made her wish Mr. Peasley had shown them first to their bedchambers. She was certain that dust from the road still clung to her skirts and was even now depositing itself on the lovely blue damask upholstery.
After a sip from her cup, Lady Agnes exclaimed, “What very fine tea this is!”
Peasley said, “Lady Rothwell sent it, your ladyship. She expressed the hope that it would prove to your liking. The house contains a proper tea-drinking room, of course, but after your long journey, Mrs. Peasley and I thought you would prefer to relax in here for a time. Oh, but that reminds me, my lord,” he added, clapping a hand to his breast, then reaching inside his coat. “His lordship sent this message for you. I put it where I should not forget it, and here I’ve nearly gone and done so.”
The earl, who was taking a mug of ale from a tray the maid held out to him, accepted the letter with his free hand. He was looking for a place to set down the mug when one of his own footmen entered, observed his need, and quickly drew forth a side table for his use.
“Thanks, lad,” he said, setting down the mug, then breaking the seal on the letter. With a shrewd look at the footman, he added, “You got yourself sorted out right quickly, did you not?”
“Aye, my lord.” The young man glanced at the maid and the butler. “Fergus Owen thought ye’d be wishful to ha’ some of yer ain folk about, not meaning any disrespect to ye, Mr. Peasley.”
The earl said, “This is Dugald, Peasley. He is generally a dependable lad.”
“Indeed, my lord, he looks it,” Peasley said, regarding the tall, well-built young footman with approval.
Pinkie sipped her tea, resisting the impulse to get up and wander about the saloon. She would have liked to look more closely at the gilded pier glasses and mirrors, and the paintings on the walls, or just to look out the window to see what she could see. She noted that Lady Agnes was as fascinated as she was, and was not troubling herself to conceal the fact.
The dowager was a plump little woman in her late fifties with soft features and pale blue eyes. Her once mouse-brown hair had turned splendidly white with age, which she thought a great
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