When the children eventually ran down and, having finally comprehended that, in taking refuge in Little Moseley, he might have ventured into an arena of activity he hadn’t foreseen, Christopher arched a wary brow at her, Therese smiled and inclined her head. “I second the children’s enthusiastic notions. Now you’re here and the festive season is upon us, you mustn’t miss the chance to experience the full glory of Christmas in Little Moseley.”
After sharing dinner with the children and his mother, Christopher retreated to the room he’d been given upstairs. A medium-sized chamber with a decent-sized bed, wardrobe, tallboy, and two armchairs angled before a cheerily crackling fire, it was a comfortable space. He closed the door, then checked and confirmed that his new valet-cum-groom had unpacked his clothes into the tallboy’s drawers and hung his coats in the wardrobe.
Even his brushes were neatly aligned on the top of the tallboy.
Smiling, Christopher crossed to the armchair that afforded a view of the door and sat, relaxed, and waited.
Sure enough, five minutes later, a knock fell on the door. It opened, and Drummond walked in.
After closing the door, he walked to the other armchair and slumped into it—an action that was hardly in keeping with his supposed role, but Christopher didn’t bother mentioning the lapse.
At Drummond’s insistence, Christopher hadn’t mentioned to anyone—not even his mother—that Drummond wasn’t who he was pretending to be but a guard provided by the firm. During the drive from London, Christopher had voiced his doubts over Drummond being able to pull the wool over his mother’s, her staff’s, and even more, the children’s sharp eyes, but Drummond had been arrogantly confident in his chameleon-like abilities, especially regarding the children, so subsequently, Christopher had held his tongue.
Now, surveying Drummond, who looked far more like one of the merchants he habitually masqueraded as than any valet or groom Christopher had ever seen, he wondered how long it would be before the children at least—highly observant and with an innate understanding of the relative behaviors of the different social orders—unmasked Drummond.
“So,” Drummond said, fixing Christopher with a sharp look of his own, “what do you know of the staff here?”
“I know the Crimminses and Orneby of old and Simms, too. Those four hail from the time Mama was mistress of Osbaldestone House in London. The others are new to me.”
Drummond nodded. “Those others are locals, and the lot of them are what one would term ‘loyal to the bone’ and, I judge, reliable. Very settled and with no tensions that I’ve noticed.” He paused, then patted his well-rounded stomach. “I have to say that the cook, Mrs. Haggerty, is a gem.”
Christopher hid a grin. “I take it you’re finding the accommodations comfortable?”
Drummond nodded. “Comfortable and tasty. More than I expected, truth to tell. Now!” Drummond straightened in the chair. “I’ve had a quick gander up the lane and chatted a bit with the staff. The church—St. Ignatius on the Hill—is more or less opposite, as we saw when we drove in, and the graveyard and vicarage lie alongside. Going farther north on that side of the lane, next up is the village green, followed by a row of cottages with Mountjoy’s Store, which is the main shop and also the post office, between. Haven’t actually seen it yet, but that’s what I’ve gathered. Opposite Mountjoy’s is Bilson the Butcher and Butts Bakery. Nearer to here, opposite the green, is the village’s public house, the Cockspur Arms. I gather there’s a few more cottages scattered here and there, but essentially, that’s the sum total of the village.”
A map of the village forming in his mind, Christopher frowned. “What about the other houses, not cottages, associated with the village?”
“So far, I’ve heard of Dutton Grange—we passed the drive on the other side of the lane as we drove into the village. Seems the house itself is more or less south of this one. It’s home to a Lord Longfellow, who it might pay to be aware of.”
“Oh? Why?”
“Seems he was a major in the dragoons and fought in Spain—he was injured and sold out when his father died. He’s been back for about four years. His sergeant, a man called Hendricks, and a batman, Jiggs, returned with him. Hendricks is now his lordship’s majordomo, and Jiggs is his groom.”
Christopher nodded thoughtfully. “If anything does blow up while we’re here, Longfellow and his men might be useful allies. Not that I imagine anything will erupt, but it’s comforting to know we have back-up if needed.”
Drummond huffed in agreement. “His lordship’s married now, and he and his wife have two children, both boys, one a toddler and the other a babe-in-arms.”
Christopher regarded Drummond with increasing respect. “You’ve collected a decent amount of intelligence in just a few hours.”
Drummond shrugged noncommittally. “I’m good at playing curious and unthreatening, and people like to talk.”
Christopher inclined his head. “Over dinner, the children—who have visited here for four years now and are a mine of local information—mentioned a Fulsom Hall, located at the other end of the village and owned by a youngish gentleman, one Sir Henry Fitzgibbon, who at this time of year usually plays host to three or four other young gentlemen. From what I could gather, those visitors all hail from well-heeled and established families. In a pinch, they might be useful as well.”
Drummond nodded. “Duly noted. I’ll see what more I can learn tomorrow. Anything else?”
“Yes. There’s another largish house, Swindon Hall, which I gather is farther north along the lane toward Romsey. The owner is an older retired soldier known as Major Swindon. It seems it’s just him and his wife there at present.” Christopher watched Drummond absorb the information, no doubt slotting it into the map he, too, would be building in his head. For both of them, this was normal procedure when finding themselves in a new location—scout out the surroundings and learn who lived around about.
Finally, Drummond’s gaze refocused on Christopher’s face. “How are we going to play this, then? Me keeping you safe?”
Christopher arched his brows. “As far as I can see, the only time there could possibly be any danger is when I’m out and about the village.”
Drummond snorted. “There’s really no reason for you to go wandering about, though, is there? You could sit comfy here, inside the house, and wait out the time until we hear from London.”
Christopher smiled wryly. “That might have been possible were my nephews and niece not here. I’ve already been informed that they’re looking forward to showing me the sights of Little Moseley, and I gather there are several village events—a skating party, some sort of pageant, and a carol service—that the children believe it’s obligatory I attend.”
When Drummond frowned, presumably thinking to protest, Christopher blithely went on, “However, my mother confirmed that, as I hypothesized, no stranger, much less any foreigner, will be able to haunt the village without being noted and remarked upon.”
Drummond grimaced, then somewhat reluctantly, tipped his head. “While I haven’t yet been over the ground myself, I admit that’s the feeling I’m getting. I hadn’t truly grasped how small this village is and how tucked away from everywhere.”