Christopher left it at that; he couldn’t imagine Jamie, George, and Lottie allowing him to remain indoors—not unless it sleeted and snowed continuously. They were an intrepid trio and so very eager to show him around a place they clearly viewed as special.
Drummond had slumped back in the armchair. “You know, I feel I’m here under false pretenses.”
Christopher arched his brows. “You are here under false pretenses.”
Drummond waved dismissively. “I don’t mean my cover. But as far as I can see, there’s really no need for me to be here at all. I mean, what’s going to happen?” He raised his hands. “Even if a Frenchie shows up here, you’re going to hear about it soon enough.” Drummond eyed Christopher assessingly. “You may spend your days behind a desk now, but you were in the field for years. You know how to handle yourself—you don’t need me. This assignment is a waste of my talents.”
Christopher could understand Drummond’s disaffection. “What’s your usual type of mission?”
“Impersonation almost always,” Drummond replied. “I usually go in as a merchant or businessman. Gentry-ish, but not quite. You know the sort—backbone of the country, self-made man of business, that sort of thing.” Drummond shifted. “I was in and out of Moscow over the past six months, keeping an eye on their supply lines there. Before that, I was in Austria, doing much the same.”
Christopher could see that Drummond’s usual roles—those he was most adept at filling—wouldn’t have prepared him for being a valet-cum-groom. He wasn’t used to having staff, and he also wasn’t used to being staff; he had little to no insight into how a man behaved in such a position. Christopher frowned. “Do you have any idea why they tapped you on the shoulder for this one?”
Drummond heaved a heavy sigh. “I was told that, although it’s not my usual type of operation, they were shorthanded because it’s the end of the year and the coffers were running low. They weren’t about to call in extra agents in this season, not when I was sitting there, temporarily free and twiddling my thumbs.”
“Ah,” Christopher cynically replied. “I see.” After a moment, he added, “I have to agree that expecting French agents to turn up here, chasing me, is altogether a waste of time. I seriously doubt we’ll see any action during our stay in Little Moseley.”
Chapter 3
After breakfast the following morning, Christopher returned to his room to collect his hat and gloves. When he opened the door and walked in, his gaze fell on Drummond, slouched in the chair he’d occupied the previous evening and reading yesterday’s copy of The Times.
Hardly the picture of a proper valet-cum-groom.
Drummond glanced up as Christopher shut the door.
“What are you doing here?” Christopher asked.
“Hiding.” Drummond shook the news sheet. “If I spend too much time downstairs, plainly without having a task to occupy me, I’m afraid Mrs. Crimmins will set me to work on some ordinary household chore that I have no idea how to do.”
Christopher considered that scenario, then tipped his head. “A pertinent danger, to be sure.” He walked to the tallboy, rifled through the drawers, and found his gloves. After shutting the drawer, carrying the gloves in one hand, he reached for the hat sitting on the tallboy’s top.
“Here.” Drummond sat up. “Where do you think you’re off to?”
“Church.” Christopher made for the door.
Drummond lumbered to his feet. “Surely your soul will manage if you don’t attend for a few weeks?”
“Very likely.” Christopher paused with his hand on the doorknob. “However, as my mother was quick to point out, in a village such as this, not turning up will attract far more attention and raise more questions than if I play the role of dutiful son and uncle and escort my mother and the children to Sunday service. Moreover, if I play least in sight instead, that will certainly raise eyebrows and suspicions with the staff here and make my mother wonder just how serious matters are. I would prefer to avoid that, if possible.”
Drummond heaved a put-upon sigh.
Christopher grinned. “Console yourself with the thought that the usual gathering on the lawn after the service will be the perfect occasion for me to meet the other local families and establish my presence in the village as entirely unremarkable. Everyone will see me, learn who I am, and accept me as an innocuous visitor behaving in an entirely unsurprising way.”
“All right.” Drummond started toward the door. “Just give me a minute to get my hat and coat.”
“We’re walking. You’ll be able to catch up.” Christopher turned the knob, opened the door, and found himself looking at George, who had his hand raised as if he’d been about to knock.
For a second, George’s expression remained blank, then his gaze cut past Christopher to Drummond as he lumbered up. Then George looked up at Christopher and smiled. “Are you ready, Uncle Christopher? We’re all waiting in the hall.”
“Yes, I’m coming.” Christopher stepped forward, and George turned and trotted toward the stairs. Christopher shot a warning look at Drummond, hoping the man correctly interpreted it as an admonition to watch his behavior before the children. Christopher wouldn’t wager against George having heard something of their conversation, and while the words might not have been all that revealing, the exchange hadn’t been one between master and servant.
Pulling on his gloves, Christopher joined George at the head of the stairs, smiled, and nodded downward. “Let’s go.”
Christopher noted that Drummond caught up with the rest of the household staff as, in the wake of Christopher’s mother, the children, and him, the group started up the path that wound up the hill to the church.
The day had dawned fine, a welcome relief from the gray dreariness that had held sway for the past week. Thin white clouds drifted across a pale-blue sky, and if the breeze was still cold, at least it wasn’t icy. The pleasant weather put an extra brightness into people’s smiles as groups nodded and greeted each other as, in an impressive stream, the congregation toiled upward toward the gray stone church.
A few carriages rolled past, heading for the area beside the church, but the bulk of parishioners walked, some, Christopher suspected, from the farms surrounding the village.
As he steadied his mother up the shallow steps, Christopher looked ahead and glimpsed the crowd already seated in the nave. He glanced back at those still approaching, then murmured to his mother, “This seems a very enthusiastic congregation. Is it always so devoted?”
“In this season, in general, yes.” She met his eyes and smiled. “Farming families, my dear. Winter is their slow time, and at least in this village, attending church is a species of entertainment.”
He wondered quite what she’d meant by that, but assumed he would learn soon enough. He duly escorted her to the second pew on the left; once the children had scampered in, his mother and Christopher followed, leaving him sitting at the aisle-end of the pew.
It was, he realized, a position of some prominence, leaving him easily seen by all as the congregation filed in and settled. Several of the local gentry exchanged smiles and nods, not only with his mother but, somewhat to Christopher’s surprise, also with the children. In turn, the children beamed back, unabashedly confident and sure of their welcome. Of their place in village society.