Deadly Peril by Lucinda Brant Page B

under-footman.”
    “I presume Wantage is unaware of this, but that John knew?”
    “Yes, sir. John got me through your door, and as an under-footman. We were introduced at the Stock and Buckle—”
    “The coffee house on King Street where upper servants meet?”
    “That’s correct, sir. Once I’d shown John my reference for Mr. Halsey, he vouched for me with Mr. Wantage.”
    At this, Alec took his hands out of his pockets and sat up, puzzled. “A reference for my uncle? Has he seen it?”
    “No, sir. I felt there was no need, once I got the job—er—position as under-footman.”
    “You still have this letter?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Where are you from, Hadrian? What are your family connections?”
    At these questions, Hadrian Jeffries vacillated. He expected Alec to ask him who had written him the reference. At the very least, where he had been employed and by whom as a gentleman’s gentleman. So he was unprepared for such a personal question. Not even Mr. Wantage had asked about his family. And if he’d been content to remain an under-footman this question may never have been put to him. But when John had left Alec’s employ he had jumped at the chance to take his place, and put himself forward. Mr. Wantage was all for it, particularly as John said he should be given the post, even if temporarily to show him, and of course the master, of what he was capable. And then his chance was gone all because of that upstart Thomas Fisher, who, it was obvious to everyone downstairs, had never been an upper servant, least of all valet to a nobleman. Yet, not a year into his post and Tam Fisher was no longer valet, and he, Hadrian Jeffries, had the post… Well, almost…
    Of course he should have expected such a question from Lord Halsey; the nobleman was anything but conventional. He also knew not to be evasive or lie to him; the man was too keen of brain to be fobbed off with a pat response. So Hadrian told the truth.
    “Edinburgh, sir. My family is still there. All of them. I’m the only one to come south.”
    Alec hid his surprise and said evenly, “You’ve lost your Scots brogue. Deliberately?”
    “Yes, sir. I worked hard at it. But not for the reason you think.”
    “I don’t know what to think, Hadrian. Your reasons are your own, but I am interested to know why. But only if you wish to tell me.”
    Hadrian Jeffries nodded, mollified by Alec’s moderate tone.
    “Apologies, sir. I just want you to know it wasn’t out of any sort of deception. My father believed that a man could only better himself through honest hard work and speaking well—as well as our betters south of the border. So we were given lessons in elocution so we wouldn’t sound Scots.” For a moment Hadrian Jeffries permitted himself to smile. “My elder brother Trajan refused to lose his Scot’s tongue. No matter that he was beaten every time he opened his mouth. Trajan’s a Scotsman through and through, and no amount of voice training was going to take that from him!”
    “There is nothing wrong with being proud of your heritage, Hadrian—or of your name. I take it Jeffries is a surname you gave yourself?”
    “Yes, sir,” the valet answered stiffly. Adding in a rush, “But Hadrian is my Christian name.”
    Alec smiled. “With a brother named Trajan, of that I had no doubts. Do you also have brothers so named Nerva, Antony, and Marcus, by any chance?”
    “Nerva, sir? No, sir. There’s only Trajan and me.”
    “Ah. What a pity your father did not have five sons to name after the five good emperors. No matter. Any sisters?”
    Hadrian Jeffries had no idea who or what were the five good emperors but he could answer the latter question. “Yes, sir. One sister—Marcia.”
    “Of course. Marcia was mother of Trajan, and wife of Trajanius Pater. Your father has a partiality for the history of the later Roman emperors.”
    It was a statement but the valet answered Alec anyway.
    “Yes, sir. He does. He was a Latin scholar. He