Ruthven bowed. “Certainly, m’lord.” He turned to Gerrard. “I hope you enjoy the tea, Master Gerrard.”

Gerrard was absolutely wowed. He smiled brightly for the first time. “A butler! Wow! A master, me?”

Far better a butler than an earl. Far better a “Master” than just a Gerrard.

“Okay, back to business,” said Melrose, first allowing Gerrard to people up his small plate with everything—scone, cucumber sandwich, egg mayonnaise, cheese and pickle, a little assortment of cakes; a few sitting atop another few as there wasn’t room for every occupant to claim a separate place on the plate.

Melrose gave him time to shovel in several of these delicacies before continuing.

“Ordinarily, one of the times this aunt has decreed belongs to her is this—tea time—though not today.”

Mouth full, but still managing, the lad said, “So I’m guessing you don’t want her joining you. Us. For tea. This here’s a real good one. Tea. I ain’t used to more’n a cup, me.”

Melrose marveled at how quickly the boy had become part of things, watching Gerrard now clamp down on a hard-boiled egg and wondering when eggs had been introduced to the tea assortment. Ruthven and Martha might have decided to protein the boy up. Gerrard did look a little pale and undernourished. Melrose corrected the “ain’t.” “Not used to more than.”

“I gotta start talking like you, then?”

“Not for my sake, no. But your own sake might be worth thinking about.”

Gerrard, scone in hand, put his head back and closed his eyes, as if having a think.

“Not right now, for heaven’s sakes.”

Gerrard sat forward again and put more jam on his scone. “Do we eat dinner, too? I mean after this lot?”

“We do indeed. But later. You must be getting stuffed, though. Hardly enough room for another meal.”

“I always got room, thanks.” He drank off his tea, replaced his cup, shot out his arms. “Great!”

Melrose pushed the button beneath the tabletop and Ruthven returned. “Show Master Gerrard to his room, will you, Ruthven?”

“Sir.” Ruthven picked up the canvas carryall.

“Ah, wait, Mr. Ruthven. I can do that.”

“Not at all, Master Gerrard. And it’s just ‘Ruthven.’”

“Seems kind of disrespectful,” said Gerrard, as they moved to the foyer and the stairs, making remarks Melrose understood to be, “I really liked them—those—eggs. Where’d you get ’em?”

“From a chicken, Master Gerrard.”

Gerrard laughed hard and said, “A comedian butler! Mr. Ruthven, I’m stayin.”

It appeared that Mr. Ruthven and Master Gerrard were a lock.

31

When Gerrard came back downstairs for dinner at eight, looking shiny as a brand-new button, it was evident Ruthven had been hard at work.

Gerrard’s jacket and pants, though mismatched, had been carefully brushed and his white shirt pressed. Around the collar of the shirt he wore a polka-dot bow tie.