“Sister Busy,” implored Popper. “Cry you mercy, Sister Busy, consider your place in life.”
“And while you are contemplating that, Mrs. Busy, you might include the thought that I may well marry your mistress, Lady Lisette,” Villiers said. “In which case this house will become one vast tent for my wicked self. And then you, Mrs. Busy, will need to thrust yourself onto the sanctified highway because I may well bring all six of my children to live under this roof. In case you are wondering, none of the six was conceived with the benefit of matrimony.”
“Six!” she gasped, falling back and regarding him as if he were the very devil himself. “Thou tellest untruths. No man is so rank in the face of the Lord.”
Against all odds, Villiers was beginning to enjoy himself. “Are you gnashing your teeth, Mrs. Busy? That’s an odd sound you’re making.”
“Thou art a Nebuchadnezzar, a very Nebuchadnezzar, come to mock me!” Mrs. Busy said.
One of the pot boys giggled.
“Sister Busy,” Popper implored.
“I must take my leave,” Villiers said with a flourishing bow. “Thank you for this charming conversation.”
Popper ran after him down the corridor. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” he said, panting.
Villiers stopped. “What relation is she to you?”
Popper rang his hands. “She’s my sister, Your Grace. We were raised Puritan, you see, but she took to it fiercely, and then she married Zeal-of-the-Land, and I’m afraid that she became rather rigid. She needs this position. She has nowhere else to go, and Zeal-of-the-Land left all his possessions to the church.”
“He left everything to the church?”
Popper nodded. “With a request that they say prayers for his soul four times a day for a year. Which they will, because it transpired that Brother Busy had acquired quite a large estate. But unfortunately his will left my sister destitute and in need of a position. Please, Your Grace, I know that she’s a fierce woman. But Brother Busy’s death left her soured.”
“I can imagine,” Villiers said, pushing open the baize door that led back to the foyer.
They emerged into chaos. Oyster was barking hysterically and running in circles, Eleanor was shouting, one of the footmen was chasing the dog, and Lisette was standing on the second or third step of the staircase, screaming. Into all of this rushed Popper, uttering useless admonitions in a shrill voice.
“Quiet!” Villiers bellowed.
Everyone obeyed him except, characteristically, Eleanor. She whipped around, hands on her hips, and said through clenched teeth, “Escort Lisette elsewhere before I do something I may—or may not—regret.”
Oyster had dropped onto his haunches and was gazing at him in a rather charmingly attentive position, so Villiers raised a finger to the footman, who scooped up the dog. “Take him outside,” he commanded before turning to Lisette.
She was clinging to the banister, her face absolutely drained of color. Although she had stopped screaming, she was obviously paralyzed with fright.
“Lisette,” he said, coming to the bottom of the stairs.
She looked at him, her face pathetically wan, her blue eyes huge.
“Poor scrap,” he said, and held out his arms. She fell into them and he scooped her up. She put her head against his shoulder, as trustingly as if she were a child.
“Take her into the drawing room,” Eleanor said. “I’ll go outside and make sure that Oyster is out of sight and sound.” She said it flatly, without an edge, but Villiers could read her voice easily enough.
He looked down at Lisette’s spun-gold hair. She wasn’t the bravest of creatures, but there was no point in defending her at the moment. Besides, Eleanor had already stamped out the door after Oyster.