Mama used to have a number of gentlemen callers. Merry fellows who’d pat Bridget on the head and make comments about her growing up to break hearts. Mama had been happier then, busy with correspondence in the morning, outings in the afternoon, and the theatre and the opera by night, all on the arm of some smiling fellow. They hadn’t changed addresses nearly as often then.
And now…
Now Mama made odd comments about Bridget being her revenge, and the high and mighty forgetting who knew what about whom. It was all very worrisome, particularly when Mama got to commenting on how nearly Bridget resembled Maggie. Bridget’s letters to Maggie conveyed what information Bridget could manage, but with her mother reading every word, Bridget wasn’t at all sure Maggie understood how untenable the situation was becoming.
“Look, over there.” Mama nudged Bridget with an elbow. “The Duke of Wellington himself preening at Esther Windham. It isn’t to be borne.”
“Mrs. Wilson spoke fondly of the Iron Duke, didn’t she?”
Mama turned to her with an expression Bridget found hard to read. “She did. She did at that, poor man.”
Mrs. Wilson was one of Mama’s friends from what she called her “wicked youth.” Mama had been truly wicked; that much was clear even to a fourteen-year-old. Cecily had few friends, though there were men who’d smile at her fleetingly when Mama was shopping in Mayfair. The smiles seemed strained to Bridget, and when those smiles were turned on Bridget herself, they felt… dangerous.
As Cecily turned the horses out of the park, Bridget cast around for an innocuous topic—bonnets might do. And while she prattled away, she tried to compose another letter to Maggie that would make clear exactly how worried—how afraid—Bridget was becoming.
***
Hazlit did not mistake Maggie Windham for a woman without experience. She was too poised, too reserved, for him to think she’d never nudged her dainty toe over the lines drawn in the name of propriety.
But whichever spotty boy or aging knight had encouraged her experiments in lust—or boys and knights plural, given the lady’s age and obvious charms—they’d made a damned poor job of it. After a kiss like that—a kiss that left Hazlit’s heart galloping around in his chest and lust roaring through his veins—the woman was looking at him as if she needed reassurances.
Bugger that. He’d blurted out all the reassurances he was going to. “What about you?” He peered down at her. “Did you like it?”
Which perhaps sounded like he needed reassurances, when what he needed was a cold plunge in a deep horse trough.
“I don’t know.” She sidled over to the sofa and settled gracefully before the tea service. “It was, as you say, a trifle unexpected.”
He held his peace and watched as she put a pair of tea cakes on a plate. He was pleased to see her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the cakes. Just to rattle her, or maybe to settle himself, he resumed his place right beside her and stole a cake off her plate. “When is your staff’s next half day?”
She munched to every appearance contentedly on her cake with a show of bemusement likely intended to aggravate him. He told himself he wasn’t fooled.
“Tomorrow is half day. Even my companion takes off. I usually look forward to it.”
“You like being alone?” He put another tiny cake on her plate and took one for himself. The icing was rich with butter underscored with vanilla and something else, something he couldn’t quite place, but it reminded him of lunches with Westhaven.
She eyed the cake he’d served her. “I prefer being alone.”
“My sisters like to be alone—or they did.” He resisted the urge to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “It did not make them happy but made their misery more bearable somehow. They think I don’t understand, but I do.”
She turned to regard him, apparently as willing as he to drift away from the topic of who liked kissing whom. “You think they should go about in a society that will whisper behind their backs and make unkind comments to their faces?”
“Their husbands will be the ones to answer that question, but I think there is more chance of finding some true friendship out among live humans than among the flower gardens at Blessings or the wilds of rural Sussex.” He thought to feed her more sweets—she could use some meat on her elegant bones—but the cakes were gone.
She gave him a long, measuring look during which Hazlit could hear her wondering if peeking at windows and skulking around ballrooms could be considered a way to find true friendship.
“I’ll be here tomorrow,” he said, getting to his feet. “When will the servants leave?”
“By noon. They have their elevenses and then depart.” She rose more slowly and paced with him to the closed door.
“That’s a rather generous half day.”
“They work hard. Some of them are crossing to the East End and back without a conveyance, to see family, and the days are not yet that long.”
He pushed her hair behind her ear. She bore it silently, her green eyes giving away nothing. “We will talk about that kiss, Maggie Windham.”
Lest she make some dismissive reply, he kissed her again—a swift, claiming kiss—then slipped out the door before they had more than kisses in need of discussion.
Five
Adele Martin had to suppress a shudder as she watched her charge turning right and left before a full-length mirror.
“Mama says I’m to get used to sleeping in silk.”
The child spoke in French as she smoothed a hand down the front of her silk nightgown. The embroidered hem fell nearly to the floor, a parody of modesty when the fabric was so sheer the girl’s nipples and pubic hair were all but visible to the naked eye.
“It’s not enough to keep a body warm,” Adele replied. “Into bed with you.”
Bridget took one last look in the mirror. “Mama says I’m to have my hair styled tomorrow. She says we’re not to cut it much, because gentlemen adore long hair.”
The poor girl sounded worried, which meant she at least had brains enough to know what fate awaited her in the all-too-near future, not that Adele could do a blessed thing for the child.
“You tell the hair dresser what you want.” Adele ran a warming pan over the sheets. “Don’t give her any room to maneuver, or she’ll have your hair swept out with the trash, and despite what others may tell you, red hair is to be envied. I know of what I speak.”
“I like my hair.” Bridget fingered the long auburn braid resting over one slender shoulder while her gaze traveled over Adele’s locks of a brighter shade. “Mama says—”
“Into bed.” The girl’s mother was a horror, enough to turn the stomach of a maid raised in the East End’s worst slums, one who’d honed her French by serving ale in the dockside pubs.
“What do you think of my new things, Adele?” Bridget spun once again before the mirror, as graceful as a ballerina. “I must admit I adore silk.”
“Miss Bridget…” Adele paused as she folded the bed linens back. What to say? Your mother is unnatural? You are about to be sacrificed to a bitter old woman’s wickedness?
But maybe the girl would be lucky and find a wonderful protector. Lady Berwick had been nothing more than her lord’s underage mistress before the besotted fool had married her. Her three sisters had remained blithely engaged in the wicked trade even as they’d waved their sister up the church aisle.
“Come to bed, child. I’m sure your new coiffure will be very fetching.”
But Bridget was a bright girl, and in her eyes, Adele saw a shadow hover. “You think all this lace and silk is too grown up for me. Lots of girls marry at fifteen.”
“You’re fourteen, Miss Bridget, and your sheets are getting cold.”
Bridget crossed to the bed and sat. “I wish I could talk to Maggie.”
Maggie, to whom the child wrote letters. Letters that caused the girl’s brow to knit and her tongue to peek out at the corner of her mouth. Maggie, who for all she might care about Bridget, did nothing to
rescue the girl from the fate bearing down on her like a runaway mail coach.
Adele was lucky to have the post she did. No proper household would hire a lady’s maid who’d worked for a succession of courtesans, and when the last soiled dove had taken ship for Ireland, Adele had been lucky to have even a character to show for three years of devoted service.
She tucked the girl in and started snuffing the candles one by one. Bridget’s first protector would likely be an indulgent man. Bridget was stunningly pretty, fresh, and bubbling over with innocence.
But the second man would be a little less kind, the fifth or seventh barely civil. Somewhere down the line, she’d be knocked up and knocked around, and that was if she was lucky enough to avoid death from disease or drink.
“Maybe you should write to Maggie about all the pretty things your Mama gave you today. Tell her about the lace and silk, the visit from the hair dresser tomorrow, the corsets and stockings coming from the modiste next week.”
“I’ve written to Maggie.” Bridget drew the covers up to her chin and yawned as Adele knelt to bank the fire. “I do miss her.”
Adele straightened and tugged the curtains closed so they overlapped. “Tell Maggie you miss her, and tell her all about your new wardrobe.”
“Mama says this is only the beginning. She says I’m to have new gowns and dresses and night rails and dressing gowns. I suppose I am a lucky girl, Adele…”
The lucky girl—who despite her words did not sound very lucky—yawned again. Adele made sure the screen was snugged right up next to the hearth and wished Bridget sweet dreams. Her mama would be out on the town for hours yet, meaning Adele had a little time to keep an appointment of her own.
***
The house was like the woman who owned it: Scrupulously maintained, tidy and well secured, at least to initial appearances. Hazlit spent nearly two hours in the understory, examining the servants’ parlor, the pantries, the laundry, the still room, the footmen’s quarters, the housekeeper’s rooms, the cellars, and lastly, the kitchen.
“Mr. Hazlit.”
He rose from where he’d perched on the raised hearth. He’d been so lost in thought, he hadn’t heard Maggie—she was no longer Miss Windham in his thoughts—come down the stairs.
“My lady.” He watched as she perused him from head to toe.
“You have decided to become a gardener or perhaps a stable boy?”
“I have decided to call on you in a manner not likely to be remarked nor to show the effects of poking around in your commendably clean cellars. Do you mind if I help myself to some of that ham?”
“Sit.” She took a carving knife from a drawer. “How long have you been here?”
“I waited until your staff departed and then let myself in.” He moved to the sink to wash his hands, which allowed him a fine view of his hostess as she started cutting off thin slices of ham.
Ham. “Is that from one of your own farms?”
She glanced at him as the sliced meat piled up on the cutting board. “I thought you didn’t snoop about behind a client’s back.” She hung the ham back on its hook as if it weighed nothing then disappeared into the pantry only to reemerge with a cheese wheel at least a foot across.
“It isn’t snooping if you’re looking for people with a motive to harm that client. Your finances are the next thing we’ll examine.”
She set the cheese on the counter with a solid thunk then put both fists on her hips. “I keep my own books, Mr. Hazlit. Nobody is pilfering from the exchequer. Butter or mustard?”
“Both, and your company, if you please. I already know you’re quite wealthy.”
She looked up sharply, her expression more displeased than surprised. “How did you come to that conclusion?”
She didn’t deny it; he noticed that much despite the fact that her hair was in a loose chignon at her nape, and her attire today was an old-fashioned empire day dress in faded green. She looked cozy and approachable, except for the frown creasing her brow and the tension radiating from her.
And the knife in her hand.
He moved toward her. “You hide your wealth, though it’s observable, nonetheless. Your wine cellar is not large, but each bottle is an excellent vintage. Your everyday china is better quality than most of Mayfair trots out on special occasions. The sheets on even the footmen’s cots are clean and sturdy. You have a closed range in this kitchen, a luxury half your neighbors are still saving for.” He took the knife from her hand and put it on the counter. “Your dresses are beautifully made, even if they’re intended to disguise your attributes rather than accentuate them. The furniture in the servants’ parlor is new. Only in your own chambers do you resort to castoffs and stringent economies.”
He was near enough to get the scent of her, of flowers and cinnamon. This close, he could also see the fatigue around her eyes and mouth, and a mulish determination to the set of her chin. He could kiss that chin…
“Mr. Hazlit, I asked you to find one fairly nondescript reticule, not to make free with my privacy. I really wish you’d let me know you were on the premises.”
To keep himself out of trouble, he took the loaf of bread she’d retrieved from the bread box and began to cut slices. “I was making a point.”
“The point that I’m not safe in my own house?” Her voice was quiet, but it shook with anger nonetheless. Or fear?
He kept his tone all the more even as he cut the bread. “I came in a cellar window somebody probably cracked for air on a warm day. Your house is safer than most. Whose responsibility is it to make sure the place is locked up each night?”
“Mine.”
He stopped slicing to glare at her. “For God’s sake, Maggie. That is not a job for the lady of the house.”
She snatched up a small bowl and a wooden knife and began to smear a generous dollop of butter on each piece of bread. Her movements were assured, the preparation of at least simple food something she was obviously comfortable with. “I have neither butler nor house steward, Mr. Hazlit. My establishment is modest, despite your accusations to the contrary.”
“Your establishment is modest,” he said, watching her hands as she worked. “Your fortune is not.” He turned to cross the kitchen lest he cover her hands with his own and demand that she tell him what was in the damned reticule.
He put together a tea tray while she fussed with the bread, cheese, ham, and mustard. “We’re going to have to talk about your finances, Maggie. Anybody who stole something from you might be laying the groundwork for blackmail if they know the extent of your wealth.”
She stopped slapping mustard on their sandwiches and stood, the wooden knife in her hand as she scowled at him. “You are making groundless accusations. You would not be searching this house if you didn’t think there was at least some possibility the blasted thing is merely mislaid.”
He studied her where she stood some eight feet and three tantrums away from him. Each time he saw her, she was a little more frazzled, a little more tightly wound. Each time he saw her, he was a little more frazzled, more tightly stretched between growing desire and an even more intense need to protect her despite her secretiveness and stubbornness.
“You’re right.” He picked up the tray and lied with smooth professionalism. “I’m eliminating the most obvious possibility first and hoping the reticule is simply lost. Shall we eat at the table?”
She nodded and stacked the sandwiches on a plate. “There are stewed apples in the brown crock in the pantry.”
“Perhaps later. Come sit with me, Maggie. I’ll tell you what else I learned from your house.”
She brought the food to the table, and to his surprise, sat beside him rather than across the table. Perhaps she didn’t want him peering directly at her face, and perhaps he didn’t want her peering at him. The ensuing discussion was going to be difficult.
Proper English lord that he’d been raised to be, he poured the tea before firing his first broadside. She stirred her tea with that little tapping of the
spoon on the bottom of her cup before taking a sip.
“So what did you find in my house?”
He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t bludgeon her with a truth likely to jar her self-control so badly he’d be able to pry the contents of the reticule loose from her. Not yet.
He passed her a sandwich. “There were children in this house at some point, servants’ children, but also children of the master and lady of the house. I suspect they played together when the adults weren’t looking, or maybe the previous owners were peculiarly democratic.”
“How do you know this?”
Before answering, he watched to make sure she took a bite. “In the cellars, which are the best places to play pirates’ cave, there are words and initials carved into the paneling, down at a child’s height. Some are simple English, but one motto is in Latin.”
“What does it say?”
“It’s hard to make out. Noli desperare, I think.”
Her smile was wan. “Never despair?”
“A good motto for pirates’ captives. Finish your sandwich, Maggie.”
She glanced at him, her expression curious. “When did you decide to call me Maggie?”
The last time I kissed you. “When did you decide to allow me to?”
Her smile tipped up then spilled over into a grin. “You are a very provoking man, Mr. Hazlit. What else did you find?”
And still, he could not tell her. “Very little dust. Your housekeeper is carrying a torch for a second cousin in the shires. They correspond madly about his sheep and her recipes for tisanes. The underfootman has a lock of the tweeny’s hair under his pillow, but you said the tweeny is mooning after someone else. You’re forgetting to eat.”
She took another bite of her sandwich. There was more he would tell her, but not when she was just beginning to relax and let down her guard.
“It’s good ham, Maggie, and you never answered my question about its origins.”
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