Winterberry Fire: A Silver Foxes of Westminster Novella (Winterberry Park Book 2)

by Merry Farmer

  “Yes.” Tim nodded. “And, if you don’t mind, I’d like a reply.”

  “A reply?”

  Tim wondered just how bright the man was. “If you don’t mind. Could you tell her that I’ll wait here for her answer?”

  “Uh, yes, sir.” The footman stared at the letter, turning it over, even though nothing was written on either side of the folded paper. “You’ll wait here for her answer,” he repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “All right, then.” The footman nodded and walked on.

  Tim took a step back, watching him go. His heart thrummed with nervous energy. That was it. He’d started the ball rolling. All he had to do now was sit back and wait to see how his future would unfold.

  Chapter 3

  Mary upended her bucket of filthy, ammonia-smelling water into the large sink in the scullery with a grunt. She hated scrubbing out fireplaces. Particularly in winter. They were dirty, sooty, and coated with grime, and even though they were scrubbed every other day while the family was in residence, the deep, thorough cleaning they got once the Croydons returned to London usually left her dirty, sooty, and coated with grime instead of the fireplaces.

  “When you’re finished with the dining room,” Mrs. Musgrave said, coming up behind her but not fully entering the scullery, “Go and help Martha with the guest bedrooms.”

  “I’m supposed to have my tea soon,” Mary protested. As soon as Mrs. Musgrave turned on her with a sour frown, Mary added, “Ma’am.”

  Mrs. Musgrave sighed. “You may have fifteen minutes for tea, but if you are not back at work by five o’clock, there will be consequences.”

  Mary waited until Mrs. Musgrave had walked away to make a face at her back. “Consequences,” she mocked, then stuck out her tongue. “The only consequences in this bloody place are more work.”

  “Did you say something in there?” Mrs. Carlisle, the cook, asked as she fetched a pot from the rack beside the scullery.

  “No, Mrs. Carlisle.” Mary set her bucket down and left the scullery, going as far as she could to pretend deference to Mrs. Carlisle, the fat old sow. It was ridiculous how much sway the senior staff was given over the likes of her. It wasn’t like she was Annie, the kitchen maid, or Jonah, the hall boy. She deserved better treatment than that.

  Her bitter mood carried her as far as the hallway, but before she could cross into the servants’ hall, Tad came bustling through the kitchen door. He tripped into the door jamb, bumbling into the hall. Mary rolled her eyes.

  “Is that the mail?” she asked, her curiosity motivated by the sheer levels of boredom that cleaning all day had raised in her.

  “It is,” Tad said. He set the mail on a small shelf, then contorted his way through removing his wool coat. He looked like a crane caught in a fishing net as he twisted this way and that.

  At least his stupidity allowed Mary to peek at the letters he’d brought up from the post office. Most were for Mr. Croydon and would be forwarded to London. One was for Mr. Noakes, and one was for Mrs. Musgrave. But one had no address at all. In fact, it was just a piece of paper folded over, with writing on the inside.

  “What’s this?” she asked, reaching for it.

  “That’s not for you,” Tad warned her. The wretch had finished with his coat and was able to snatch the letters away before Mary could read the mystery note. “That’s for Miss Ada.”

  “Miss Ada?” Mary crossed her arms, sneering at the dolt.

  “It’s from the schoolteacher,” Tad explained, holding the letters close.

  Mary’s brow went up, and her mind began to turn. “Is it now?”

  “Yes. And he’s waiting for a reply.”

  Mary stood straighter. “Waiting? Here?”

  “Down by the end of the lane,” Tad said.

  A thousand ideas popped into Mary’s head. She’d only begun her scheme to keep Ada and her precious teacher apart. Throwing Tad in Ada’s way was one thing, but she felt as though she’d just been handed the perfect opportunity to cause even more trouble.

  “I’ll take Ada the letter,” she said with as much innocence as she could muster, which, admittedly, wasn’t much.

  “No,” Tad said, shaking his head. “I’m supposed to take it to her myself and wait for a reply.”

  “What sort of reply?”

  Tad’s puffed up chest deflated. “I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

  “But Mr. Turnbridge is waiting for one?”

  “He is.”

  Mary narrowed her eyes, thoughts churning. She could use this. It was a golden opportunity, and she wasn’t going to let it go to waste.

  She took a breath, focusing on Tad. “Ada is scrubbing brass in the library.”

  “Thanks,” Tad said, pushing past her.

  Mary caught his arm. “But before you take that to her, you should know that Mrs. Musgrave is in a tizzy about the poor job we’ve all been doing. She’s disappointed with the results of our cleaning.”

  “Poor job?” Tad blinked. “I’ve been trying my hardest. Honest, I have.”

  “That excuse won’t fly. You’re going to have to do more than that. She was saying there will be consequences for anyone who shirks their duty.” The idiot didn’t need to know that the consequences threat was directed at her.

  Tad blanched. “What am I to do, then?”

  “You’d best run up and fetch the buckets from the guest rooms, where Martha is working,” Mary told him with an earnest look. “If you do that, and maybe a few other things, Mrs. Musgrave and Mr. Noakes will see you’re a hard worker, and they won’t sack you.”

  “Sack me.” Tad looked even more alarmed. “I didn’t know they were sacking people.”

  “They might if you’re not careful,” Mary said.

  “I’d better get going then.” Tad rushed into motion, tucking the letter for Ada into his livery jacket pocket.

  Mary grinned as she watched him go. He was just the sort of dimwit to forget about the letter in favor of work, but he wouldn’t forget forever. She didn’t have any time to lose.

  She grabbed her cloak, hat, and mittens from the pegs beside the door, then rushed out into the cold. The unseasonably warm weather they’d been having continued to hold, but there was a new nip in the air. It was just the sort of thing to invigorate her and help her form a plan before she reached Mr. Turnbridge.

  She ran through the situation in her head. Ada was sweet on the teacher, and apparently he was sweet on her. But every man was corruptible. She needed to drive a devastating wedge between the two young lovers, and the best way to do that was to hook Mr. Turnbridge and lead him astray. She bit her lips to give them color and plumped her breasts as she neared the end of the lane. Men all wanted the same thing, and she was an expert at giving it to them. It would be easy as pie to seduce the teacher.

  He was waiting, just as Tad said, by a shrub at the end of the lane, by the gate. As soon as he saw her, he straightened and stepped forward, a look of confusion on his face. “You’re not Tad,” he said.

  “No, love, I’m not.” Mary slowed her steps, swaying her hips and thrusting her chest out as she closed the last of the space between them. “But he sent me with a message.”

  “From Ada?”

  Mary thought fast. Mr. Turnbridge wore his heart on his sleeve, and was as easy to read as a recipe card. All she had to do was note the ingredients and follow instructions. “Yes, from Ada,” she said.

  Hope glistened in his eyes, and he leaned toward her, ready to hang on her every word. “Well? What did she say?”

  Mary put on a sly smile, lowering her head slightly and glancing at him flirtatiously. “You’re quite a lucky man,” she said. He hadn’t given her nearly enough information to charge off into something Ada supposedly said.

  “So, it’s a yes, then?” He looked ready to burst with joy.

  He’d asked her something. Mary took a step closer. She needed to know what exactly he’d asked before making up an answer. She came close enough to him to hand
le the lapel of his coat with her mittened hand.

  “She was intrigued by your question,” she said. “At first, she didn’t know what to make of it.”

  “She did understand it was me asking, though, didn’t she?” The poor sop was so overcome with love that he didn’t appear to notice her touching him. That would work to her advantage.

  “Of course she did,” Mary said, as much earnestness as she could manage in her eyes.

  “Good.” Mr. Turnbridge let out a breath. “As I was waiting here, I was beginning to think that all that romantic language was gilding the lily too much.”

  “You can never gild a lily too much,” Mary told him in a sweet voice, playing with one of the buttons of his coat. She cursed her mittens. She could have teased him so much more without them.

  “It was just an invitation to a dance,” he said.

  Huzzah! That was it. Mary burst into a smile of victory. That was exactly what she needed. “You really want to take little old Ada to a dance?” She pouted, glancing up at him with her most seductive look.

  “Not just any dance,” he said. “The Valentine’s Day dance.”

  Mary grinned, unable to hide her delight at how easy he was making this for her. At the rate they were going, she could push him over like a feather, hike up her skirts, and have him inside her in five minutes. He wouldn’t even know what happened.

  “Valentine’s Day is for sweethearts, isn’t it?” She brushed her hand over his cheek.

  He flinched, his overly bright smile fading. “What are you doing?”

  “You had a bit of something on your cheek, love,” she said with a shrug. No need to spend it all at once. The slower she reeled him in, the better.

  “Ah.” His smile returned, though slightly more guarded. “So did Ada say she’d go to the dance with me?”

  “Well,” Mary began with a coy look, “she said she wanted to speak to you about it.”

  “She did?” He frowned.

  “In private,” Mary added, arching a brow.

  “Oh,” Mr. Turnbridge answered as though he understood completely. “In private.”

  “Yes.” Mary slid closer to him, resting her hands on his chest. She lifted to her toes and whispered near his ear, “She wants to meet you at the old cottage down by the river.”

  “The one that belonged to…that woman?”

  “The very one,” Mary confirmed. Mr. Croydon’s deceased mistress’s cottage was the perfect place for an illicit rendezvous. Not only did it have a certain reputation, it was a well-known secret that the key to the house was kept under a rock near the front door.

  “And Ada wants to talk to me there?” Mr. Turnbridge went on.

  “Talk? Maybe.” Mary sent him a knowing look.

  “Oh.” A far-off look came into his eyes, and with it, a distinct flush appeared on his cheeks.

  The man was ripe for the picking. Mary was certain that as soon as she got him alone in the cottage, all it would take were a few kisses and some petting and she’d be able to take him for a tumble. And as soon as dear Ada found out her precious schoolteacher had stuck his pen in the first inkwell that came his way, she’d be heartbroken. She’d never be able to so much as look at the man again. She’d be miserable, and Mary would have her revenge.

  “What time did she say to meet at the cottage?” Mr. Turnbridge asked.

  “Your school lets out at three o’clock, doesn’t it?”

  “It does.”

  “Then four o’clock.” She could plan her chores accordingly and make sure Ada was otherwise engaged at the time.

  Mr. Turnbridge smiled. “Four o’clock it is, then. Tell Ada I’ll be there.” He took a step back. “Tell her I can’t wait, that my heart….” He shook his head. “No, I’ll tell her those things myself.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Mary said. “Run along now. We all have preparations to make.”

  “We have,” he agreed. “Thank you, miss…it’s Mary, isn’t it?”

  “It is, but you can call me Sweetheart.”

  He blinked, and for a moment looked confused. But whatever else he was thinking must have banished that confusion. He waved to her, then turned and hurried off down the path and into town.

  Mary grinned and crossed her arms as she watched him leave. Seducing an idiot like that would be too easy. She’d enjoy it, though. The man wasn’t half bad to look at.

  A maid’s work was never done, but Ada worked through her tasks as diligently as she could, determined to do the Croydon’s proud. As challenging as it was, she liked the idea that, while the Croydons were away, it was her duty to make their home as beautiful as possible. And if that meant scraping accumulated candle wax off the wooden floors in the library, scrubbing the sooty spots on the ceiling above the gas lamps, and polishing away general grime from the bookshelves, then she’d do it.

  Besides, working in the library gave her a chance to pore over the hundreds of books that Mr. Croydon owned. He was surprisingly liberal about allowing his servants to borrow books from his library. Then again, as enticing as the leather covers with gold lettering were, most of what Mr. Croydon owned were political titles or dry works of philosophy. The history books were interesting, but there wasn’t a novel in sight.

  She was halfway through dusting a shelf of Aristotle, peeking at some of the wise words of the ancients, when Tad appeared in the doorway. He cleared his throat, and Ada dropped her book in surprise.

  “Tad. I didn’t see you there,” she said, breathless, and bent over to pick up the book. She was dead lucky that it had landed flat instead of in any way that would have damaged the spine or bent the pages.

  “Sorry.” Tad walked swiftly into the room. “Only, I have something for you.”

  Ada blinked, sliding the book back onto the shelf. “You do?”

  “Yes.” He broke into a broad smile and took a few more steps toward her, but didn’t say anything more.

  Ada gathered her patience and stepped away from the bookshelf. Tad was a dear, but he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. He seemed to have taken a fancy to her in the past few days as well. It was sweet, but she wasn’t sure what to do with it.

  “What do you have?” she asked when the silence between them dragged on.

  Tad gazed at her, his smile distant. Far too late, he blinked and flinched. “Oh, sorry. It’s just that you look so pretty today.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

  Ada touched a hand to her hair, fixed in a bun at the back of her head. It was frizzy and wild, escaping from her mobcap. She was fairly certain dirt smeared her face as well. “Thank you,” she laughed, “but I’m sure I look a fright.”

  “Oh, no,” Tad said. “You’re so pretty. You’ve always been pretty. It’s not about how much work you’ve been doing or how dirty you are. It’s in your eyes. You have such kind eyes.”

  Ada’s brow shot up. Tad had barely said more than three words to her in all the time they’d been working together. “Thank you,” she said again, not knowing what else to say.

  They stood there in silence, Tad grinning and Ada growing increasingly restless under his gaze. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she might have to sit the poor young man down and have a talk with him soon. His attentions were flattering, after all, but her heart belonged to another.

  At last, when the silence had gone on too long, she cleared her throat and nodded to the paper in his hand. “Your letter?”

  “Oh.” Tad flinched. “Right. Here.”

  He handed the paper across to her. Ada took it and opened it.

  “My dearest A—. I have admired you from afar for these many years.” Ada gasped as she read the letter. She glanced tentatively to Tad, who continued to smile at her like she was the sky on a sunny day. She read on. “You are the sun to my horizon, the ink to my pen.” She peeked at Tad again. It was just as she’d suspected. “Please say you’ll come to the Valentine’s Day dance with me. Perhaps that will be the dawn of a new understandi
ng between us. Yours affectionately, T—.”

  Ada slowly folded the letter, keeping her eyes downcast. She cleared her throat, but that didn’t help the bubbling awkwardness in her chest. It was just as she’d feared. “Oh dear,” she sighed.

  “I need an answer,” Tad said in a quiet voice. “You know, right away.” He sent her a conspiratorial look.

  Heat flooded Ada’s cheeks. She couldn’t very well break the poor man’s heart right there and then. He looked so eager, so happy. It would be cruel to crush his hopes without at least appearing to give the man proper consideration. She didn’t have any firm promises from Tim, after all.

  “I need to think about it,” she said at last.

  “That’s your answer?” Tad asked, looking only slightly disappointed. That, at least, was encouraging.

  “Yes,” she said with as kind a smile as she could muster. “I think…I think it’s only right that I give this matter proper consideration before…before giving you a firm answer.”

  “So, that’s your reply?” Tad asked.

  Ada blinked. Somehow, the pieces weren’t fitting together exactly right. But she couldn’t figure out what was wrong. “Yes, that’s my reply.”

  “Very well, then.” Tad’s smile grew, and he stood straighter, nodding as though she were Mrs. Croydon herself and had just given an order. “Thank you, miss.” Tad fixed her with one last, fond grin, then nodded and left the room.

  Ada stood where she was for several seconds. She frowned and scanned the note again. There was nothing in it that hinted she’d read it wrong or gotten an incorrect idea. It was plain as day. Tad had asked her to the Valentine’s Day dance. So why did his response to her answer seem so off?

  She turned back to the bookshelf, slipping the note into her pocket and returning to work. One mystery was bad enough, but a second one troubled her even more. How was she going to disappoint Tad gently and avoid hurting his feelings?

  Tad strode down the lane, thinking over his encounter with Ada. She’d been pretty as a picture, and quite nice to him. Maybe Mary was right and he should pursue her. He could see the two of them arm in arm, strolling along the river. Or setting up house together. Or…well, whatever it was two sweethearts did. She didn’t seem to be too keen on Mr. Turnbridge’s letter, though, whatever it said. He’d tried to read it, but his reading never was very good. At least he had an answer for Mr. Turnbridge.