Page 22 of The Lord Meets His Lady
“Here’s a nice idea,” she said waspishly. “Don’t think about my hips at all. I’m here to cook and to clean.”
“Understood.”
His smooth voice sent a shiver to the right places. Lord Bowles was trying to appease her when he didn’t have to. Theycouldmuddle on as master and servant and do just fine. What was it about him that made her want to open closed parts and soothe him? She shouldn’t care that he was down in the mouth, but she did.
Growing up, she’d never bothered to let people know when they hurt her. It was better to shield herself. Life in London moved fast, even faster at the Golden Goose. There was little time for needy things like emotions.
Lord Bowles lifted the candle higher. Light shined on the curl hanging behind his ear. “I was wrong to malign you. Will you forgive me?”
Her stiff spine eased. In her experience, men weren’t prone to admit their wrongdoing, much less ask for forgiveness. They were conquerors, collectors, predators… This was progress. That alone was unsettling.
She pulled her cloak tighter. “Tomorrow’s a new day, milord. If you’d be so kind as to show me to my room, I need a good night’s sleep. There’s much work to be done tomorrow.”
And there was the letter in her pocket.
They exited the parlor. Lord Bowles closed the front door, shutting out the night. He handed the taper to her and hoisted her chest waiting in the entry. Together, they walked through the dining room, a place bare of furniture. When she stepped down into the kitchen, a petite dust cloud billowed around her shoe. Light shined from a doorway beside the scullery, her room.
Inside, three candles burned atop a washstand painted green. A white porcelain pitcher full of water sat in a chipped basin on the washstand. Linens had been hastily tucked around a mattress, and a brown wool blanket lay folded neatly by the pillow.
Lord Bowles had done this for her.
Small kindnesses weakened her. Best to be careful. She stood by the window, needing distance from her new master. Holding up the taper, she squinted through smudged panes. A garden and a modest forest stretched behind the cottage. While she was staring into the darkness, a ruckus sounded behind her. She twisted around to find the lid of her clothes chest flipped open, and a froth of skirts spilled on the floor.
Lord Bowles quickly righted the chest. Genevieve set the taper in an iron candleholder. She turned to see a scrap of faded blue wool in his hand.
The doll.
Gasping, she snatched it from him. “I’ll take that.”
Button eyes painted black stared at her. Time had chipped the color. Frayed threads fluttered from the little blue dress. Heart banging, Genevieve wrapped the doll in a linen neckerchief and tucked it beside her prettiest shift. The doll was her deepest secret and tenderest wound…her reason for coming north.
“The chest tipped when I set it down,” he explained. “I was merely putting your things back.”
Lord Bowles had a talent for stumbling on her secrets. The ragged doll was her future and her past. Lots of women saved dolls from childhood, but this girlish toy wasn’t born of sweet memories. Only she knew that.
“I forgot to secure the latch.” Head down, she shut the lid.
The room was cold, and the hour was late. She’d have dark circles under her eyes, badges of honor to remind her not to be a pawn of men. A wise woman played her own game. This bargain between Mr. Beckworth and Lord Bowles was harmless, a thing easily managed—unlike another past arrangement. She shivered. No more would she be a piece easily moved for a man’s pleasure.
Lord Bowles held out a black stocking, the front of his tricorne nearly touching the side of her head. “Miss Turner?”
Now was a good time to observe those master-servant boundaries. She hugged herself and stared at the whitewashed stone wall. “Don’t forget to rub the salve on your hands, milord.”
He bent closer, a line slashing above his nose. “I need to tend the cart and horses, but I can come back—”
“Good night, milord.”
Shoes scraped the floor. He dropped the stocking on top of her chest, staring holes at her profile, but in this she would not budge.
“Good night, Miss Turner.”
Lord Bowles exited her room with catlike footsteps. She waited until the front door opened and closed before shutting hers. Sinking onto the narrow bed, she exhaled long. Cloak, gloves, and shoes landed in a heap on the floor. She’d labored long hours at the Golden Goose, but this northern charade wore her to the bone.
Wrapping the brown wool blanket around her, she curled up like a babe on the bed. The offer of help with her search enticed her. She was a stranger to Cornhill. To give Lord Bowles a name wouldn’t hurt. She didn’t have to talk about the doll. He could make discreet inquiries. Better he did the asking than her.
After all, she was a hunted woman.
Eyes closed, she burrowed deeper in the blanket, crumpling Elise’s letter in her apron pocket. A decision needed to be made. Search alone, or ask for help.
One hand dug the note from her apron. Smoothing the foolscap, she swallowed the knot in her throat and angled the message toward the candlelight. Her lips formed the words slowly.
Dear Genevieve,
Our shop had a visitor the day you left—Herr Avo Thade. He asked many questions regarding your whereabouts. I must warn you, he saw your old cloak. The new shopgirl told him a Miss Abbott traded it for a red cloak with black embroidery. I sent her on an errand before she could say anything else, but I fear the damage was done. He knows you’re living under a false name.
Herr Thade is every bit as frightening as you’ve said and quite peculiar. He sniffed your cloak like a hound and said, “Reinhard Wolf wants what belongs to him.”
With sincere wishes for your safety,
Elise
