Page 28 of The Lord Next Door
“None.”
“Well, that’s good then. Please let me know if there’s anything I should deal with.”
“Of course, my lady.”
“Could you arrange for me to meet with a different servant every morning? I’ll feel better when I know everyone.”
Mrs. Wayneflete nodded with understanding.
“I’ll want to go over the menus with you, and see the household accounts, but for now, would you mind taking me on a tour of my new home?”
The housekeeper beamed. “I’d be happy to.”
The tour itself proved to Victoria how big the town house really was. There was even a second, larger drawing room behind the first, “For dancing,” Mrs. Wayneflete added, and Victoria felt a little pang in her stomach at the merest thought.
Above the second floor of bedchambers, there was a floor for children, and then another floor for the servants.
The earl’s suite was on the ground floor in the rear of the town house to accommodate his wheelchair.
Mrs. Wayneflete kept her voice low as they stood in the corridor. “My lady, only this morning the earl threw his breakfast tray at the maid, saying it wasn’t cooked to his exact specifications.”
“How inconsiderate of him.” Victoria wondered if a man with notoriety attached to his name would even bother to care what people thought anymore. “But he is dying,” she said aloud.
“We all die, my lady,” the housekeeper said, shooting an irritated look at the closed door. “Some of us do it graciously. Though the earl seldom leaves his room, when he does, he finds fault with every servant he encounters. I’ve heard stories of maids crying, footmen quitting, and housekeepers finally refusing to deal with the extra work. Those women came so highly regarded, they knew they could get a plum position in a better household, regardless of how much the viscount paid them to stay.”
Victoria stared at his door with worry. “We must do something about this, Mrs. Wayneflete. The last few months, my mother has shown a disturbing tendency to sleep too much of each day. I won’t watch two elderly people confine themselves to their rooms and be miserable at the end of their lives. There has to be some way to help them both.”
Mrs. Wayneflete nodded, though her expression showed her skepticism.
Victoria went back to the music room on the first floor overlooking the garden. A piano was the centerpiece of the room, flanked by cabinets full of musical scores. A covered harp rested quietly in one corner, and a cornet and a violin sat on a shelf in their cases. There was a large desk near the window, and Victoria could see herself there, working on her music.
She found her favorite compositions among the sheet music, soft, quiet tunes that should bother no one in the household. Eventually she grew bold, playing ever louder until the room swelled with music, and her ears rang with each reverberation. As always, she poured her worries and fears into the music, letting it release in glorious sound. She had forgotten how much better her music always made her feel.
With a happy sigh she let her hands fall into her lap. In the peaceful silence, she thought she heard the front door close. No one came looking for her, but an uneasy feeling rose within her, a prickling at the base of her neck.
Perhaps Lord Thurlow had come home for luncheon. She walked into the corridor and looked over the railing into the entrance hall below. The voices were louder now, coming from the library, a woman’s—and Lord Thurlow’s.
Victoria gripped the railing and considered what she should do. He could be speaking to a maid, after all. Victoria would just walk down to the kitchen—past the library—because she still had to discuss the day’s menu with Mrs. Wayneflete. When she reached the ground floor, she paused. The library door was partly open, though she could not see inside. The woman’s voice was not that of one of the maids, yet Victoria knew it from somewhere.
Lord Thurlow’s tone was solemn. “Forgive me. It was rude of me not to tell you about Victoria immediately. Things just happened so quickly.”
“Forgetfulness is often your excuse, David,” said the woman in a sad voice. “How many nights did I wait for you, delaying my own plans, because you said you were coming to me?”
Victoria felt gooseflesh sweep over her skin, and she shivered. This was Lord Thurlow’s mistress! She was brazen enough to come to Banstead House in broad daylight!
“You’re right, I have treated you poorly,” Lord Thurlow said.
“No, you have always been a good man, and that is why this is so difficult for me. Why couldn’t it have been me?”
“I beg your pardon?” he said.
Victoria held her breath, guilt long since faded away. She needed to hear this.
“I always thought you would marry a woman of your own class, so I never had hopes for myself.” Her voice broke. “But you married a commoner, just like me.”
“Damaris, you must understand—”
Victoria gasped and backed away from the library door. Miss Damaris Lingard was her husband’s mistress? And he had allowed the two women to attend the same luncheon, hurting Miss Lingard and making a fool of his own betrothed?
