Page 30 of Never Love a Lord
But then the sound, like the slow, building wails of some poor beast in the throes of birth, wound up from within the bed once more.
Julian Griffin had somehow managed to chase Amicia away, but she was back now, and she was apparently extremely unhappy with her eldest daughter.
Sybilla shot from her chair and stomped to her wardrobe, throwing the doors open, and ripping through her gowns.
Although Julian had spoken truthfully when he’d said there were few of the cook’s servants he needed to speak with, there were still one or two, and he chose to begin in that fragrant, humid room both for the surety of the staff’s presence as they prepared the morning meal for the castle inhabitants, as well as the delicious warmth the cove-ceilinged chamber provided.
He’d hoped to catch them off guard, perhaps surprising them into candor, but he needn’t have worried—Sybilla Foxe’s appearance in the kitchen threw the entire population into an immediate uproar.
He was surprised at her obvious contrition, and he wondered yet again where the legendary taskmistress of Fallstowe was, for surely this woman could not be she.
“I apologize for disturbing you,” Sybilla said in a low voice to the short, red-haired cook. She looked around the room at the owl-eyed servants, who were either staring at her stupidly, frozen in mid-task, or frantically engaged in some little job as if their lives at the castle depended on its completion in the lady’s presence. “All of you, please, don’t let me keep you from your duties. I’m only accompanying Lord Griffin, as he wishes to speak with some of the staff and is unfamiliar with the warren that is Fallstowe.”
“Was yer tea fitting this morn, Madam?” the cook asked sincerely, her eyes searching Sybilla’s face. “The bread crisp enough for you? Here now—you’ve nothing to drink! Hobie! Hobie, get off yer lazy duff and fetch Madam a fresh cup!” The cook’s eyes flicked daggers at Julian. “And one for our guest,His Lordship, as well.” She enunciated his title as if she were pronouncing a foreign phrase for the wordarsehole, the consonants cracking like whips.
“I don’t require anything at the moment, thank you,” Julian said.
“As you wish, my lord,” the woman said quickly, then dismissed him, turning her attention back to Sybilla. “What does he want from us, Madam? Is he to see us all jailed by the king? What shall we do if you leave? We’ll not carry on if—”
Sybilla opened her mouth to answer the woman, but Julian beat her to it. “I’m not here to see any of you jailed. I need only to ask you some questions about your time at Fallstowe, and only a pair of you from the kitchen, as it were.” He looked down at the list in his hand and spoke the names, then raised his gaze, waiting for the mentioned persons to step forward.
No one moved, save for the young man who was handing Sybilla a steaming mug wrapped in a soft-looking linen cloth. She thanked him quietly and then blew on the surface of the drink before taking a sip, the only person in the room who was not currently staring daggers into Julian.
He’d not received this kind of loyalty from the men in his outfit while engaged in battle, and Julian was struck again by the thought that Sybilla Foxe’s roots ran very deep into the heart of Fallstowe. Regardless, though, he was here to do his duty, and he would not be denied by servants.
He cleared his throat pointedly and repeated the names.
The cook spoke. “The first girl isn’t at her duties today. She’s come down quite ill, I’m afraid.”
Sybilla’s concern was immediate. “What is it?”
The cook seemed relieved to focus her attention on her mistress. “I don’t right know, Madam. She began feeling poorly yesterday, and this morn when she reported to work, she had such ghastly black rings about her eyes, coughing and retching, I sent her back to her cottage right away.”
Sybilla’s frown was sincere. “Was she fevered?”
The cook nodded. “I believe so, milady. Gray as could be and wet as a rag.”
Julian felt his own grimace. “It sounds like one of the lesser plagues to me. It’s gone round London lately. Terribly catching.” He met Sybilla’s eyes. “You’d do well to keep her from the castle and see if she improves.”
“Has anyone else shown symptoms?” Sybilla asked the room at large.
“None else here, milady,” the cook offered.
The serving lad, Hobie, spoke. “One of the chamber maids was coughing a fit before the supper last eve. I’ve not yet seen her today.”
“Which girl?” Sybilla asked.
Hobie shrugged. “I forget her name.” Then he glanced at Julian. “’Tis the one takin’ care of their rooms.”
Sybilla set her mug down on the large center worktable and then looked to Julian. “Forgive me, Lord Griffin, but I’m sure you understand that this requires my immediate attention.”
“Of course,” Julian said. “Can I help you in any way?”
Sybilla seemed as though she’d been about to say something else, but closed her mouth and looked at him oddly for a moment.
“No,” she said. “Thank you.” Then she turned to address the kitchen at large. “If Lord Griffin asks anything of any of you, I expect your full cooperation. Answer his questions honestly, with no fear of reprisal from me or the king. You are not being tried or charged with anything. You are innocent. But if you perjure yourself to an envoy of the Crown, you will be held accountable. I wish no harm to come to any of you, so please accommodate his requests. Do you understand?”
The crowd mumbled their assent.
