She pulled her mother’s shawl tighter around her shoulders, a poor substitution for a hug. What she wouldn’t give to be able to ask her mother for advice. Would her mother encourage her recklessness, or would she more likely berate Jessica’s foolish decision to meet Simon again? A spring of tears made her snuffle, and she slowed to a walk.
Light still shone from the drawing room. She couldn’t risk bumping into any of the house party guests and being recognized in the light of a dozen candles. She was already playing with fire by deceiving Simon.
Bypassing the main entrances, she made her way around to the kitchen door. The long wooden table was scattered with servants gathered for their own meal. Abby wasn’t among them. Laughter and chatter filled the room. It was cozy and welcoming. Besides Mrs. Hamish, the Penhaven servants weren’t a merry lot. Jessica wasn’t sure whether to attribute the gloom to the house itself or its master.
A middle-aged woman holding a pot of stew bustled over. “Come on in with you, girl. No need to be shy. You’re just in time to get some food.”
Jessica allowed herself to be bundled to an empty space at the table. The cook set an earthenware bowl in front of her and ladled in a good portion of warm stew. The rich scent triggered her salivary glands. She’d been too self-conscious and uncomfortable to eat much at dinner. Her bowl was empty in no time.
“What’s your name, girl, and who do you belong to?” The cook plopped down next to her, wiping her brow on her apron.
“I’m Abby Blackwell, ma’am, and here with Miss Tremaine.” The lie flowed a bit easier off her tongue when not facing Simon.
The woman cocked her head. “Are you now? Welcome to Wintermarsh. Not often we get folks from the Penhaven estate over here. I’m Mrs. Potts, the cook.”
“Mrs. Hamish has complimented your skill in the kitchen many times.” A gleam in Mrs. Potts’s eyes had the back of Jessica’s neck heating. Did Mrs. Potts know the real Abby Blackwell? It was possible they’d met in Lipton on errands.
“Mrs. Hamish is an extraordinary cook herself,” Mrs. Potts said evenly.
The wash of panic receded when no accusation was forthcoming. With an enthusiasm born of relief, she said, “That was the best stew I’ve ever had.”
Mrs. Potts’s cheeks turned apple red with pleasure. “Tell Mrs. Hamish her tart recipe has become a favorite. Especially with Master Simon.”
The opening was too tempting for Jessica not to step through. She forced the eagerness out of her tone lest Mrs. Potts suspect something Jessica wasn’t ready to admit even to herself. “I saw His Grace in the entry hall earlier. He’s very handsome.”
“He’s a scamp, he is. Too charming for his own good, I’d say, but a good man nevertheless.” Mrs. Potts leaned closer. “Is Mr. Goforth really as overbearing as I’ve heard?”
“He’s even worse,” Jessica whispered.
Mrs. Potts made a sound of commiseration. “I count my lucky stars to be working at Wintermarsh.”
“I find Lord Drummond rather intimidating.”
“That man is all bluster. You’ll never find a kinder employer in these parts.” She clapped her hands on the table and rose. “Listen to me gossiping. Mrs. Devlin will clap my ear if she hears.”
It was obvious by her tone, the cook wasn’t actually worried about being disciplined by the housekeeper.
“May I take some warm water to my mistress?” Jessica asked.
“With all the comings and goings, I’m keeping a pot over the fire, so help yourself anytime your mistress requires it. The boys will need warning if she requests a bath, so keep that in mind.” Mrs. Potts turned back to a bowl of rising dough. “You’re welcome to come down and eat with everyone whenever you like.”
Jessica carefully ladled the steaming water into a basin and headed to her room. Her belly was full and so was her heart, even as she attempted to quash the anticipation of seeing Simon again tomorrow.
* * *
Not for the first time, but perhaps the most piquantly, Jessica felt a true abhorrence to the part she was committed to playing. She efficiently applied the powder and dotted dark greasepaint she’d acquired from a caravan of actors two years earlier under her eyes. Abby tied extra padding to her waist and hips.
Next came a tight, uncomfortable bun covered with a cap of dingy lace on her crown. It was natural to thin her lips in displeasure at her appearance. Today she’d chosen a severe gray dress that buttoned up her neck. She looked like a dreary rain cloud out to ruin everyone’s fun.
Hopefully, the men were still out shooting and she could put in an obligatory morning with the ladies before retreating to her room for a “nap.” Tramping down the stairs with a purposefully unladylike gait, she drew the attention of the two women chatting in the entry hall.
Lady Drummond tipped her head and regarded Jessica with an expression somewhere between pity and curiosity. The matron standing at Lady Drummond’s side spared Jessica a disdainful glance before making her way into the drawing room. Females chattered like magpies inside.
“Have you decided to join the young ladies for a trip into Lipton?” Lady Drummond raised a brow, but otherwise betrayed little of what she was thinking.
“I believe I will remain here for the morning.” Jessica tried to keep her expression equally as blank, but she felt a bit like she was a novice playing cards with a shark.
“May I ask you a personal question?”
Jessica swallowed and nodded, dread rising in her throat.
“Have you considered wearing jewel tones instead of shades of gray?” Lady Drummond pursed her lips as her gaze swept over Jessica from head to toe.
The question triggered both intense relief and embarrassment. Jessica feared her powder couldn’t conceal her blush. “I like my dress.”
Of course, it was a lie. Jessica hated everything about what she was wearing.
Lady Drummond’s eyes widened, and she slipped closer to touch Jessica’s forearm. “Oh dear. That was unforgivably rude of me. Rafe tells me all the time that I can’t talk to my lady friends as I talk to him. I’ve grown used to being able to say exactly what I think.”
Jessica attempted to imagine such a reality. She had grown used to hiding her true thoughts from everyone, even her brother. “You are very lucky, my lady.”
“Indeed, I am.” Lady Drummond bit her lip in a show of what Jessica could only assume was unusual uncertainty. “Please don’t take offense. I marched Rafe’s sister straight to a modiste her first season for an entirely new wardrobe from the stockings up. I would be thrilled to help you choose an array of flattering patterns and fabrics.”
“New dresses are quite unnecessary. Browns and grays are perfectly acceptable for the type of life I lead here in the country.”
Minerva raised her eyebrows. “You’ll need new dresses for your London debut.”
“I do not want a debut. I plan to rusticate at Penhaven for the season as usual.”
Lady Drummond clucked her tongue. “I’m not sure your father will be willing to honor your plans. He mentioned last night after you made your excuses that you will make your London debut this spring.”
Shock sent her thoughts into a whirl, and all she could choke out was, “He’s not my father.”
Lady Drummond looked taken aback by the vehemence driving the words. Jessica had to get a handle on her feelings before Lady Drummond became even more suspicious.
“I have spoken out of turn, and I apologize. You and he need to discuss your future. But my offer to help you have a successful launch in London remains open. I remember how difficult my first season was without the steady hand of a mother. I would be pleased to sponsor you.” Under Lady Drummond’s cool sophistication lurked a surprising well of kindness.
But Jessica couldn’t afford to accept. “Thank you, but that will be unnecessary.”
“No need to decide now. Come and break your fast. The tea should be hot.” Minerva guided her into the morning room. Four young ladies milled about, pulling on pelis
ses and gloves while waiting for the carriages to take them into Lipton.
The ladies murmured greetings to Lady Drummond. Jessica took a step to the side to disentangle herself from her hostess’s sphere.
A woman entered the morning room, untying her bonnet and setting it on the back of a chair. Her sparkling green eyes hinted at a wry humor, and Jessica had to stop herself from smiling at the new arrival.
“Delilah! When did you and Marcus arrive?” Lady Drummond stepped forward to take the woman’s hands and buss her cheek.
“Just now. Marcus woke at a cursed early hour and decided he wanted to join the hunt. I rode on, and the carriage is following with the bags and children. They are quite beside themselves with excitement. Your nursery may not survive.” Delilah’s laugh was warm and contagious.
Jessica pressed her lips tightly together. She couldn’t let her guard down for a second around these two ladies.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” Delilah looked Jessica up and down. Not with a scathing, insulting gaze but with a curious good humor. It was almost as though the woman could see through her drabness to what was hidden.
Minerva performed the introductions. “Lady Wyndam, this is Miss Jessica Tremaine from the Penhaven estate.”
“Oh, you are our neighbor. How delightful to finally make your acquaintance. I was so sorry to hear of your mother’s passing.” The sympathy in Delilah’s brown eyes appeared sincere.
“Thank you. It was a difficult loss.”
A stark silence settled in the void. It was easier to manage her loneliness when not confronted with it. Jessica glanced over her shoulder toward the door. Could she retreat to her room for the rest of the day? Before she could move, Delilah looped her arm through Jessica’s and led her to a settee.
“Marcus and I rarely go to London, but we attend most of the country dances in Lipton. They are great fun. Why I haven’t I seen you at any?” Delilah sat and patted the cushion.
Minerva perched on the other side. To refuse would be to insult, so Jessica sank between the two ladies, outflanked and on the defensive. “I enjoy my solitude.”
“Miss Tremaine has not come out into society yet, but her stepfather informed me last night he expects her to make her bow this season in London.” Minerva leaned forward to address Delilah.
Delilah clapped her hands. “How exciting! My first season was a complete and utter disaster.”
A surprised huff of laughter escaped before Jessica could stop it. Delilah grinned back, but Minerva’s half smile was more speculative.
Maintaining her facade outside her normal environment was more difficult than Jessica imagined. How much harder would it be under the glare of the ton? “My stepfather has not informed me of any plans.”
“I read the papers. Mr. Goforth is a commoner with aspirations. He will attempt to maneuver a match that will benefit him. My papa is a cit and held similar hopes for me.” Delilah’s grin faded into pensiveness.
“It worked, did it not? You married an earl,” Jessica said crisply.
“A penniless Irish peer with very little to recommend him,” Delilah said wryly.
Jessica tried to quickly rearrange her preconceptions. “Your father was against the match?”
“Vehemently. He cut me off and refused to sign over my dowry. Marcus and I married by special license.” Delilah didn’t seem tortured by her decision.
“And you harbor no regrets?”
“Not a single one. Jumping through that window was the best decision of my life.”
Jessica was unfamiliar with the particular turn of phrase, but she understood the sentiments well enough. A combination of desperation and dread tightened her chest. Jessica looked back and forth at Delilah and Minerva. Her own worry sneaked through her defenses. “I don’t want to be bartered away for my stepfather’s gain.”
“Of course, you don’t.” A combination of indignation and commiseration warmed Delilah’s voice. It was becoming increasing difficult not to confess everything. Was this what having a sister or friend felt like? Delilah continued, “If you’re brave enough and bold enough, you can make your own path. Isn’t that right, Minerva?”
“Quite so.” Minerva answered in the crisp tones of a general used to giving orders. “But in order to mount a counteroffensive, you need more weapons in your arsenal, else you’ll find yourself a pawn sacrificed for the good of the king.”
“Are you suggesting I carry a knife or pistol in my reticule?” Jessica was only half jesting.
Delilah laughed. Although Minerva smiled, her eyes held no mirth. “Men use knives, pistols, and fists. Women use charm, beauty, and brains. One is no more powerful than the other if wielded correctly.”
“I’m not charming. Or beautiful,” Jessica said flatly.
Minerva shrugged. “Charm can be learned, and much of beauty is outer trappings. All you would require would be a more flattering wardrobe and a new hairstyle. You are already in possession of the most important weapon—brains.”
Delilah reached across and took Minerva’s hand so Jessica was corralled. “We should help her.”
“I can’t accept your help.” It was the same denial she’d issued earlier, but it emerged weaker under the care and curiosity of the two ladies.
“Of course, you can,” Delilah said. “Anyway, Minerva loves nothing more than a project.”
“It doesn’t matter, because I’m not going to London.” Jessica’s declaration was ruined by a wobble in her voice.
The contempt and mockery flung in her direction had stopped bothering her long ago. In fact, the cruel arrows aimed with precision by Goforth meant she was not worthy of becoming his pawn.
Kindness was proving to be her undoing. She blinked to clear the telling sting of tears. Her last tears had been born of grief. These were accompanied by a warmth she couldn’t afford to feel.
“Your stepfather has final say over your plans. That is the way of things unfortunately.” Minerva paused and tilted her head. “However, we can help you achieve your goals, not his.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I should have offered my assistance after your mother passed.” Minerva’s usually steady gaze skittered away with her shrug. “Plus it would please my brother.”
The weight of an anvil pressed on Jessica’s lungs, leaving her breathless. “Why would His Grace deign to worry over me? We’ve barely been acquainted a day.”
“Oh. I was given to understand your paths crossed many years ago. Is that not true?”
Jessica opened her mouth then closed it. The fact he remembered at all, much less had mentioned their first meeting to his sister, sent the butterflies in her stomach into a frenzy.
“No. It is true.” Jessica looked her hands. “He feels sorry for me, doesn’t he?”
His attention the night before in the drawing room and at dinner made more sense now. She wasn’t quite sure how to feel about the realization, but she couldn’t deny the disappointment.
“This is a story I haven’t heard, and it sounds intriguing.” Delilah’s smile was warm and encouraging.
Friends had been plentiful during her childhood in America, and Jessica had had her mother to confide in as well. Everything had changed with their change of fortunes. While they were rich in land and coin, she was poorer in friends and spirit.
With the two ladies staring at her, Jessica found herself speaking of the day she kept close to her heart. “Our paths crossed at an inn soon after I arrived from America. I was young and hadn’t yet learned to guard my tongue. My stepfather was not forgiving of my impudence. His Grace intervened. I’ve never forgotten his kindness, but I am surprised to learn he remembered me at all.”
The two women exchanged a glance Jessica wasn’t sure how to interpret. Lady Drummond transferred her pointed gaze to Jessica, who couldn’t help but wither slightly under its intensity. “How did Goforth make you pay for your impudent tongue?”
Jessica swallowed. “The usual way, I suppo
se.”
Delilah touched the back of Jessica’s hand, and it was only then she realized she’d drawn them into fists. “What is the usual way with your stepfather?”
Jessica knew better than to answer with the truth. She had allowed the conversation to dig too close to the truth. She stood. “I believe I’ll take a turn in your garden, Lady Drummond. If you’ll excuse me.”
Chapter 8
The young women had returned from their visit to Lipton and were playing charades in the drawing room. Simon intended to bypass the merriment and make his way to the nursery to play with his nephew and the other children. He’d promised Christopher a game of blind man’s bluff.
He made it past the drawing room without being spotted and let out a held breath, lengthening his stride. His focus was on the stairs and freedom, which is why he didn’t notice the hand snagging him by the shoulder of his jacket until it yanked him through the study door.
“Christ almighty!” he yelled.
“Keep it down, you dirty blighter,” Rafe said in a menacing voice as he closed the door and stood in front of it like a Newgate prison guard.
A vastly amused Wyndam stood at the mantel sipping a brandy, and Lady Wyndam and Minerva occupied two armchairs, drinking port.
Rafe poked Simon in the chest. “You did this to me. What have I ever done besides steer you down an honorable path? And this is the thanks I get? Don’t forget I still remember how to garrote a man in under thirty seconds. I’m tempted to employ my expertise on both you and Goforth. Why did you want him invited if you weren’t going to court him for his support?”
It was true, Rafe possessed skills that had made him one of the Crown’s foremost spies during the wars with Napoleon. But his gruff, intimidating exterior hid a big heart. Rafe would never purposefully hurt anyone unless he was protecting those he cared about. Simon counted himself lucky to be on that list.
“Am I to assume you were stuck entertaining him?” Simon asked idly even as Rafe fisted his neckcloth into a wad of linen.
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