She stepped outside into the cool evening air and went to dump her bucket in the courtyard behind the house. Then she set it down and sighed, moving farther out into the night, her eyes going to the sky overhead where the first stars pierced the gray-black. She spent a few minutes of silence there, relishing the quiet and wishing she did not have only a dull, cramped bedroom to return to.
As she turned to go inside, she heard a noise, a whisper in the dark. It was a woman’s voice, from around the corner of the house. Footsteps moved closer, and then another voice answering, deep and unmistakably male.
Rose did not want to eavesdrop, but neither did she wish to have any sort of contact with another servant at the moment. She did not particularly care for scathing looks and mocking smiles. She slipped behind the wash house, set away from the manor, and waited for the voices to pass.
Instead, they grew louder, stopping quite close to her.
“We have to do it soon,” said the man’s voice. “As soon as possible.”
Rose did not recognize the voice, though that was hardly peculiar, considering how many servants were employed at Norcliffe.
“This cannot be rushed.” The woman’s voice was brusque and cool, one Rose did know. Mrs. Morton. “I must make certain everything is in place to deter his suspicion.”
“Of course. We cannot compromise your position here. You are far too valuable.” The man’s tone was smooth, slipping over his words like butter on hot bread. “But the longer we wait, the greater the chance he will move it.”
What on earth were they talking about? Who was suspicious, and what was being moved? Uneasiness rose inside her, and she tried to push it away. Surely it was none of her concern. And yet, why were they being secretive, meeting out here in the dark?
Mrs. Morton was silent for a long moment before answering. “Very well.” She lowered her voice, muttering a few words that Rose could not make out. She leaned forward, as if the distance of a few inches might allow her hearing to reach, but to no avail.
“Excellent,” the man said. Rose could almost hear the smile in his voice. “A pleasure, as always, Mrs. Morton.”
Footsteps sounded as the man left, and Rose waited, certain Mrs. Morton would go inside and join the other servants. But Mrs. Morton’s steps grew louder, coming in the direction of the washhouse that Rose now hid behind.
Her pulse jumped inside of her. Whatever Mrs. Morton and the stranger had been discussing, it had not been anything they wanted overheard. She grabbed up her bucket and hurried a few steps away, acting as if she had just emptied it.
Mrs. Morton turned the corner and stopped short. “Miss Sinclair,” she barked.
Rose turned, forcing a look of surprise. “Mrs. Morton.”
She could barely see the housekeeper’s face by the light from a nearby window, but there was no denying the distrust in her eyes. “What are you doing? You can’t have finished the gallery yet.”
Rose kept her eyes wide and innocent, though she did not have to pretend the tremor in her voice. “Only just. Came to empty my bucket.”
Mrs. Morton harrumphed. “I’ll be inspecting it tomorrow. If I find your work lacking …”
Her voice drifted off, the threat so familiar to Rose by now that she did not even bother to worry over it. What frightened her most was the hard look in Mrs. Morton’s eyes, beyond the usual dislike.
“I’ll look it over again tonight,” Rose managed, dropping her eyes.
Mrs. Morton sniffed and strode away. Rose let out a short breath, her heart beating furiously as if it had stopped during the entirety of the conversation.
Had she convinced Mrs. Morton that she had not overheard anything? She was hardly a talented actress, though her fear had been real. Mrs. Morton and the silver-tongued man were planning something, and certainly nothing innocent, or they would not need to meet in shadowy corners of the estate late at night.
What should she do? The first thought in her mind was to tell Henry. Except she had nothing substantial to tell. They had given no details or even said anything that might paint them as particularly suspicious. But the feeling that twisted in her stomach—a cold, dark sensation—signaled that something was not right. And Henry ought to know if something was not right in his home.
Chapter Ten
Henry eyed the gathering clouds as he strode down the main street in town. No matter how pleasant it had been the last time he had been caught in a rainstorm, he had no intention of doing it again. Especially since Rose was nowhere nearby. Hardly worth the nuisance of getting wet if she was not there.
He grinned at the memory, and two ladies standing outside the milliner’s stared at him as he passed, no doubt shocked at the sight of Lord Norcliffe without a scowl. Rose was going to be terrible for his reputation, he could tell. But he could not bring himself to care very much.
He was turning to cross the street when his gaze fell upon the window of Fenton’s Secondhand Shop. He froze, his eyes fixed upon a delicate gold necklace, the pendant an unmistakable shape of a rose.
That was Rose’s necklace, the one she’d showed him on their walk. He would bet his estate on it. What was it doing in this window? It took a second longer for his mind to make the connection, flashing back to their conversation. She had sold it. She had sold the only thing she had left of her mother. All to pay for her father’s medical fees, the ones Henry had refused to cover.
Henry stared at the necklace. How could such a woman as Rose exist? How could she be so selfless, so kind? But she was real, and he knew it. Their time spent together in the past few weeks had proven her character, and made him feel lacking in comparison. Rose was smart, sweet, hopeful—and yet no one seemed to realize it except for him. To the world, she was simply a maid, which was ridiculous when she was so much more. To him, she was—well, what was she to him?
A friend, certainly. A confidante. But that was not enough for Henry any longer.
Not when he could do something about it.
* * *
Rose was straightening her apron, adjusting the knot behind her back, when she heard Henry step into the library behind her. She turned to face him, and her cheeks warmed immediately. He looked handsome in his white pressed cravat, his tan jacket finely tailored to suit his arms and shoulders.
“Good morning,” she said softly, smoothing the skirts of her plain black dress, the livery all the maids wore. Sometimes she forgot the disparity between them, but today she felt it quite keenly.
“Good morning.” His eyes were dancing, bright. “What are we working on today?”
She cleared her throat, looking away. “I am close to finishing the inventory, sir,” she said. “Then you shall know precisely where each book is when you finally get around to reading them all.”
He laughed, and her stomach gave a curious flip. She liked to make him laugh. No one else found her particularly amusing, but with Henry it was easy. Comfortable, even.
If only she did not have such an uncomfortable subject to breach with him. What good could come of it, accusing his own housekeeper of an uncertain crime? Who knew if it even needed reporting? Perhaps she had been discussing grocery deliveries with a footman.
But she knew very well that was not it, and she needed to warn Henry of anything untoward happening amongst his staff.
She stepped forward, clasping her hands before her. “I have something I need to tell you, sir.”
But he waved her off. “Whatever it is, it can wait.”
“I’m not certain it can—”
He did not seem to be listening. Instead, he crossed the room to her, a mischievous gleam to his eye. “Close your eyes,” he commanded.
“What?” She pulled in her chin.
“Close your eyes,” he repeated, a little softer, but no less mysteriously. “Please.”
She cast him a curious glance before dutifully closing her eyes. His hand took hers, still clasped in front of her, and gently separated them. Her heart quickened and she was suddenly very aware t
hat they stood alone in the library together, with no more than a breath between them. His hands moved lightly on hers, turning it palm upward, his touch sending a shiver across her skin. He dropped something into her palm, small and cool, and then closed her fingers around it.
She knew instantly what it was. Her eyes flew open and she stared at her closed fist for a long moment before releasing her fingers. It was her mother’s necklace, the gold rose winking in the morning light.
“How did you know?” she whispered. She looked up at him and found his gaze on her, a more serious expression overtaking the playfulness from before.
“I saw it in the shop window,” he said quietly. “If I’d known you were going to sell it that day, I never would have let you.”
He was still standing far too close. Rose could hardly breathe with him so near, let alone think. “You hardly knew me then.”
“I knew enough,” he said. “Though I certainly have not been disappointed in what I’ve come to know about you since.”
She attempted a bit of humor. “My loose tongue hasn’t frightened you off?”
His eyes traveled across her face, intent. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”
She looked down again at the necklace and tears clouded her eyes as she closed her fingers once more around it, pressing her hand against her chest.
“Thank you, Henry,” she breathed.
He dipped his head to catch her eye once again. “You do know that is the first time you have said my name.” He looked at her then with such feeling that her chest felt tight, her head light. He moved closer and raised his hand to her face. She hitched a breath, not daring to move as his thumb lightly traced her jawline, his gaze on her continually.
“Rose,” he said, voice husky.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside the library, quick and decisive. Henry dropped his hand and she nearly leaped away from him, hurrying to the table where she had left her duster. She trembled all over as she scooped it up, turning just as Mrs. Morton appeared in the doorway. She took in the sight of them, alone in the library, and set her jaw, eyes blazing.
“Lord Norcliffe,” she said tightly. “Please pardon my interruption, but I have something that I simply must bring to your attention.”
Henry did not look at Rose, no doubt an attempt to keep their charade intact. “Yes, what is it?” he said briskly.
Mrs. Morton’s face was turning an alarming shade of red. “I regret to inform you that we have a thief in the house.”
Rose stared at the housekeeper, still clutching the necklace in her hand. A thief?
Henry shook his head, his eyes narrowed. “I shall require a bit more explanation than that.”
“This morning,” Mrs. Morton said, her words coming faster now, “I was cleaning the late baroness’s room and found her jewelry box stripped of its contents.”
Henry froze. “Her jewelry is gone?”
“Yes.”
He still did not move, his back stiff. “What of the hand mirror?”
“Gone,” Mrs. Morton said. “And when I searched the servants’ rooms, determined to find who had committed such a horrible offense, I found this in one of their chambers.”
She held up a necklace and Rose nearly had to squint to see it, so blinding was the light that reflected from the diamonds.
“Whose?” Henry demanded, stepping forward. Rose hadn’t seen him this angry since that day in the entry. “Whose chamber?”
Mrs. Morton fixed her eyes on Rose, and in a striking moment of clarity, far too late, she realized what was happening.
“Miss Sinclair’s,” Mrs. Morton said. “I found it in Miss Sinclair’s room.”
Rose’s breaths were coming faster now, panic building inside her. This was it. This was what Mrs. Morton had been planning last night.
“It was all I found,” Mrs. Morton continued. “She must have sold the rest of it off.”
Rose was hardly paying attention to the housekeeper’s words. She was staring at Henry, waiting for a reaction, any reaction. He could not possibly believe she had done this. Could he?
“I’ve never seen that necklace before,” Rose said, her voice weak and shaky. Henry did not turn to look at her, did not even seem to realize she had spoken.
After a few moments, Henry shook his head. “But why would she risk staying here? It does not make any sense.”
Rose had never been more grateful for his logical mind. Of course he would not turn on her.
Mrs. Morton shook her head. “She knows I only clean there once a month. I was not due for another fortnight, but decided to clean the linens. Lucky I did, or we’d never have caught her. Miss Sinclair is a thief and a liar, my lord, a minx who has taken this position for one purpose: to steal from you.”
Henry stood without moving. Rose’s mind was a jumble; what could she say in her defense? That is, if she could convince her tongue to speak. At the moment it was paralyzed by fear and shock.
Finally, he turned to face her. Her heart trembled. There was no kindness in his eyes. His jaw was tight, his shoulders rigid.
“Henry,” she whispered. “Please, it was not me. It was Mrs. Morton, I swear. I heard her last night—”
He shook his head and stepped away from her. “You betrayed me, after all I did for you.” His voice was hard, furious.
And he left, shouting for Frampton, demanding the butler assign a footman to keep watch over her while another was sent for the constable. Rose gasped for air, her lungs impossibly tight. She stumbled backwards, catching herself on the edge of the table.
The house was in an uproar, but all Rose could see was Mrs. Morton’s smirk and the accusing look upon Henry’s face, frozen forever in her memory.
Chapter Eleven
It took everything Henry had to look Rose in the eye and renounce her. His stomach turned and his hands were shaking with anger as he spoke, but he did not allow himself to slip. Mrs. Morton had to believe he thought Rose the thief. If she didn’t, then the plan he had concocted all of twenty seconds ago would fail before it had even begun.
But the sight of Rose—pale and trembling, her eyes wide in desperation—nearly broke him. Before she could say his name again, plead in that quivering voice of hers, he turned and strode from the room.
A half hour later, he still could not calm himself enough to sit. He’d found himself in his mother’s room, not entirely certain how he’d gotten there. He paced, waiting for word from Frampton, his eyes going to the jewelry box on the vanity with every turn of his feet. It was empty, as Mrs. Morton had claimed. When she had first spoken those words, those horrible words accusing Rose, he was ashamed to admit he had given in to a moment of doubt. Was Rose capable of such a thing? She had known about the mirror, after all. He had told her himself. He knew she needed the money. Was she truly that desperate?
But why would she have sold her mother’s necklace if she had planned to steal the mirror? It made no sense. And one look at her was all it took to remind him of who she was. She was sweet and kind, endearingly cheerful and unendingly optimistic. His doubts had fled in the space of a breath, and a new realization took hold in his mind. If Rose had not done it, that could only mean that Mrs. Morton had. And that was something Henry would not stand for.
When the butler finally slipped soundlessly into his mother’s room, Henry looked up at him sharply.
“Well?” he demanded.
“All is as you ordered.” Frampton came closer, his voice low. “Charlie is watching Mrs. Morton, and the constable should arrive any moment.”
“Where is Mrs. Morton now?” He could barely speak her name, so thick was the rage inside him.
“Belowstairs, in the kitchen.”
“Good.” He moved without hesitation to the door.
“My lord, should you not wait for the constable?”
Henry turned back. “I’ll not leave Rose in torment any longer. Send the constable in when he arrives, and inform me if Mrs. Morton comes near the library.”
Frampton nodded. “As you wish, my lord.”
* * *
“You mustn’t panic,” Rose whispered to herself for the thirtieth time in as many minutes. “You did not do this. Henry will see the truth.”
But the lies she told herself were becoming harder to believe. The minutes ticked past and still no one came back into the library to tell her this had all been a terrible mistake. No, this was not a mistake. It was her horrifying reality.
What was the punishment for such a theft? Would she be sent to prison? What would become of Papa when he no longer had anyone to pay for his food and fees?
Rose sank back into her chair, throwing an arm over her mouth to stifle the sobs that forced their way up her throat, her eyes burning with tears.
How could Henry think she had done this? He knew her better than that. Had she not proven herself honest and dependable in all their time together? His trust in the world could not be so broken that he would believe the worst of her this easily. And yet she could not rid herself of his hardened expression, betrayal burning in his eyes.
Amidst her tears, she barely heard the door open across the room. It must be the constable. She scrambled to her feet, swiping away the tears from her cheeks. Should she try and look innocent? But how could she look anything but innocent when that’s what she was?
Her thoughts came to staggering halt. It was not the constable stepping into the room, but Henry. He closed the door firmly behind him and turned to her with an unreadable expression. Her heart sank.
She swallowed hard, stepping forward. “Henry, you must know I would never do such a thing. I promise, I have never so much as entered your mother’s room—”
“I know.”
She blinked, her next words catching in her throat. “You—you what?”
“I know, Rose.” He crossed the room before she could take two breaths and stopped before her. “I know you would never betray me like that.”
Beauty and the Baron: A Regency Fairy Tale Retelling (Forever After Retellings Book 1) Page 6