Much as she would have liked to tarry to hear more, Deirdre didn’t dare. She had only a few minutes to arrive with the new saucer while Lady Ramsey made each cup of tea. Her hands shook again by the time she reached the china cupboard.
Though she hated to take even a single moment to herself, she had to, to calm down. The last thing she needed was to drop the one replacement saucer. And praise be to heaven that Lady Thate had taken tea in town, or they would be in a fine predicament.
Plate in hand, she hurried back through the great hall and into the drawing room.
Everyone sat round the tea table, those still without cups nibbling on biscuits. Lady Ramsey’s brow was creased with thought as she tipped the pot over one of the last two teacups. “Collette Sabatini? Why does that sound familiar?”
Deirdre skirted the edge of the room as the girl—what was she supposed to call her?—smiled. “You probably saw her perform at some point, my lady. She was a legendary opera star in her day.”
Not so much as a spoon clinking against china dented the silence. Deirdre paused a moment, then hurried to Lady Ramsey’s side and slid the saucer into its place with a quick bob.
The newcomer didn’t look cowed by the riveted attention of the other ladies. She sighed and turned to Lord Abingdon. “Did you not mention that?”
“He did.” Lord Whitby took the cup from his sister and tested it. “I did not deem it worth mentioning to my sister until I knew whether you were my daughter. And, Mary, I’ll thank you not to overreact.”
“Overreact?” The marchioness lifted her chin. “Certainly not. But of course this is information we must guard. It could ruin your reputation before you even have one, my dear.”
Deirdre started back around the perimeter of the room, but not before she saw the steel enter the blonde’s eyes.
“I will do my best not to offend anyone.” The girl set her cup down with nary a clatter. “But I will not deny the woman who sacrificed so much to raise me when she had no obligation to do so.”
Deirdre could hardly resist peeking around to see how Lady Ramsey would respond to that. She found the woman’s smile softening, but her eyes none too relenting. “Of course not, dear—in private. I only mean we need not bring up in society a relation so scandalous. We will simply emphasize your association with the Grimaldis.”
Lord Abingdon choked on a laugh. “You surely realize the royal family leads the way in scandal, my lady.”
The marchioness turned horrified eyes on the young woman as Deirdre nearly bumped into a chair.
“Not me,” the girl said on a laugh of her own. “I hadn’t had the chance to scandalize anyone yet, other than by rehearsing with the Ballet Russes. And ignoring all opinions on the matter, which is to be expected of a Grimaldi.”
As Deirdre turned to the door, Lord Whitby snorted in amusement. Not surprising, since he had thumbed his nose at society for years. She slipped through the door, catching only one more glimpse of the family.
Enough to see that Lady Regan had sat forward, desperation in her eyes. She never was one for conflict. “Your English is good, Brook. I detect only a hint of a French accent.”
Deirdre paused outside the door. If this was another case of an imposter having been schooled by someone who wanted a piece of Whitby’s pie …
“Justin has spoken it with me since I was five, and then I had formal lessons beginning at six. Prince Albert insisted I take my lessons at the palace even when I still lived in a flat with Maman.”
“Who is Justin?” Lady Ramsey’s voice bespoke dread.
It sounded like one of the young men who cleared his throat. “I am. Brook has long been like a sister to me, so I pray you indulge our familiarity.”
Deirdre stared at the wall, wishing she could see through the white panels. Not that watching the family would clear up any of the puzzlement.
“Are you spying, DeeDee?”
Hiram’s whisper sent her a foot into the air. Barely holding back a scream of alarm, she clapped a hand over her chest and glared at him—then hurried away from the door. “I most certainly am not.”
He chuckled and kept pace, balancing a few hatboxes in one arm. “So you call standing there with your ear all but pressed against the door what, exactly?”
“Curiosity.” Had it been anyone else to catch her at it, she wouldn’t have admitted that much. But Hiram wasn’t to be fooled, and his exaggerated “Ahh” even made her grin. “You can hardly blame me. What do you think of her?”
Hiram shrugged and opened the door that would give them quickest access to the servants’ stairs. “What can I think? I only saw her for those moments outside. She’s beautiful—that’s all I can say with certainty.”
“I’ve a bad feeling about it all. I … Why are you carrying hatboxes?”
“Hmm?” He glanced down as if surprised to find them in his arms, when he ought to have left it to the lower manservants. “Oh. Trying to be useful. Everyone’s in a tizzy.” He shifted his awkward burden to the other arm. “Now, why are you uneasy? This one isn’t like the others—we’ve no reason to think a future duke would lie to us about who she is.”
“Don’t we?” She frowned, though he wasn’t likely to be able to see it in the dark hallway. Perhaps someday they would be able to flip a switch here for light, as in the master’s part of the house. Today she would count the stairs as she always did. “Who’s to say what shape the Stafford estate’s in? Perhaps he fancies her but couldn’t marry someone without a fortune.”
“Dee.” Somehow his voice combined humor with disappointment. “You never used to be so cynical. All the other maids are tittering behind their hands at how handsome our gentlemen guests are, and all you can think of are dark motives?”
His words were a fist, setting up an ache in her heart where they hit her. But she could hardly explain why handsome young lords all seemed little better than tyrants. She could hardly tell him it was easy to ascribe to one a motive she knew for a fact another had.
A chill chased up her spine. Lord Pratt would find this news most interesting when they met next week.
“Dee?”
Luckily her feet paid better attention than her mind—she stopped on the landing by rote and opened the door so he could pass through with his burdens. “I don’t want to see another imposter hurt the family. Strange as it seems to feel sorry for the masters, such wealth comes with too much deception.”
No one knew that better than she.
Hiram waited for her to emerge into the hall and studied her with furrowed brow. “We’ll have to trust that his lordship will know if she’s really his daughter.”
A sigh found passage through her lips. “He thinks she is. He said as much in the drawing room.”
“Well then. Our part is to welcome her.”
“Oh, Hiram.” Only he would try to make it so simple. But then, he would still answer to Mr. Graham and then Lord Whitby, while she and the other female servants would have to deal with the presumptuous girl when she tried to make herself mistress.
With Hiram following behind, she hurried to the Green Room—and came to an abrupt halt when she saw the girl’s chaperone within. “Beg pardon.”
The Frenchwoman looked up with acute relief. “Ah, bonjour. You can help here, oui? I can tie her corset and pin up her curls, but I am better with organizing books than the dresses of the princesse.”
Princess? Doubt compounded with doubt. If they were fabricating this story, would they have chosen such a difficult one to believe? Deirdre plastered on a smile and moved to take a heavily beaded gown from the woman’s hands. “Of course. You’re probably exhausted from your trip—why not head to the housekeeper’s parlor? Or we’ve a chef who would delight in speaking French with someone.”
Hiram laughed and set the boxes upon the bed. “Monsieur Bisset—taking delight?”
But the woman’s eyes lit. “You have a chef de cuisine?”
Much to the dismay of most of the servants. Temperamental as old Mrs
. Wallis had been, she at least hadn’t spat at them in a foreign language. “Aye, and I daresay, being French yourself, he would welcome you eagerly.”
The woman paused midstep, her dark brown eyes snapping. “I am not French. I am Monegasque.”
Deirdre shook out the gown, deemed it too heavy to hang, and pulled open a drawer of the armoire. “My apologies. I thought it French you were speaking.”
“Oui.” The woman grinned. “Much like you speak English, but with an accent decidedly Irish. So if I were to call you an Englishwoman …”
“I see your point.” She stepped back over to the trunk and pulled out another gown, equally as exquisite. And gave the woman a smile. “Or you could rest until the dressing gong. I trust Mrs. Doyle showed you your room?”
Understanding glinted in the woman’s eyes. “Oui. Now I will remove myself from your way. Merci beaucoup for your help.”
“You’re welcome.” Deirdre watched her leave, glanced at Hiram lingering in the doorway, and turned back to the armoire. “Well. This girl has lovely things, I’ll grant her that.”
“Would have taken a fortune to have all that commissioned. Too much a one to invest in a false story, eh?”
Deirdre folded the dress around a square of tissue and placed it on top of the first. “Hadn’t you better get back belowstairs, Hiram?”
“I will. Should I move the trunk for you?”
“I wouldn’t object.” She indicated a spot nearer the armoire and while he hauled the laden trunk, she moved to the smaller satchel sitting atop the bed. Inside she found the usual items a lady was wont to travel with, and a book that made her snort.
“What?”
She held the tome up for Hiram to see. “Dracula. Our so-called baroness apparently has a taste for gothic novels.”
“So do our marchioness’s daughters.”
“True enough.” After placing the book beside the bed, she moved to the dressing table to put the brush and pins and handkerchief in their drawer. “I can only imagine having time to spend on such nonsense.”
Hiram chuckled. “Can you imagine wearing all this fuss and bother day in and day out?”
She spun and flew his way to snatch the pale-blue silk from his hands. “If you soil that—”
“Easy, Dee, I wouldn’t.”
Knowing him, he had indeed checked his hands for dirt before picking it up, but that was hardly the point. If so much as a bead were lost, she would be the one held accountable. She held it against herself, away from him, with exaggerated fervor, so it came off as a jest rather than testiness.
Hiram’s eyes went soft and teasing. “It’s a good color for you. Do you ever wish you had such pretty things?”
When the only way to get them would be to let Lord Pratt make a mistress of her? And then to know such a frock could have paid her family’s way for a month or more? Nay. She would sooner wear burlap. “Given that you just accused me of spying, I dare not say yes, lest you also accuse me of conspiring to thievery.”
He chuckled, then took a long stride away. “Never. But, Dee … ?”
“Hmm?” She folded the beautiful blue silk, careful not to make any hard creases.
“Such lovely dresses would suit you. You’ve the face for them.”
She snapped upright, but he was already out the door. Still, the words echoed in the room, tangling in the emerald-green bed-curtains and sticking to the paler-papered walls.
Her eyes slid closed, though it was her insides that felt heavy. Heaven help them all. She hoped he didn’t mean anything by his words. Because nothing could lay down that road. Not so long as she was bound by debt to the farm.
And worse, to Lord Pratt.
Shaking the heaviness off, she turned back to the trunk and made quick work of storing the dresses. And then paused, fingers hovering over a leather-bound book. Its lack of words on the cover or spine made her think it must be some kind of journal. Should she put it out for the girl, with Dracula? Or store it with the other bandboxes that she’d discovered with a glance were full of correspondence?
Lifting it out, she weighed it and glanced inside, at the last pages, to see if they were dated. If the girl wrote in it regularly, she would want it out. But the last dates were from 1902—yet the hand was too mature to have been the lady’s when she was so young. The words looked like French.
Slapping the cover closed again, Deirdre stood. It must be the journal of the opera singer. Which meant it might disclose who the girl actually was. If so, his lordship deserved to know. Not that Deirdre could read French to tell him anything she happened to see … but she knew someone who did.
Checking over her shoulder out of habit, she slid the book into the large pocket beneath her apron. If the girl asked, she would say she had put it with the other letters. But with any luck she would have it back before it was missed.
As soon as she knew whether the chit was a fraud or not.
Seven
Brook jolted awake, a cry clawing at her throat, begging for release. Her chest still heaved, her pulse still galloped. It took all her might to keep from leaping from the bed and running, so fervent was the impression that she must escape. She tried to scrabble for the dream that had found her, but so little of it made sense. Thunder. Lightning. Darkness, consuming and pursuing. And that unmistakable impression that danger poised, ready to pounce.
She squeezed her eyes shut and ran her hands over the unfamiliar blanket covering her. “Un rêve. C’était seulement un rêve.” Only a dream. A dream could not chase her, could not hunt her. Could not hurt her.
“Are you all right, my lady?” The soft question came from somewhere in the predawn shadows to her right. And the English words gave her pause.
Whitby Park. Brook drew in a ragged breath and pushed her errant curls out of her face. “Oui. Je …” English, she must wrap her tongue around English.
The servant stepped forward, away from the unlit fireplace. “My lady?”
“I am well.” She managed to speak in the correct language, though Brook heard the French in the words more than usual. She cleared her throat and concentrated on speaking as Justin would. “Only a bad dream. Apparently Dracula is not wise bedtime reading.”
But it hadn’t been Transylvanian monsters hunting her through the darkness. A chill danced over her limbs and made her shiver.
The maid must have seen it, as she hurried to the bedside and pulled the blankets up around Brook’s chin. “There now, my lady. I shall light the fire for you, and you can go back to sleep. It is only half past six.”
Brook relented—for a moment, though she had no intention of succumbing to that dark dream again. Instead, she studied the face of the maid. She had seen her several times yesterday. Outside. Coming from her cousin’s room before dinner. And in the drawing room at tea. “Deirdre, isn’t it?”
The young woman paused halfway back to the fireplace. “Aye.”
Brook nodded and nestled under the covers. Did every English morning have such a damp chill, or was it due to the mist tapping its fingers at her windowpane? “A fine Irish name—I have read some of the island’s lore and remember the story of Deirdre.”
The maid turned, offered a tight smile, and went back to her task. “Hard to forget such a bloody tale, I imagine. I can’t think why my parents gave me a name wrapped in violence.”
Brook noted the perfect profile, the creamy complexion, the rich dark hair peeking from the snow-white cap, and could well imagine why they would name her after the most beautiful woman in Irish history. But beauty had been a curse in the story, and the woman’s manner wasn’t one that invited compliments.
The cold compounded. And lying abed certainly wouldn’t hold it at bay. Brook tossed the covers aside and swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. Then, when Deirdre spun back to her, wondered if she had done something wrong.
Though the maid’s lips smiled, her eyes had narrowed. “Can I assist you in something, my lady?”
Oh, how she missed her la
dy’s maid. Odette knew her habits, her preferences, and had never once made her feel as if she’d committed a crime by standing up.
She took a moment to stretch, wishing for a barre. Ballet was no doubt out of question this morning, but she could surely find some exercise somewhere. “If you would help me into my corset, I can otherwise manage for now, thank you. I think I’ll dress and go outside.”
“At this hour?” Alarm saturated Deirdre’s tone, though she cleared her throat as if to cover it.
Brook poured hot water from the pitcher into the matching basin. “Is no one else up?”
“Lord Whitby, perhaps, but the ladies never rise until after eight.”
“Ah.” Brook would have to learn the way this house operated and change some habits accordingly, but on other things she couldn’t compromise—and wasting so much time in bed was one of them. The early morning hours were her favorite. “I’m afraid I always rise with the sun. Or,” she added, looking out at the grey morn, “with the fog, it would seem.”
“Of course, my lady.” Perhaps most young ladies wouldn’t have noticed the subtle disapproval in Deirdre’s tone—but Brook had heard enough of it over the years from Prince Louis to pick it out of any voice.
And had decided long ago not to waste her life trying to please those who did not want to approve of her.
She chose a soft washcloth from the bottom shelf of the stand and wet it, wiped the residue of the nightmare from her face.
“Shall I choose a walking dress for you?” A walking dress, not her riding habit.
Brook turned and gave the girl, probably six or seven years her elder, her most endearing grin. “Is a ride out of the question?”
The maid paused midreach into the armoire. “If you wish to ride, give me but a moment to rouse the grooms from their breakfasts and—”
“Non. Never mind.” Brook certainly didn’t need the grooms to be put out with her. “A walk will be perfect.”
Finally, a smile absent the veiled frustration. Deirdre held out a clean chemise and drawers, and Brook took them with her behind the screen. A moment later she emerged ready to slip into her corset. Silence held as Deirdre pulled the stays tight, then helped her into a walking dress of fine grey silk satin as light as the mist, which had a matching kimono coat.
The Lost Heiress Page 6