Chapter One
Rose Sinclair prided herself on being an excellent walker. She could wander for hours on end throughout the countryside without tiring, with only the wind and clouds as her companions.
But now, stopping beside the brick pillars that marked the drive leading to Norcliffe House, she found it necessary to pause and catch her breath. Not from exhaustion, but from the intimidating sight that met her eyes. The manor loomed in the distance, soaring Grecian columns guarding the wide front steps, enormous diamond-paned windows dark against the aged brick of its walls. The center portion of the house towered above the wings that branched out on either side.
Rose swallowed, her eyes following the sharp lines of the building, tracing the immaculately groomed gardens and lawns to the edge of the wooded hills. Was she truly going to do this? Begging an audience with Lord Norcliffe was likely the worst idea she had ever had, even above cutting her hair to her ears at the age of fourteen. The baron had earned himself quite the reputation, and if the rumors were to be believed, he was as rude as he was rich. Based on the opulence of his estate, he must be boorish indeed.
But her options were few and her coins even fewer. She tightened the ribbons of her bonnet and pressed forward, determined not to let her fears catch hold of her.
Rose arrived at the low steps and marched up, trying to ignore the elaborate stone carvings surrounding the columns and the daunting height of the door. She allowed herself one quick, deep breath before she struck the knocker against the door.
Footsteps sounded from inside and the door opened, soundless on well-oiled hinges. A footman stood there, dressed in fine livery, and looking none too pleased to see her.
“If you’re here about the maid position,” he said with a frown, “you ought to know better than to come to the front door.”
He made to close the door and Rose—in her shock—nearly let him. But she came to herself in time, placing a hand on the door before it could close.
“No,” she managed. “I’m not here about the post. I’ve come to see Lord Norcliffe.”
The footman eyed her in disbelief. “You have an appointment with the baron?”
“Yes.” Rose attempted to keep her eyes wide and innocent. Lying did not come easily to her on the best of days, and this was clearly not the best of days. “If you would be so kind as to inform him that Miss Rose Sinclair is here, I would be most appreciative.”
The footman sighed and allowed her inside. Rose fought back her own sigh of relief. Her task was far from over.
“Wait here.” The footman turned and walked down an airy, carpeted hallway, lined with gilded artwork and statues balancing on tiny tables. It was eerily quiet, her ears accustomed to bustling village life. Even the smell was different here, musty and deep compared to the fresh summer air of her walk.
She watched as the footman entered a dark-stained wooden door. She could only imagine the conversation taking place inside. She had never before met Lord Norcliffe, and even if the footman believed her, the baron would know for a fact that she had not requested an audience with him. But Papa was depending on her. She had to try, even if she failed horribly in the attempt.
When the footman opened the door once again, she looked up at him, half expecting a scowl and an instant dismissal. But he gestured at the open door. “Lord Norcliffe will see you.”
Rose blinked and then nodded as if she had expected such a response. In truth, she had not anticipated making it this far. The swarm of nerves inside her took flight like bees around a hive. But she could not hesitate now. With a swift brush to her skirts and a steadying breath, she strode down the hall and into the room.
The baron sat across the length of the room, behind a massive desk framed by floor-to-ceiling windows. He did not look up at her entrance, his eyes fixed instead on the ledger open before him.
She eyed him as she approached, a bit taken aback. From the rumors that ran rampant in the village, she’d rather expected a more fearsome appearance, a jagged scar or dark, cruel features. As it was, his light hair and slim build were more suited to a London dandy than the most feared and unpleasant nobleman in the county.
He still did not look up, his eyes moving over the page. Rose’s feet slowed and she came to an awkward halt in the center of the room. Ought she sit in one of the armchairs before his desk? That did not seem right. How was one supposed to greet a baron exactly? A curtsy, no doubt, but what was she to do if the man refused to look at her? This was the first time she had ever regretted reading under her desk during etiquette classes at boarding school.
Rose did not dare move, her shallow breaths deafening in the quiet room. Finally—finally—the baron looked up, his eyes narrowed on hers as he set aside his ledger. She gulped. He was handsome, with a strong jaw and striking features, far younger than she’d imagined. He could not be much older than her four and twenty years. She dipped into a curtsy, knees trembling beneath her skirts.
“I do not recall setting a meeting for this morning.” His voice was a sharp baritone, his eyes such a light blue they appeared nearly grey. “But as you have found your purpose important enough to lie, my curiosity got the better of me.”
Rose gripped her reticule, her face flooding with heat. She had practiced this conversation dozens of times in her mind over the past two days, but never had it started like this. She avoided the accusation, knowing there was nothing she could say in her defense.
“Lord Norcliffe, my name is Rose Sinclair,” she began, her voice weaker than she would have liked. “I have a proposition that I believe will equally benefit both of us.”
“A proposition?” he repeated harshly. “What can you possibly offer me?”
Rose might have been irritated by the self-importance in his question if she was not so very terrified of him. She clasped her shaking hands behind her back and lifted her chin.
“I know you recently lost your steward,” she said. “He took another position in Herefordshire, if the rumors in town are to be believed.”
Lord Norcliffe did not seem surprised that his household was a topic of discussion amongst the locals. He merely leaned back in his chair, his eyes still scrutinizing her intensely. Rose took his silence as permission to continue.
“Mr. Turner could not have left you at a worse time,” she said. “The harvest is in a few weeks, and—”
“And what, Miss Sinclair?” His eyes were hard, unforgiving. “You are putting yourself forward as his replacement?”
“Not as a replacement, exactly.” Only the fact that she had practiced her lines unceasingly allowed her voice any amount of confidence. “I know part of Mr. Turner’s responsibilities was keeping the financial records of the estate. I have some experience in this area and wanted to offer my services to you until such time that you find a worthy candidate to act as steward.”
He raised his eyebrow with a mocking gleam. “‘Some experience?’ Do tell.”
She cleared her throat. “I’ve managed the finances for my father’s business the last six years, and have done so quite effectively, resulting in balanced books and a turn of profit every year.”
“What business is this?”
Rose had known the question was coming, and yet now that it was upon her, she found she could hardly speak.
“Sinclair’s Bookshop,” she finally forced out.
Lord Norcliffe’s already intense eyes darkened. He rose to his feet, balancing on his knuckles as he leaned across the desk with barely concealed anger. “I thought I recognized your name.” He spoke in a low, dangerous tone. “You would dare come here and ask for work, when your own father is a scheming thief who owes money to half the town, including myself?”
His accusations pierced her, hurting all the more because of their truth. But it was still her father he was speaking of. “He is not a thief,” she said quietly. “He is only guilty of making a terrible decision, for which he is quite remorseful.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “Terrible decision? The man gambled away a dozen different loans, without any intent to pay them back. Debtor’s prison is no more than he deserves.”
Rose closed her eyes. Oh, if only he knew how wrong he was. Papa had been a fool, yes, but he did not deserve to live in such deprivation as existed in Marshalsea. She had visited him once since he had been reported by his creditors, and the memory was a black abyss in her mind—the stench, the filth, the vermin. She opened her eyes again, slowly letting out her breath.
“My lord,” she began, “whatever my father may have done, I had no part in it. He kept his debts separate from the bookshop’s finances, which were impeccable, I assure you.” She did not bother to add that she had been completely ignorant of his debts until it all came crashing down upon them both. “And I wish you to know I have repaid all his loans but one. It was my hope that you would allow me to settle his remaining debt to you by working off the amount.”
Lord Norcliffe scowled at her. “You must be mad to think I would allow you anywhere near my books. Even ignoring your unfortunate parentage, running an estate’s finances is vastly more complicated than managing a mere shop, and you are far from qualified. Now leave at once before I lose my temper entirely.”
He sat back at his desk and pulled his ledger to him. Rose stood frozen, her feet unable to move, her lungs burning with the effort to breathe. This had been her last hope. Her father was in prison, her mother long dead, and no relatives to speak of. No one in town would hire her, for the same reasons as he had tortured her with. She had already sold everything to pay Papa’s debts—the books, their furniture, and even the bookshop itself—but it wasn’t enough. And still she must pay for his food and rent at Marshalsea. Such was the irony of debtor’s prison, that most who entered would never escape because of their prison fees. Starvation was a real and frightening possibility for many. Even Papa.
“Please.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I beg you to reconsider.”
Lord Norcliffe did not look up, but his jaw tightened as he stared unblinking at the page before him.
“My lord,” she said, allowing the desperation inside her to color her tone. Because what else could she do? If he turned her away, she had no friends, no family who would take her in. “I have nowhere else to go.”
* * *
Henry Covington, the Baron Norcliffe, stared at the ledger before him, the words and sums an unreadable mess thanks to the haze of anger in his eyes. What was this woman thinking? Did she truly believe he could employ her after her father’s crimes? Mr. Sinclair had come to him months ago, seeking a loan to expand his bookshop. It was a good investment, considering the popularity of the shop. But the money had never been invested. The blasted fool had gambled away the entire loan. There were few people so loathsome as a debtor, and Henry had little forgiveness for the crime.
“Please,” came Miss Sinclair’s voice again, hoarse and quavering.
He gritted his teeth. She is only attempting to play upon your heartstrings. Her father was a liar and thief, and there was no use entertaining any thought that she was different.
Henry looked up, the words already forming on his tongue. But they ceased as he took in her red, tear-filled eyes, her hands clasped before her as if in prayer. If she was pretending, then she was a talented actress indeed. Not to mention as stunning a woman as he had ever seen. Arresting brown eyes, delicate features, and a figure that drew his eye too easily.
But he had seen many a pretty face during his time in Society, and hers would not be his undoing now.
“There is not the slightest possibility I would allow you to manage my books,” he said flatly.
Miss Sinclair did not move for the longest moment and then she gave a nod, an odd, jerky motion that tore her eyes from his.
“I—I understand.” Her voice was faded, as if she had already left the room. “Th—thank you for your time.”
She gave a wobbling curtsy and met his eyes once more, her gaze almost wild with distress. Then she turned and walked toward the door, her head bowed and steps heavy.
The sight brought a flash of memory to him, of another woman walking away from him, the last sight he would ever see of her. Even now, the thought of his mother—and his father—brought a sharp ache to his chest. What would Mother have thought of his actions today? He tried to shake off the thought. It did not matter.
But the thought refused to dissipate, instead growing stronger in his mind. Mother would never have turned Miss Sinclair away. Kindness matters most when it is hardest to give, she always said.
And would never say again.
“Wait.”
The word left Henry’s mouth before he even realized he had made a decision. Miss Sinclair came to an abrupt stop. What the devil was he thinking? His mind worked frantically as he stood again, attempting to recapture his focus.
She turned back to look at him, blinking rapidly, clearly trying to hide the onset of tears. Were all women so prone to crying? He could hardly say. Two years of self-imposed solitude had rendered him quite out of touch with the gentler sex.
He glanced down at his desk, littered with letters and books, and his eye caught upon a note from Mrs. Morton. An idea came to him then. “My housekeeper is in need of a maid-of-all-work.”
Miss Sinclair stared at him, as if he had just sprouted antlers from his head. “And you are offering the position to me?”
He narrowed his eyes at the disbelief in her voice. Was she offended by his offering such a low job to her? She might have been raised middle-class, but her father’s actions had lowered her far beyond that now. “If such a post is not beneath you.”
She shook her head, as if she had not even noticed his curt tone. “No, of course it is not. But I’ve no recommendations, and I’m not certain I even have the knowledge—”
“Are you attempting to convince me not to hire you?” Henry fixed her with the severe glare that came all too naturally to him these days. “Because you are doing a deucedly good job of it.”
She took a long, deep breath, staring at her feet. Then she looked up and met his eyes with a gentle smile. “I am grateful for your offer, and I accept.”
Her smile set him at odds. No one smiled at him, least of all a woman who would likely work years in his employ for a debt she had not incurred. He cleared his throat. “This will be, of course, under the same terms as your previous proposition.” He sat once again. “All wages will be forfeited until your father’s debt to me is repaid.”
Miss Sinclair nodded eagerly, eyes bright with hope. But then she bit her lip. “I am sorry to ask this of you, after the generosity of your offer. But I must pay my father’s prison fees. Might I take a portion of my earnings and send it to him each month?”
He exhaled in exasperation, wanting nothing more than to refuse her request. But he had already promised her the position, and he never went back on his word.
“Very well.” He spoke in a gruff tone, wanting to make clear he was none too pleased with the arrangement. “But if your work is found to be unsatisfactory in any way, do not think I will hesitate to dismiss you.”
She pulled her chin back, her eyes wide, and Henry almost regretted the harshness of his words. But it was better to be clear from the start what his expectations were. He would not be taken advantage of again.
“Of course,” she said softly. “I understand. I am a hard worker and fast learner. I promise you will not regret your offer.”
Henry stifled the urge to groan. She couldn’t know that he already regretted it. He’d suffered a moment of weakness and she had certainly gotten the better end of this arrangement.
Blast his sentimentality.
And blast Miss Sinclair’s beautiful eyes shining with a gleam of hope.