Chapter Five
Rose paced at the bottom of the grand staircase, watching the front door with every turn of her feet. Even with her eyes on the door, she kept her hearing focused behind her. She knew Mrs. Morton would be cross if she found her standing about when she ought to be sweeping upstairs. But she had to speak to Lord Norcliffe. Even after only being here for a week, she knew his habits well, as all the servants did. He would be returning from his morning ride any minute.
She glanced down again at the letter, bent from her many readings in the last half hour since she’d received it. Her throat closed over and tears threatened yet again. Heavens, it felt like all she did these days was cry. What an exhausting business it was.
But she could hardly avoid it. Papa was ill, a cough and fever. This letter from his jailer explained that a doctor had been called to the prison to tend him, but her father needed extended care to recover. That meant more money, required immediately, of which she had none. That left her one option, reluctant as she was to take it. Lord Norcliffe.
Her conversation with the baron the night before had left her spinning—and mortified. Not only had he found her asleep in the library, but she had made quite the fool of herself chattering on about books. What had she been thinking, daring to make a recommendation to him? And then she had returned to her bedchamber to find streaks of ash across her cheeks, her hair a mess. No wonder he had sent her to bed. He likely thought her half mad from exhaustion.
But he had sent her to bed, for whatever reason. Kindness? Or was it as he claimed, to keep her healthy so she might continue to pay her father’s debt? She was inclined to believe it was the former. The unexpected concern on his face when he had seen the state of her hands, his amusement at her attempt at conversation—was it possible there was some compassion behind his steely eyes and harsh voice?
She certainly hoped so, or this would be a very short meeting indeed.
Footsteps sounded behind her, and she turned. It was Mr. Frampton, the butler. She relaxed her rigid shoulders. Though she was shunned by the servants belowstairs, Mr. Frampton treated her the same as he did all the staff.
He approached now. “Are you lost again, Rose?”
She might have been offended that he thought her lost, standing there in the front entry, but seeing as he had found her quite turned around in the east wing not two days ago, she could hardly protest.
“I’m not lost,” she said, clearing her throat. “I’m waiting. I need to speak with Lord Norcliffe straightaway.”
“In regards to what?” Mr. Frampton’s voice was wary, but at least he did not immediately send her on her way.
Rose took a deep breath, attempting to steady both her mind and heart. “My father is ill, and I’ve no money to pay for the physician’s bills.”
Was that a flash of sympathy in his eyes? “And you intend to ask his lordship for additional funds.”
She nodded, expecting a reprimand, but he only frowned. “I see. Well, do not dawdle overlong; Mrs. Morton will still expect your chores to be finished in a timely manner.” He continued down the hallway without another word.
His indifference did not bode particularly well, but then again, Mr. Frampton did not know about her encounter with Lord Norcliffe the night before. She had seen a glimpse of kindness in him, and could only hope it was not a rare occurrence.
Footsteps came from outside, mounting the stairs. Rose’s stomach leaped into her throat and she spun as the door was thrown open, silhouetting a tall figure against the morning sun. A footman hurried to catch the door, but Lord Norcliffe was already striding across the entry, yanking his gloves from his hands and tossing his hat onto a nearby table, his fair hair mussed from his ride.
Rose hurried forward, intent on catching him before he disappeared into his study. “Lord Norcliffe,” she called.
He looked up and—far too late—Rose noticed his expression. His eyes burned, his jaw tight and his shoulders rigid under his riding jacket. She inhaled sharply, her stomach twisting.
“What now?” he snapped, coming to a halt.
She stared at him. What had put him in such a foul mood? She wished she could retreat, but his gaze narrowed on her, the silent tension growing every moment she hesitated.
“I—I am sorry to bother you,” she stammered. “I wished to speak to you a moment.”
He said nothing, motioning her to speak on with a pointed gesture, as if she was hardly worth his time. Which she likely wasn’t.
Rose took a deep breath. “I’ve had a letter from my father’s jailer with distressing news. I hoped to ask for—”
Lord Norcliffe gave a sharp laugh, and she stopped. “Oh, I know what you want,” he said, stepping forward with a dangerous gleam to his eye. “You want what everyone wants from me. Money.”
It took all Rose had not to stumble backwards, away from his accusing voice. “I didn’t mean—that is, I only—” Her voice caught in her throat, an odd hum in her ears.
“I’ve had enough requests for today.” His harsh voice echoed strangely in the high-ceilinged entry, and Rose’s face flushed with heat, her hands shaking as she clutched her letter against her chest. “Leave my sight before I dismiss you altogether.”
He stalked down the hall to his study and disappeared inside with a crash of his door.
Rose gaped after him. What had happened? She backed away, turning and hurrying to the servants’ stairs. She dropped onto the bottom step, her breaths coming too fast as she pressed a hand against her stomach.
How had she misread him so badly last night? There had been no trace just now of the kindness she had seen in the library. She was a fool to think she could know a man in the span of a stolen conversation.
Rose shook her head; she could not dwell on it. She had to find a way to help her father, and she had to do it soon.