Four

Once again, Genevieve journeyed late at night with all her earthly possessions alongside a man she barely knew. Lord Bowles drove a cart Mr. Beckworth had loaned him, his silver-gray horse tethered to the back. The latch on her traveling chest rattled like a scolding maid behind her.

Her plans for a new life kept sinking in a mire of questionable choices. A devil’s bargain. That was what Mr. Beckworth had called this arrangement. How perfect. She’d first crossed paths with Lord Bowles on Devil’s Causeway.

Her employer of three days had presented the facts, framing the decision to stay or go as entirely hers. The power was novel. In the end, pure emotion won. After much throat clearing, it was obvious Mr. Beckworth wanted her to say yes. He yearned for a new business venture to help his family, and she was the linchpin.

Reaching for a better place in the world…this she understood.

Slipping her hand into her apron pocket, the letter crinkled against her fingers. Another condemnation of her decision? Or news that she was truly free?

“Welcome to Pallinsburn,” Lord Bowles said.

She startled when he halted the cart before a dark cottage grander in size than the Beckworth home. Ignoring him, she counted eight sash windows. Taxes on those glass panes had to be outrageous for a cottage inhabited by only one man. Lord Bowles leaped off the cart and lifted a candle lantern from the footboard, studying her beneath the brim of his cocked hat.

“Give me a moment,” he muttered, hoisting her chest from the cart and striding toward the cottage.

Lord Bowles rammed his shoulder against the front door. Warped wood gave way, and he disappeared around the half-opened door. Genevieve pulled her cloak tighter about. Who knew night came in so many shades of black? Stars sprinkled overhead like scattered salt across a table. She’d never seen so many. In London, there was always light somewhere…a passing carriage, a tavern door opening, door lamps in better places.

But here? She shivered. The emptiness…

The cottage’s barren windows gaped blank-eyed at the road. A soft glow flickered from the door left ajar. She jumped down and picked her way past weeds sprouting by the doorstep. Sliding around the front door, she stepped onto a carpetless floor. Two sconces cast weak light inside the dark-paneled entry. Cobwebs fluttered from empty coat hooks high on a scratched pine settle. The floor’s center planks were faded, as though someone had left the door open and sunlight had bleached the wood.

Lord Bowles came around a corner, a lit taper in his hand. “Miss Turner. I’d hoped you’d give me a minute to tidy up and light a fire.”

One red-gloved finger skimmed beveled paneling. “And wait out in the cold? I think not. Besides, my purpose here is to do the tidying and lighting of fires.” She gave him a pointed look. “The appropriate fires.”

With his collar flipped high, a black tricorne on his head, and late-day whiskers darkening his jaw, the master of the cottage could be the villain in one of the Goose’s awful plays.

Dust dangled from her fingertip. “By the look of things, I have much work ahead.”

She flicked away the mess and stared past an open door leaning at an angle. A hinge was missing. Beyond the doorway, she glimpsed purple velvet, the rich color and fabric out of place in a country cottage.

“I hoped to make things more comfortable,” he confessed. “I didn’t think you’d be here until tomorrow.”

Her gaze shot from the velvet to him. “You planned this?”

“No.” The seam of his mouth parted, but no explanation came. The shine of his friendly visit in the Beckworth kitchen was long gone.

“No need to justify yourself, milord. Men of your ilk rarely do.”

Her blood simmered, cooled somewhat by their nighttime ride. Anger was one emotion she’d wrestled with; disappointment was another. Lord Bowles had proved himself to be the self-serving wastrel after all. That hurt. A single winter was all this sham of an arrangement required. She could endure one cold season with him.

Drawn to the purple, she breezed past her new employer. Lord Bowles followed her, the taper’s light guttering. Shadows danced across a violet settee tipped over, its cabriole legs thick with dust.

She pushed back her hood, sniffing stale air. “Your parlor, I assume. By the state of things and the smell, you’re not expecting visitors anytime soon.”

The musty cottage begged for someone to breathe life into it. Leaves skittered past her hem. A chill nipped her ankles. The front door had been left open, but neither moved to shut it. Lord Bowles raised the candle higher, showing cobwebs fluttering on cracked plaster walls.

His head tipped back as though he read the ceiling. “I tried to clean it myself. My time was spent these three days working on the barn, purchasing necessities, clearing out my bedchamber. Anything you do will be a vast improvement.”

“Me? You need more than one woman. This will take an army of skilled laborers.”

“You get an army of one, Miss Turner. Me.”

His last word echoed faintly, vibrating through her before sinking like a lonely rock inside her chest down to the soles of her plain shoes. Lord Bowles watched her, the tiny flame he held casting soft light on sculpted cheekbones and an arrow-straight nose.

“You’ve nothing to say about my offer to let you take charge?” he asked, a tad edgy. “Think of the vengeance you could exact on me, the housekeeper ordering her master about.”

“I’m not a vengeful woman, milord.”

“How good of you.”

She would not let his brooding soften her heart. This was a bed of his own making, and now his lordship could lie in it.

And yet, his droll How good of you cut her.

Despite the coldness and the late hour, neither made an effort to leave the parlor. Lord Bowles continued his unhurried inspection. Nibbling her bottom lip, Genevieve drew a line across the purple. The cushion was plump underhand. Once cleaned, the settee would be a nice place to sit or stretch across from head to toe to lift her skirts and wriggle her bottom on fine velvet.

“You know all this will be mine someday. I’d just as soon sell it now,” he said, toeing an upended chair.

“Why don’t you?”

“My mother holds the title. I’ll inherit it when she dies.” He roved the room’s perimeter, stopping to touch a gouge in the wall. “Northampton Hall has more than one hundred fifty rooms, but this cottage holds a special place for her. She’s convinced it does for me too.”

“Does it?”

“Not anymore. My father made sure of that.” He stopped at the back window and rubbed a clean circle in the grime. “He hated Pallinsburn, said it was beneath us.”

She forbade herself from soothing him. Whatever plight bedeviled Lord Bowles, she was his housekeeper, nothing more. Yet, she blurted, “What you said about my hips tonight—about me being well fed—was rude.”

He winced. “You heard that.”

“I did.” The room magnified her voice. Why bother to tell him? He wasn’t required to make amends.

“I didn’t mean it.”

“Then why say it?”

He turned stiffly, a man facing his due. “You might find this hard to believe,” he intoned. “But sometimes I can be a horse’s ass.”

“Humph.” She drew a new line in the velvet nap.

Lord Bowles stepped over a rolled-up carpet. “If I said ‘a very large horse’s ass’…say this big”—his arms spread wide—“would that suffice?”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

He hummed in the back of his throat. “You’re making me work to get back in your good graces.”

“That would mean you were there in the first place.” She bristled at his assumption. Lord Bowles strode through life too much on his terms.

He stopped an arm’s length from her. “I’m waving the flag of surrender. Believe me, if I could go back to the dinner hour when you served me turnips, I would.”

“Served you turnips?”

Shaking his head, he chuckled. “Never mind. Please know my ill-advised comment about your person was an effort to stop Samuel from asking too many questions about you.”

“Let me see if I have this right,” she said, smoothing out the velvet line she’d made. “You were protecting my honor, such as it is, by insulting me.”

“Poor choice of words.”

“Is that your idea of an apology?”

His mouth quirked. “If it’s working…yes.”

Another draft gusted through the room, skipping leaves over the rolled-up carpet. The taper flickered, its light catching the angles of his face. Despite his bits of wry humor, the usual roguish brightness was gone.

“I don’t think that about your hips.”

“Here’s a nice idea,” she said waspishly. “Don’t think about my hips at all. I’m here to cook and to clean.”

“Understood.”

His smooth voice sent a shiver to the right places. Lord Bowles was trying to appease her when he didn’t have to. They could muddle on as master and servant and do just fine. What was it about him that made her want to open closed parts and soothe him? She shouldn’t care that he was down in the mouth, but she did.

Growing up, she’d never bothered to let people know when they hurt her. It was better to shield herself. Life in London moved fast, even faster at the Golden Goose. There was little time for needy things like emotions.

Lord Bowles lifted the candle higher. Light shined on the curl hanging behind his ear. “I was wrong to malign you. Will you forgive me?”

Her stiff spine eased. In her experience, men weren’t prone to admit their wrongdoing, much less ask for forgiveness. They were conquerors, collectors, predators… This was progress. That alone was unsettling.

She pulled her cloak tighter. “Tomorrow’s a new day, milord. If you’d be so kind as to show me to my room, I need a good night’s sleep. There’s much work to be done tomorrow.”

And there was the letter in her pocket.

They exited the parlor. Lord Bowles closed the front door, shutting out the night. He handed the taper to her and hoisted her chest waiting in the entry. Together, they walked through the dining room, a place bare of furniture. When she stepped down into the kitchen, a petite dust cloud billowed around her shoe. Light shined from a doorway beside the scullery, her room.

Inside, three candles burned atop a washstand painted green. A white porcelain pitcher full of water sat in a chipped basin on the washstand. Linens had been hastily tucked around a mattress, and a brown wool blanket lay folded neatly by the pillow.

Lord Bowles had done this for her.

Small kindnesses weakened her. Best to be careful. She stood by the window, needing distance from her new master. Holding up the taper, she squinted through smudged panes. A garden and a modest forest stretched behind the cottage. While she was staring into the darkness, a ruckus sounded behind her. She twisted around to find the lid of her clothes chest flipped open, and a froth of skirts spilled on the floor.

Lord Bowles quickly righted the chest. Genevieve set the taper in an iron candleholder. She turned to see a scrap of faded blue wool in his hand.

The doll.

Gasping, she snatched it from him. “I’ll take that.”

Button eyes painted black stared at her. Time had chipped the color. Frayed threads fluttered from the little blue dress. Heart banging, Genevieve wrapped the doll in a linen neckerchief and tucked it beside her prettiest shift. The doll was her deepest secret and tenderest wound…her reason for coming north.

“The chest tipped when I set it down,” he explained. “I was merely putting your things back.”

Lord Bowles had a talent for stumbling on her secrets. The ragged doll was her future and her past. Lots of women saved dolls from childhood, but this girlish toy wasn’t born of sweet memories. Only she knew that.

“I forgot to secure the latch.” Head down, she shut the lid.

The room was cold, and the hour was late. She’d have dark circles under her eyes, badges of honor to remind her not to be a pawn of men. A wise woman played her own game. This bargain between Mr. Beckworth and Lord Bowles was harmless, a thing easily managed—unlike another past arrangement. She shivered. No more would she be a piece easily moved for a man’s pleasure.

Lord Bowles held out a black stocking, the front of his tricorne nearly touching the side of her head. “Miss Turner?”

Now was a good time to observe those master-servant boundaries. She hugged herself and stared at the whitewashed stone wall. “Don’t forget to rub the salve on your hands, milord.”

He bent closer, a line slashing above his nose. “I need to tend the cart and horses, but I can come back—”

“Good night, milord.”

Shoes scraped the floor. He dropped the stocking on top of her chest, staring holes at her profile, but in this she would not budge.

“Good night, Miss Turner.”

Lord Bowles exited her room with catlike footsteps. She waited until the front door opened and closed before shutting hers. Sinking onto the narrow bed, she exhaled long. Cloak, gloves, and shoes landed in a heap on the floor. She’d labored long hours at the Golden Goose, but this northern charade wore her to the bone.

Wrapping the brown wool blanket around her, she curled up like a babe on the bed. The offer of help with her search enticed her. She was a stranger to Cornhill. To give Lord Bowles a name wouldn’t hurt. She didn’t have to talk about the doll. He could make discreet inquiries. Better he did the asking than her.

After all, she was a hunted woman.

Eyes closed, she burrowed deeper in the blanket, crumpling Elise’s letter in her apron pocket. A decision needed to be made. Search alone, or ask for help.

One hand dug the note from her apron. Smoothing the foolscap, she swallowed the knot in her throat and angled the message toward the candlelight. Her lips formed the words slowly.

Dear Genevieve,

Our shop had a visitor the day you left—Herr Avo Thade. He asked many questions regarding your whereabouts. I must warn you, he saw your old cloak. The new shopgirl told him a Miss Abbott traded it for a red cloak with black embroidery. I sent her on an errand before she could say anything else, but I fear the damage was done. He knows you’re living under a false name.

Herr Thade is every bit as frightening as you’ve said and quite peculiar. He sniffed your cloak like a hound and said, “Reinhard Wolf wants what belongs to him.”

With sincere wishes for your safety,

Elise