She inhaled steam and herbs.
Things were much worse the farther you went down the right side of her body, a jagged trail which led to even greater misery. A piece of the carriage’s axle had stabbed her upper thigh, and though it wasn’t deep, it was long. The axle had left a stream of splinters as it sliced open her skirts and skin. It had taken the physician summoned by Castlemare’s butler several days to dig out the bits of wood and rock from her body—an excruciating ordeal no matter the amount of laudanum pushed down her throat.
A knock sounded.
Peg wiped her hands before cracking the door. Stepping into the hall, the maid shut the door firmly behind her. A whispered discussion followed between Peg and what sounded like Mrs. Lovington, but Beatrice couldn’t make it out. It was probably something to do with the dinner menu. Her entire staff seemed overly concerned with what was served at a duchess’s table.
Beatrice didn’t care. She’d said so several times. In addition to Mrs. Lovington and Peg, there was Mr. Lovington, her housekeeper’s husband, who kept the grounds as her man-of-all-work, Jasper, the lone groom, and a girl named Susan, who assisted Mrs. Lovington in the kitchen and helped keep the cottage smelling of beeswax. They all liked lamb, and Beatrice didn’t mind it on occasion. But still, her small staff took pains to ensure her comfort, and for that, she was grateful. They had become her family. Loyal and protective to a fault. Far kinder than Beatrice deserved.
Lady Foxwood had instructed Beatrice from an early age toneverthank a servant, though it was acceptable for her to acknowledge their efforts from time to time. She’d cautioned against being too grateful, though, as a servant should not be congratulated for merely fulfilling their purpose. They would eventually overstep. Take advantage.
Her mother often gave the very worst advice.
The door shut, and Peg returned to the fire where she was warming a towel for Beatrice.
“I’ll survive if she’s set on making lamb tonight. Honestly, I will, Peg. It isn’t my favorite, but I don’t actively dislike lamb. I knowyoulike it. As does Jasper. And Mr. Lovington. I’ll be content with just a small plate, before the fire in my parlor as usual.”
There was little formality here because Beatrice didn’t demand it. She’d been too ill when first arriving at Beresford Cottage, and now, well, it seemed ridiculous when she considered the staff to be more her family than she did Lord and Lady Foxwood. At times, she joined them in the kitchen to eat, but only rarely. It was awkward for all involved to have a duchess at the table no matter how informal.
“I need to review my ledger. I can do so while dining.” She often did, making her notes with a glass of wine or brandy at her elbow.
Mattie May, the maid Beatrice had sacked—unfairly—so long ago had finally been located. She had employed a solicitor specifically to seek out Mattie and others she’d wronged. The work confused the Honorable Mr. Bush, but Beatrice paid him well to not ask too many questions. When he did inquire, Beatrice need only remind him she was a duchess.
The title came in handy at times.
At any rate, she still hadn’t updated her ledger regarding this new information about Mattie. She would be happy to do so over her meal.
“That wasn’t about dinner, Your Grace, though on behalf of the staff, we all appreciate your willingness to allow lamb when it isn’t among your favorites.”
“I don’t dislike lamb, Peg. I only prefer lighter fare. Chicken. Pheasant. Capon. What was it about, then, if not the meal?”
Peg shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Mrs. Lovington came to relay a message from Mr. Lovington. Something about a gentleman on horseback, lurking around the back gardens. He says he’s a villain of some sort.”
“A villain?”
“Well, who else would be sneaking about the gardens of a duchess, Your Grace?” Peg puffed up to her full height. “Mr. Lovington fetched his pistol promptly.”
How intriguing. There had never been an intruder at Beresford Cottage. Nor a guest save Melinda Farthing, but that was beside the point. Beatrice did keep a fine stable, though it wasn’t large. Silver and fine bone china filled the house. A few marble busts of...well,someone. Those might be worth a pound or two. But the tiny village of Chiddon was so far off the main road and her home so remote, she couldn’t imagine anyone intentionally coming here—
Beatrice’s eyes popped open. She sat straight up in the tub, water splashing all over the floor. “Dressed like a gentleman?”Dressed like an earl.
“Wearing an expensive coat, according to Mr. Lovington, and sitting atop a fine horse. Probably stolen.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Mr. Lovington escorted the villain to the stables.”
“To do what, exactly?” Beatrice raised a brow. “Chiddon has no constable.”
“Well, he’s nefar—” A wrinkle appeared between Peg’s brows. “Netfar—”
“Nefarious,” Beatrice finished, vastly amused by this entire affair.
“Exactly, Your Grace. What sort of man lurks at the back of a house with no intention of knocking on the door? Peeking in the windows and such? I’m sure he meant to sneak into the kitchens and rob Mrs. Lovington.”
“Doubtful.” Mrs. Lovington was built like a prize fighter and would probably have brained him with a cast iron kettle. The nefarious intruder couldn’t be anyone other than the Earl of Blythe. He’d probably charmed Mr. Lovington out of shooting him. She’d let him stew for a bit in the stables. A little horse dung would do Blythe good.
Beatrice drew her hand through the water.
