Joan surveyed her head to toe. “And you’re not going anywhere with me dressed like that.”
Margaret glanced down at the flounced day dress of white cambric muslin she’d yet to change out of, her mind quickly skipping to the other gowns in her wardrobe.
But Joan had other ideas. “There’s some old clothes of poor Mrs. Poole’s up in the attic.” She was referring to the belongings of an ancient housemaid who’d died, bent over her pail and scrub brush, a few months before. “I’ll fetch you a frock and cap from there.”
“What is wrong with my gowns?”
“Nothing. If you want Theo to follow us and every pickpocket in London to harass us.”
That was true. If the footman saw her coming downstairs dressed to go out, he would be on her trail before they reached the street.
“I shall be back directly,” Joan said. “Meanwhile, cover up that hair.”
Her hair. Margaret stared at her troubled reflection in the looking glass. Yes, her blond hair would be a beacon in the night. She thought suddenly of the dark wig she had planned to wear for the masquerade ball. She hurried to her dressing table and lifted the wig from its stand, examining it by lamplight. Decisively, she pawed through the drawer until she came upon a pair of scissors. With them, she lopped off the long curls meant to cascade down each shoulder, leaving only a simple curly wig with dark fringe across the forehead. It would do.
Joan had yet to return. Increasingly anxious to leave, Margaret decided she had better begin changing without her. She slipped her arms from her gown, twisted it back to front, undid the ribbon ties, and let the dress fall to the floor. She stood there in shift and stays.Heaven help me if Marcus comes in now.She slipped a petticoat over her head, then sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on two pair of stockings, then her half boots. She went to her wardrobe and found the blue dress and white apron she had worn as a milkmaid and laid them across her bed. Surely they would suffice if Joan failed to find something in the attic. Perhaps anyone who saw her would mistake her for a second housemaid, a friend of Joan’s come to call.
She pulled forth her plainest reticule and a carpetbag, and began stuffing in a few necessities. Her mind raced, panicked and muddled.Think, she told herself.Think!But it was difficult to plan when she had little idea of where she was going or for how long.
Still Joan had yet to return. What had happened to forestall her?
Nervously, Margaret tied her dressing gown over her underclothes and slipped out into the corridor, ears alert for the sound of anyone approaching—friend or foe.
Which was Joan?
Margaret tiptoed toward the stairway and paused. Hearing voices from around the corner, she pressed herself against the wall.
Sterling challenged, “Were you not dismissed earlier this evening?”
“Yes, sir,” Joan replied.
“Then why are you still here?”
“I was only packing my belongings, sir.” Joan’s voice quavered, unnaturally high.
“Packingonlyyour belongings, I trust. Let me see what you have in that valise.”
“’Tis only clothes and the like, sir.”
Margaret heard shuffling and a clasp being unsnapped and snapped. “Be sure that is all you take or I shall hire a thief-taker to hunt you down.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Benton?” Murdoch called from the landing below. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. But that man from Bow Street is here.”
What man from Bow Street?Margaret wondered.
“Thank you, Murdoch. I shall be down directly.”
Margaret risked a glance around the corner in time to see Sterling turn his icy blue eyes on the quaking maid. “I trust you will see yourself out and do no mischief on your way.”
Joan nodded.
“Be out in ten minutes or I shall have Murdoch toss you out.”
I won’t be a cook; I hate cooking. I won’t be a nursery
maid, nor a lady’s maid, far less a lady’s companion....
