“Thank you, Wenna.” She rose from the milky bathwater, which had grown cold. “Mr. Martin has every right to know why we’re stealing one of his master’s handkerchiefs, but it must absolutely be kept from the duke.”
“Yes’m,” the girl said, wrapping a soft towel around Cassandra’s arms.
She stepped from the tub and began to dry. It was cheering to have an ally in the house. She prayed Wade’s valet was equally trustworthy. Martin had been pleasant on the few occasions she’d chanced to speak with him—he seemed to approve of her, at any rate.
Surely, a quiet life at Pender Abbey was preferable to whatever dissipations he’d been subjected to in London. The man appeared fond of his master, and would understand that the loss of one handkerchief would be repaid a hundredfold when Wadebridge received his gift from her.
Wenna retrieved a night rail and dressing gown.
Cassandra was accustomed to keeping sensible hours. After supper and a relaxing bath, she longed to tuck into a good book. Doubtless, Wade was used to staying awake all night and sleeping quite late. She wondered whether he would visit her bed tonight.
He was welcome to join her.
Cassandra donned her night rail, but left her wrapper untouched. She crawled beneath the bedcovers, relishing in the cool softness of the sheets and warm weight of the counterpane. Wenna fluffed her pillow, and then snuffed all the lamps but one. That lone flickering flame atop her bedside table was more than enough to read by.
“Would ‘ee fancy a pot of cocoa, ma’am? Or hot milk, or a tipple ‘afore bed?”
She smiled up at the wild-haired girl. “Some chocolate would be wonderful, thank you. Oh, but not too much. One cup would be perfect. Make a little extra, and you may have that for yourself.”
Wenna grinned. Hot chocolate before bed was a treat for anyone, maid or mistress. She hurried from the room as fast as her sturdy legs could carry her.
Cassandra opened her book and began to read. She idly flipped the pages, but found it difficult to concentrate. The mattress was as pillowy as a cloud. The room was silent save the ticking of an ormolu clock upon the carved mantelpiece. Her lamp emitted a comforting glow, and she watched the shadows dance upon Mr. Ainsworth’s account of Dick Turpin’s ride to York.
She remembered this was Wade’s favorite part ofRookwood.
In no time at all, a scratch sounded at the door. It was not Wenna’s firm rapping. Cassandra hoped that it was her lover calling.
“Yes, come.”
The door creaked open, but it was neither Wenna nor Wadebridge standing at her threshold. Morla, the ‘uppish, judging’ maid carried a tray with a cup of steaming cocoa perched alongside a small saucer of sweet biscuits.
“Your chocolate, ma’am,” the girl said, frowning.
“Oh, yes. Thank you, Morla.” She smiled at her adversary, guessing that this maid considered the consumption of hot chocolate to be sinfully indulgent.
Morla brought the rattling tray across the carpet. She placed the cup and saucer upon the bedside table, treating each piece of delicate china as if it were contaminated. As if becoming a duke’s mistress was contagious.
The maid stepped back, stretching to her full height. She did her best to look down her nose—exactly as she had seen the housekeeper, Mrs. Cardy, do on the day of Cassandra’s arrival. “Wenna says ‘ee allowed her cocoa, if there be any left.”
Oh, dear… Perhaps she had inadvertently created a fashion for the stuff. Every maid and footman would be clamoring for a pot. “Did you want some, too?”
Morla looked as if she’d been slapped. “It be not for me to take the duke’s chocolate. ‘Tis wasteful, and ‘ee ought not to give it to that chuckle-headed girl!”
“I am sorry, but I don’t see the harm.” Cassandra folded her hands in her lap, ready to go to battle with this insolent housemaid.
Morla all but stomped her feet. Her red, chapped fists clenched at her side. She was pale and gaunt beneath her maid’s uniform. She looked as if she hadn’t known a day of fun in her life. If anyone needed a sip of chocolate and a bite of biscuit, it wasshe.
“It ain’t right!” the girl cried. “It ain’t proper for ‘ee to be here, and the whole household do think it, though I be the only one brave enough to say it.”
“Then I am sorry you’ve wasted your breath.”
Morla huffed. She turned at the exact moment a firmer, more confident knock sounded.
Cassandra knew it was Wadebridge. “Come through, Wade.”
The gilded door panel pushed open. He entered the room wearing a night shirt and dressing gown. Her lover was bare-legged. Barefooted. The topmost collar button was undone, exposing a deep V of firm, muscular chest where the thin fabric gaped.
He was beautifullyen déshabillé.
