Tonight, his house—and his life—did not seem so lonesome.
***
She had rung for Jenny, who helped her undress. They’d chatted about the meal, the evening, and the gossip downstairs.
As expected, the staff thought Eliza was a tart. That their staunch, upright employer had misplaced his moral compass when that couldn’t be further from the truth.
Jenny had defended her to the servants, but it was more fun to speculate and whisper than to listen to reason. Sir Mark van Bergen was a true gentleman. They should be honored to serve such a good man when so many employers preyed on their housemaids and abused the footmen.
Such a terrible scenario was—Eliza suspected—how she came to be brought into the world.
Mother was no slouch. Even in her final years, she had grace, poise, and beauty. She had taught her daughter the makings of a lady while refusing to explain how she’d come about such knowledge.
She’d fallen pregnant, perhaps a victim of seduction. Before Eliza’s birth, her mother had been cast out and left to the streets. But someone had taken care of them. Someone had sent money every month.Someonesaw that Eliza and her mother received what they needed to survive.
Upon Mother’s death, all assistance stopped.
Eliza was left to fend for herself.
If Sir Mark’s servants knew how fortunate they were to be well-paid and cared for by an honest, respectable, and scrupulous gentleman, they would not gossip behind his back.
Alone in her bedroom, Eliza retrieved her stolen pocketbook from atop the wardrobe. She sat cross-legged upon the mattress and spread out every banknote. Fivers, tenners, and twenties littered the blue eiderdown.
The sight of the money, the feel of it in her hands, soothed her. Eliza had never seen so much wealth in all her life, and it gave her a sense of security that she had not felt in years.
In time, when her bruises healed and she was ready to venture out into the world, Eliza would be free. She would be independent. She could live quietly, chastely, and honorably in her own rented rooms.
She might never be a lady like her mother had prayed for, but Eliza would no longer be a pickpocket. When good people passed her on the pavements, they’d tip their hats and bid her good-day, rather than clutch their purses and rush ahead.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sunlight streamed through the windows. Birds chirped on the rooftops outside. Eliza shifted beneath the bedcovers, breathing in the scent of lavender and clean linen. She was warm. She was dry. Her belly didn’t grumble.
She sat up, blinking at the unfamiliar space—a bedroom papered in blue damask. A wardrobe filled with frocks. A fireplace, and a dressing table, and an oval mirror reflecting soft morning light.
This wasn’t a dream. She was not lying in a gutter or locked in a prison cell.
Eliza crawled out of bed and limped to the windows. Her room overlooked a garden and stables. Beyond that stood red-brick and Portland stone townhouses with wide, slate roofs and tall chimneys for as far as her eyes could see.
Mayfair!
Without bothering to ring for Jenny, she searched for her dressing gown and bedroom slippers. Eliza slipped the lace-edged garment over her shoulders, wincing at her stiff muscles and bruised flesh. She checked her face in the mirror. The knot on her brow bone had grown large and discolored, and her bottom lip was smarting and swollen.
She looked awful, but not even her injuries could dampen her spirits, for Eliza Summersby—recently of no fixed address—knew how it felt to wake up in Mayfair.
This was the first day of hernewlife.
Eliza tightened the sash of her frothy dressing gown, ensuring her modesty beneath layers of silk, lace, and soft linen. She threw open her door and stepped out into the corridor.
Sunlight from the glass dome above lit the space without the need for lamps. Gripping the banister with her uninjured hand, Eliza carefully made her way downstairs.
She looked into the drawing room. The draperies had been opened, spilling more sunlight into the house. The room had been swept and dusted, the cushions on the sofa plumped.
A housemaid bent to water a potted plant.
“Morning,” Eliza said, cheerfully.
The girl looked up. She put down her watering can and straightened her spine. “Good morning, miss.”
