Violet was a fool.
“WHAT’S HIS LORDSHIP thinkin’?” Mrs. McNeil, the head housekeeper, tsked as she led Beatrice along a hall in the servants’ quarters. “A fine lady like yerself doesnae belong down here.”
“It was my doing,” Beatrice insisted. “There are no more trains today, so I must stay—the night, at least. Possibly longer? And if I must stay, then I told Lord Hughes I wished to work in exchange for my return fare to England. He is already out a fiancée. He need not be out additional money as well.”
“He can afford it.” The housekeeper waved her hand in the air, then turned to look at Beatrice, her eyes appraising. “What is it a lass like yerself thinks to help with?” She looked down at Beatrice’s hands, smooth and free of calluses and blemishes, excepting her old scar. “Sewing on a button, mayhap? But beyond that—” Mrs. McNeil shrugged and held her own work-worn hands up as if already exasperated with Beatrice’s efforts.
“You’d be surprised.” Beatrice smiled, grateful for the first time in her life for all of the labor her aunt had heaped upon her. Her hands were soft because of the abhorrent goose grease paste her aunt had insisted that Beatrice use every night—until she had discovered that beeswax had a similar effect. Rough hands would have given away the reality of her life during heruncle’s long absences. Aunt Margaret had been fastidious in hiding the truth, from making certain Beatrice’s hands remained soft to ensuring that she had no easily visible bruises.
Mrs. McNeil planted a hand on her ample hip and arched a brow. “Nae as fragile as ye look, eh?”
“Not fragile at all.” Beatrice’s smile widened. Already she liked the woman much better than the waspish Hortence, who ran housekeeping at her aunt’s house.
“Come along, then.” Mrs. McNeil resumed her steps down the hall. “It’s nae as if we cannae use the help, what with his lordship deciding tae stay the summer and him injured.”
“I am grateful the earl is allowing me to earn my ticket,” Beatrice said truthfully.Grateful to spend at least one night in this magnificent house in such a beautiful place.
As if echoing her happy thoughts, the sound of bagpipes filled the hall. Beatrice turned to see a kilted, white-haired, white-whiskered man, pipes in arms, blowing for all his might.
“Arthur!” Mrs. McNeil marched past Beatrice toward the piper. “How many times have I told ye? Dinna play yer pipes in the house. Nae when the earl is here.” She poked a finger into the man’s chest.
The sound died as Arthur stopped blowing. “Haud yer wheesht, woman. I thought him could use a bit o’ cheerin’.”
“He needs healin’, that’s what. I’ll be scunnered if ye bring the man more harm. Take yer pipes outside tae the hill. Off with ye.” Mrs. McNeil grabbed Arthur by his shoulders and spun him around, marching him toward the kitchen.
Beatrice found herself smiling as she watched them go. She wasn’t certain what the meaning of scunnered was, and neither did she wish to find out. She’d already brought more harm to the earl today and wished she could take away the pain he must feel at Violet’s betrayal. But what could she do?
He didn’t trust her, that much was clear. She wished hecould see that she wasn’t a terrible person, that she hadn’t come to take advantage of him, hadn’t had anything to do with Violet’s disappearance. She was used to the looks of disdain, used to people either ignoring her or speaking about her behind her back. But here...Let it be different. Let him see the real me.
Just this once. If the earl would only believe her instead of blaming her, then she might return to England content.
Or as content as one in her position might be, anyway.
THEODORE RAN HIS fingers over the paper resting in his lap as if that might somehow allow him to read it. Logan had already read it to him three times. Simple words. Short, as telegrams were of necessity. Theodore had them memorized, yet the cryptic message had told him nothing.
DO NOT TRUST B W STOP
STARTING SEARCH FOR V W STOP
WILL BE IN TOUCH STOP
The initials were easy enough to decipher. B. W. had to mean Beatrice Worthington, the woman currently employed as a maid downstairs—at her own insistence.Strange, that.He had offered that first day to send her home, but she had asked instead if she might work to earn her fare before departing. He had acquiesced, believing that having her here might help discover Violet’s whereabouts, though he regretted that decision now. Beyond her initial descriptions of what Violet had been wearing the day of her disappearance, Beatrice Worthington had said nothing more to him about her cousin. And now she’d had six days here, during which she might havedone any number of deceitful things, taking advantage of both his blindness and her proximity to his household. He would have Logan check the safe today as well as the paperwork in his office. And he’d ask Mrs. McNeil to check the silver and the storeroom and make sure nothing had been disturbed there. He would also have her dismiss Miss Worthington immediately—without pay—if he discovered she had indeed been into things she ought not have.
But why, if she was not to be trusted, had his fiancée been given into her care? What had Violet’s father been thinking? The man had seemed sane enough the last time they’d met. He’d seemed particularly hopeful about the match. So why would he allow Violet to be escorted by an unworthy chaperone? It made no sense.
As for the telegram—why had a reply taken so long? And as for starting the search for Violet...where did her father intend to search, and how?Six days later.She could be anywhere by now.Already married, as her scathing note had promised?Theodore slapped a hand on the arm of his chair, frustrated that he was unable to search for her as well. Instead, he sat at home, lame and blind and fearing the worst. It would not do. She was at least partly his responsibility. He would send more men—in addition to those he’d already sent—in his stead. He would get to the bottom of this and get his fiancée back. But first, he needed to remove the cause for her absence.
Theodore wheeled his chair across the library, maneuvering slowly to avoid the furniture scattered about the room. Reaching the bellpull, he rang for Mrs. McNeil. No doubt she, too, would be pleased to dismiss the untrustworthy newcomer.
“NAE MILORD. SHE’S done nothing wrong at all,” Mrs. McNeil declared adamantly. “Truth be, Miss Worthington’s better help than most. I gave her the worst tasks, as we do all the new ones, and she did them well and cheerful-like too—sweepin’ out the ashes and startin’ the fires afore dawn, emptyin’ the chamber pots, scrubbin’ the floors, bringin’ in the firewood. Cook asked for Miss Worthington yesterday, so I sent her tae the kitchens. I peeked in a few hours later and found the two of ’em up tae their elbows in dough and workin’ together amiable-like—no small miracle, that. Ye ken how particular Cook is about her kitchen. She doesnae care for most of the girls who are sent tae her. She asked for Miss Worthington again today—said she’s a far sight more helpful than Molly, who comes from town twice a week.”
“Is that so?” Theodore tapped his toe on the floor as he considered. “You’ve checked the silver and the stores?”
“Aye, milord. Nothin’ amiss there. I dinnae think she’s the type tae take somethin’. I offered her another dress tae work in, and she declined, sayin’ she’d wear an apron over her own and wash her things at night as needed. She doesnae wish tae be beholden tae ye for anythin’.”
“Hmmm.” Theodore hadn’t been expecting this report. It did not at all match up with the note about B. W. being untrustworthy. What was it she’d said that first day as he hadtried to convince her to return to the house with him? Something about her aunt hating her. And Violet feeling the same as well. Lord Worthington obviously did not feel much differently, given the telegram. There had to be a reason for their contempt.
The simplest thing would be to pay Miss Worthington the wage owed and send her on her way. She wasn’t his problem, and he had troubles enough at present.
