“I’ll grant ye be mighty innocent actin’. Ye fooled the family, but ye ain’t fooled the staff, so count yerself warned!”
“Betsy!” Leona cried, exasperated. “Oh, never mind. If that is to be your attitude, then I suggest you leave. I’ve done well enough for myself for years. It shall not harm me to do so again.”
She turned her back on her and returned to the dressing table to pick up the discarded brush and pull it through her long, thick hair. She brushed it vigorously with long, rhythmic, angry strokes.
Betsy watched her uncertainly. “Yer not going t’order me to serve ye?”
“No.”
Betsy wrung her hands on her apron. “Yer not going to complain to the master?”
“And say what? ‘Oh, you know that maid you gave me? Well, she is just not going to work out. She thinks me capable ofharming that delightful little niece of yours.’ ” Leona said with treacle sweetness. “ ‘She also thinks I tried to steal your horse and set fire to the dovecote and who knows what else. No, she just is not working out—’ There, is that what you would have me say?”
“N-no.”
She threw up her hands. “Well, maybe, I should. Maybe then he would let me leave and go back home!”
“Ye want to go home?”
“I never wanted to come here! But the great Nigel Deveraux decreed that I come to Castle Marin for my safety. Ha! What a laugh. I am sick with the humor of it!” Leona raged. “Sick—sick—sick!”
“Wot do ye mean, fer yer safety?”
“Two days before I came here, I received a threatening letter vowing revenge for my saving Lady Chrissy. Not that I expect you or your fellows to believe me, for you have me tried and sentenced! But it does not seem as if I am in the most enviable position, does it? Oh, forget it. . .. What am I talking to you for?” She wound her coronet of hair high on her head. With jerky, angry movements she stuck the pins in to hold it up, scraping her scalp.
Leona stood up to throw off her dressing gown. She looked up to see Betsy still standing by the bed.
“What? Are you here still? Why don’t you run along back to your servants’ hall and make up more tales to paint me blacker still!” She put on her chemise, petticoat and stockings, ignoring the maid. Betsy reached out a hand to help her when she moved to toss her dress over her head.
“Don’t touch me!” Leona shrilled. The eyes she turned toward Betsy glittered with unshed tears, though twin flags of red anger flew high on her cheeks.
“I-I’m sorry, miss.” She licked her lips. “Mayhap we were a mite hasty?—”
“Hasty! Hasty, you call it!” Leona’s chest heaved. “I have never suffered the service of those who would not give it willingly. I do not intend to start. You may leave. Now!”
“Oh, m-miss,” the little maid sobbed. She turned and ran from the room.
Leona slowly sank onto the rumpled bed. She grabbed one of the pillows, cradling it to her chest as the tears began to flow in earnest. Could they believe her guilty? Yes. And if they did, how far might their tales travel? Dismally she remembered Deveraux’s account of her heroism among the country people. What were they now saying?
Suddenly she was frightened, more frightened than she’d ever been in her entire life. What was she going to do?
It took more than an hour for Leona to compose herself enough to venture out of her room. She knew that she was helpless against scurrilous rumors. People believed what they wanted to believe and, sad to say, they always tended to believe the worst!
Her best defense—nay, her only defense—lay in not granting importance to the accusations. She was innocent and she numbered one of the victims. To hide in her room or to leave Castle Marin—with or without Deveraux’s blessing—would be tantamount to admitting guilt. That she would never do. Though she detested scenes with servants, she was not a quitter.
Before finishing her toilette, she splashed water on her face to ease her puffy eyes and blotchy complexion. She took her time dressing, allowing her face to erase the signs of bitter weeping.
When she went downstairs to breakfast, she was gratified to find she was the last to arrive. To her relief, Deveraux and Fitzhugh had breakfasted earlier and were out on the estate. Lady Nevin and Maria sat with their heads close together, asheaf of closely-written paper before them as they discussed preparations for the upcoming ball. Lucy was the only one to notice her entrance.
“La, how late you are, Leona. I shall tease you dreadfully for this, you know. I’ve heard how you often get up with the dawn at Rose Cottage. You’re fast becoming a slug-abed!” Her eyes merrily sparkled as she spread jam on a last bit of muffin.
Leona smiled wanly and agreed. She reached for the chocolate pot, but a footman was before her. He grabbed it and offered to refill Lucy’s cup. She waved him away. He moved around the table to Lady Nevin and Maria to refill their cups, and then he carried the pot out of the room. No one else seemed to notice his gross act of insolence. Leona bit her lower Up, wondering if she dare ask him to bring it back. She decided she was not ready for another scene. She went to the sideboard to get the coffee pot instead. The footman returned while she was pouring herself a cup. He glowered, and Leona repressed a smile. In reprisal, he began to gather all the food from the sideboard to return to the kitchen. Boldly Leona grabbed the muffin platter out of his hand, daring him with a blank look to fight her for it. He sniffed haughtily and grabbed the jam pot from the table. That last finally caught Lady Nevin’s attention.
“Jason, whatever are you about? Leona has just come down to breakfast. Leave those things. You can collect them later,” she said off-handedly before returning her attention to Maria and their lists.
With ill grace, the footman abandoned the tray he’d loaded with food and stalked out of the room.
“I’d wager he’s made an assignation with one of the maids that he’s anxious to make,” giggled Lucy.
