“I did not ask.”
“Ahem. You should. Jenny has a knack for people. Everyone in the village says so. Clever little creature, that Jenny—very clever indeed.”
“Indeed,” Neil murmured absently. His mind was elsewhere.
He had no doubt that love had nothing to do with Bramwell’s pursuit. There was something else—something darker—and Neil meant to uncover it. Miss Winter might hold the key, though she would not reveal it willingly. Not yet.
Could I win her trust?he wondered.Unlikely.
Charm was Simon’s domain, not his. Neil was too severe, too blunt; people found him unapproachable. How unlike his sister he was—Catherine, the kindest soul that ever lived.
At the thought of her, his chest tightened painfully.
“If Cat were here,” he murmured, “she’d have Miss Winter charmed in a heartbeat.”
A long silence followed. Then came the creak of the armchair, and Simon’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder.
“I know you want Bramwell brought to justice,” he said quietly, “but you’re not the only one pursuing him. I fear this quest is consuming you, Neil. Vengeance won’t bring Catherine back. Meanwhile, her daughter lives under your roof, longing for your notice. Emma—”
“Emma will be best served to know her mother was avenged,” Neil said sharply, turning away. “That will do, Simon. You know what to do.”
Simon sighed. “I’ll make further enquiries—see what more can be learned.”
“Good. That’s what we need—information. As for Miss Winter, she stays. For now.”
Chapter Four
Thump-Thump-Thump.
Thump-Thump-Thump!
Maggie started awake to the sound of furious knocking. She sat bolt upright, tangled in her sheets, yesterday’s events flooding back—the imposing house, the grim Duke, Mrs Thornton, Miss Emma, all of it. For one heart-stopping instant, she was certain it washimat her door, hammering to be let in, come to make her pay.
After all, he had always promised that she would pay if she ever tried to leave.
“Miss Winter, are you in there at all, or have you absconded in the night!”
It was Mrs Thornton. Relief swept through Maggie so sharply that she might have embraced the formidable woman on the spot.
“Coming!” she called, clambering out of bed.
Her room was on the floor above the nursery, where a good many of the female servants slept. It was spacious but not large, neat and plain and entirely unremarkable. There were no decorations, no rugs, or even brightly-coloured curtains at the windows, but there was nothing lacking. Mrs Thornton had shown her here the previous day after discovering her lost in the corridors.
Lost indeed she had been, after that interview with the Duke. It would not be the last time, she suspected. Mrs Thornton had declared it too late for lessons and sent her to her room until morning. She had unpacked her modest belongings, paced the floor, and wished for a book. Supper had been brought, along with fresh candles and linens; all told, she had been treated well.
Now she yanked open the door, breathless, to find Mrs Thornton standing there, expression grim.
The grimness deepened.
“Good gracious, Miss Winter, you are still in your night-things! It is a quarter to eight—breakfast is at eight!”
“I—I did not know.”
“Did his Grace not provide you with a schedule?”
“He did not.”
“Hm. Well, I shall fetch you one. But really, Miss Winter, every household is astir by eight. Can you not wake yourself of a morning?”
