Found andfired.
At this rate, every single plant pot in this manor will need to be moved to the greenhouse in the grounds. It’s that or risk having hundreds—no, thousands—of rare plants wither and die from the sudden drop in temperature. Does this saboteur haveany idea of the damage they’re doing? Are theydeliberatelythreatening my life’s work?
“For Christ’s sake.”
Entering my study, I toss my cane on top of my desk before limping to the big, open window. Outside, the wind howls across the island, tangy with brine. It numbs my cheeks and flaps the collar of my shirt as I reach up for the pane. I’m not dressed for winter to come inside my home, wearing only my customary shirt, waistcoat and dark trousers. Really, after the last few days of freezing my bollocks off, I should have known better.
Muscles flex across my back as I heave the window closed again, cursing under my breath. The wooden frame is swollen with age, and it sticks a little as I shove it back into place. It fastens with a dullthunk.
A throat clears behind me, at the other end of the room.
I jerk around, pain cramping my thigh muscle from the sudden movement. One of the housemaids waves awkwardly from the wall of bookcases, a feather duster clutched in her other hand.
No, not one of the housemaids.
Her.
Madeleine Price.
The woman with dark hair that lightens to caramel by the ends. The woman with the hot pink suitcase. The woman with thelaugh.
The woman who has been leaving the faintest scent of cinnamon everywhere she goes. I may not have met her face-to-face before now, but there’s never been a moment of doubt in my mind who the scent belonged to. The culprit.
“You,” I say stupidly, my balance teetering without the help of my cane. I grip the back of my leather desk chair instead, an unaccountable tremor running through my fingers.
Madeleine snorts, the sound drifting easily through the large, quiet study. Her hair is braided down her back, and the lacy white collar of her housemaid dress has flipped up on one side.
“Me,” she agrees.
Then she turns her back, and continues dusting the shelves like I’m not here.
It’s a mercy, really, that my tormentor has turned away, because otherwise she’d catch me staring at her wide-eyed, like a madman. A muscle ticks in my jaw, and I squeeze the desk chair. My leg throbs hot with pain.
For a full month, I’ve avoided this particular member of my staff. I’ve passed messages through Jenkins, bringing her volume down to more reasonable levels. I’ve wholly avoided the wing of the manor where she lives. I’ve not set foot in Mrs Ainslie’s kitchen for weeks, not even when my stomach was growling for sustenance, just on the off chance that this errant housemaid might be there.
I even passed along the feedback about her distinctive cinnamon scent, all to better pretend that this woman is not under my roof. The whole operation has been a roaring success, enabling me to almost entirely forget that laugh, but—
“You,” I say again, my voice too rough, too loud in the quiet. The pieces are slotting together in my sluggish brain. “You’re the one opening all the windows, aren’t you?”
Of course she is. Since the moment this woman set foot on the island, she’s caused nothing but disruption. Everyone else I employ seems able to come and go with no trouble, doing their tasks seamlessly and barely causing a ripple in my consciousness, butMadeleine—
“Yes,” she says, the feather duster whispering over the bookshelves. Her back is still turned, her slender shoulders stiff in her black dress. Like she’s angry too. Angry atme.What on Earth? “I’ve been opening the windows, Lord Westmore.”
Snatching up my cane, I stride forward, my gait uneven but determined.
“Why?”
So many questions have haunted me since that first day I overheard her laughing with Jenkins out on the gravel driveway. Why was she laughing? Why is she here? Why does she disturb my peace so badly? And why, of all the manor houses in all the world, did she have to come to mine?
“I received some feedback,” Madeleine says, her tone crisp as she addresses the spines of leather-bound books. The feather duster dances across the shelves, a puff of white cloud. “That my personal odor was causing offense.”
My steps slow as I approach, and my palm is suddenly damp where it grips my cane. I didn’t phrase it like that, surely. It may have been years since I troubled myself with society and manners, but I’m not a complete ogre.
Am I?
“I merely meant…”
Cane thumping against the rug, I come to a stop directly behind her. Within arm’s length, though naturally, my hands stay firmly in place: one on my cane, one balled into a fist at my side.
