Wrexford, she was sure, would pounce on that.
The taste of bile rose up in her throat.
A jolt of the wheels caused her foot to bump against McClellan’s sturdy half boot. Reminded that she wasn’t alone, Charlotte hastily looked up. The maid was staring out the windowpanes with an aura of unruffled calm that helped soothe her own inner turmoil.
“Thank you, McClellan,” she murmured.
The maid turned, and once again Charlotte was struck by the bright intelligence in her mouse-brown eyes.
“For adding the duties of farmhand to your original assignment,”she quickly added, indicating the majolica rooster nested firmly in McClellan’s lap.
“Just as long as I’m not expected to pluck any feathers or prepare it for roasting. I’m all thumbs when it comes to kitchen work.”
Somehow Charlotte doubted that. “I’m also grateful for you not peppering me with questions,” she added truthfully.
A flicker of sunlight caught the twitch of the maid’s lips. “It’s not my job to do so, Mrs. Sloane.”
“Ah.” She decided to test McClellan’s sangfroid. “But likely it’s your job to answer them, if your employer decides to ask.”
“I doubt that His Lordship would,” replied the maid.
An astute answer. “But if he did?”
“Then I should recount what I have seen. Which has been mostly the backsides of three well-dressed gentry morts out for an afternoon stroll.”
Charlotte couldn’t hold back a laugh. “I trust Lord Sterling’s posterior helped keep boredom at bay.”
“He’s a very fine-looking man,” agreed McClellan with a straight face. “Well-fitting boots. They look to have been fashioned by Hoby.”
“No doubt,” said Charlotte dryly. Jeremydidhave long, shapely legs. “He has exquisite taste in clothes. So I imagine he would choose only the best.”
They shared a quick smile.
“As for what you’ve heard . . .” Charlotte smoothed at her skirts. “Might I ask what sort of talk was going on in the kitchen?”
McClellan took her time in answering. “The recent murder of their houseguest has things in a humble-jumble downstairs. The servants are all aware that there’s bad blood between Mr. Ashton’s widow and his two assistants. And it seems that one of them—a Mr. Hillhouse—stayed out all night, and has not yet been seen.”
“Did they speculate as to why?” asked Charlotte.
“The maids think him a very handsome fellow, and wouldn’t be surprised if he was tempted to take advantage of the pleasures London has to offer,” replied the maid. “Though one of the tweenies was of the opinion that he and Miss Merton are thick as thieves.”
Charlotte straightened. “Indeed?” That was interesting to know.
“Aye. There was also a lot of grumbling about how the master of the house, though rich as Croesus, is a nipcheese when it comes to food and wages.”
“I suppose that is how the wealthy stay wealthy,” she murmured.
Amusement danced in McClellan’s eyes. “I wish I knew.”
Charlotte saw that they were turning into her street. “Thank you for your help,” she said as she slid forward on her seat. “And your company.”
“I should be thanking you, madam. I escaped an afternoon of helping the housekeeper polish the silver.”
“A waste of your talents,” murmured Charlotte.
“From your lips to God’s ears.” The maid held out the rooster. “Here, you’ll not want to be forgetting this.”
In truth, she had mixed feelings about living with a memory resurrected from the past. But too late for that now, conceded Charlotte as her palms cradled the figurine’s smooth weight.
