“That’s a pity,” Alice drawled. “Since I came to find somedisreputabledistraction.”
Xenia noted the saucy plume in the other’s hair and the artfully applied face paint. Alice’s strong perfume, Attar of Roses, tickled her nose. She’d wager that beneath that dark cloak, Alice wore one of her signature low-cut frocks.
“Are you working?” Xenia asked.
“Not tonight, dove.” Alice winked. “A woman needs to let ’er hair down now and again. Why don’t you share a pint wif me? Maybe we’ll find somefing else to share too. A nice, brawny sailor with stamina, eh?”
Xenia flushed. “I would like to, but I have, um, another engagement.”
Alice pinched her cheek as if she were a cute tot. “Always the shy one, ain’t you?”
“You ought to be careful at the docks.” Recalling Mr. Khan’s warning and the brutes outside Mr. Bailey’s, Xenia felt a flutter of worry. “I’m told that ruffians gather there?—”
“I like ’em rough and ready.”
“Not this rough. If there’s a gang in the village, it’s best to?—”
“I can take care o’ myself.” Alice waved off her concerns. “By the by, the Abbess is looking for a temporary place to host a masquerade. She says she’ll be in touch through the usual manner.”
As a condition of taking the Abbess’s ten pounds, Xenia had promised to stay in contact. However, she hadn’t wanted the bawd’s messages to fall into the wrong hands at her new place of employ. Understanding the need for discretion, the Abbess had agreed to exchange messages via an anonymous box at the post office. In truth, Xenia ought to be happy at the prospect of returning to her previous job. The money she made as Sirena far surpassed her housekeeper’s wages. Yet she was beginning to enjoy her life as Mrs. Wood…and she didn’t want to give up her cozy attic room, either.
She forced a smile. “I look forward to it.”
“You and me, dove. No work and all play is dangerous for women like us, eh?” With another wink, Alice sauntered off.
Bemused and worried, Xenia watched the other melt into the shadows. Then she hurried back to the manor.
ChapterEight
The next morning, Xenia found herself alone in the manor. The Earl of Manderly had arrived, dragging his grumbling brother out for a ride. Brunswick was taking a well-deserved day off, and Mr. Valentine had gone into the village in search of an elusive grooming implement.
This left Xenia with rare solitude, which was a good thing since she wasn’t at her best. She’d slept fitfully and blamed it on the eerie poem about Bloody Thom. While she couldn’t recall her dreams, she’d awoken with a start…and a feeling that she wasn’t alone. Panic and fear had bombarded her. Her pulse had raced as if she’d been running for her life, her knuckles throbbing as if she’d used her fists. Her throat was sore as if she’d been screaming.
She told herself it had been an ordinary nightmare. The kind she’d been having her entire life. Any ghostly presence she’d felt had been the product of her wild imagination. Nonetheless, unease clung to her like an invisible cobweb. To distract herself, she decided to take advantage of Lord Ethan’s absence to clean his study. Tidying in his presence was an impossibility: she’d tried once and given up. It was like trying to organize the den of a growling, territorial bear.
But he’s not here now, and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
The curtains behind his desk were drawn. She pushed them open…and coughed. In the streaming sunlight, dust motes swarmed like angry insects from the velvet panels. The dirty floor-to-ceiling windows framed the dense jungle of a garden beyond. Creeping vines of ivy were everywhere and swallowed the gazebo in a far corner.
Turning, Xenia eyed the room from Lord Ethan’s perspective—that is, from behind his cluttered desk. She took in the worn furnishings, pitted bookcases, and shabby carpets and wondered why a man of wealth and status would choose to live like this.
“A housekeeper’s job is never done,” she muttered.
She prioritized what she could do. The rugs would have to wait until there were footmen to carry them outside for a good beating. Dragging in a bucket of cleaning supplies, she set to work on the furniture. The combination of beeswax, lemon juice, and linseed oil did wonders, hiding scratches and giving the weathered wood new shine. Pleased with the results, she cleaned the floors around the rugs until they, too, were gleaming.
Next, she examined the bookshelves. Thanks to her mama’s penchant for using abandoned properties as hideaway places, she was an expert at fixing woodworm damage. She would use vinegar to clear away any remaining infestation and then apply tinted beeswax to fill the holes. She followed the pockmarked trail to the cupboard door next to the shelves. When she tried to open the door to assess the damage inside, it wouldn’t budge.
Odd. Why is the door locked?
She tried the keys on the ring Lord Ethan had given her. None of them fit. Perhaps she ought to move on; hadn’t she learned her lesson with the bats? But her employer hadn’t told hernotto look in his closet. Moreover, she was on a legitimate mission to assess the extent of woodworm rot. On that well-reasoned note, she plucked a pair of pins from her hair. They were useful for keeping tresses in place and for getting her into places she wanted to be. One couldn’t grow up with the mama she had and not learn a few tricks of the trade.
The lock clicked, and she opened the door. What lay beyond wasn’t a cupboard but a tiny antechamber that held the most stunning piano she’d ever seen. The grand instrument took up most of the space. Its black lacquer surface gleamed like a panther’s skin, its smooth lines and robust curves like those of a prowling beast.
Why does he keep this magnificent piano in here?
The ancient piano in the music room looked like it had come with the house, and she wondered why he would display that one but keep this glamorous showpiece hidden. She traced her fingertip over the ornate gilt swirls that identified the piano maker as “Bösendorfer.” Her gaze fell to the row of lustrous ivory keys. Her papa had been a musician. Some of Xenia’s best childhood memories were of sitting on his lap as he taught her to play on a battered flash house instrument.
It had been a long time since she’d had a piano to play on, and never one as fine as this. She spotted the box that lay beneath the instrument. Opening the lid, she pulled out a sheaf of paper…music scores. One caught her eye: an unfinished piece labeled simply, “Sonata in C Minor.” The title and notes in the margin were written in Lord Ethan’s distinctive scrawl.
