CHAPTER FIVE
Mara slowly came to herself. The first rays of dawn were penetrating her face through a break in the curtain, the light enough to cut through her haze of sleep. She had a slight headache, and after touching her tender head, the events of the previous day came rushing back. The fire…Bentley’s kidnapping…Roarke…
With a gasp, she sat up in bed, fully awake.
Ignoring the fierce pounding of her heart, she took a moment to gather her bearings. The chamber was decorated in shades of pale yellow and cornflower blue with a cheery fire burning in the oversize grate. She had paid little heed to her surroundings the day before, a weariness the likes she’d never known stealing over her after the doctor had left and a maid had assisted her with a bath. After donning a clean shift, Mara had fallen onto the soft bed and slept like she’d been drugged, although she’d refused the laudanum left for her. She had almost felt guilty for sleeping so soundly, for while she was encircled by elegance, God only knew what sort of conditions Bentley was being forced to endure.
After a brief knock on her chamber door, Mara tensed before she saw the same young maid from the evening before carrying a breakfast tray. A momentary flicker of another life, another time, flashed before Mara’s vision as she recalled wearing that same drab, gray dress, white apron, and mobcap of a servant. Although Mara had felt pride in the last few years in running her own shop, she knew she could never escape her past.
Or her future.
The maid glanced over with a smile, unaware of Mara’s rather maudlin thoughts. Setting down the tray on the mahogany dressing table, she bobbed a curtsy. “Good morning, miss. Shall I help you dress?”
Mara thought it was rather ironic, if not downright laughable, to be on the receiving end of a proper household, although she merely nodded her head for lack of anything to say. Again, the girl seemed oblivious to Mara’s dismal mood as she walked over to the large, walnut wardrobe in the corner of the room and pulled out a day dress. “Lady Weston made sure to have a clean gown and some underclothes sent up for you to wear while your other gown is being cleaned and repaired.”
Mara gasped, but it wasn’t due to the lovely, white muslin, dotted with tiny, embroidered flowers, that was brought forth. “Lyrais here?”
The girl nodded. “Yes, miss.”
Mara instantly threw back the covers, allowing the young maid to help her don a corset and petticoat. “How long has she been here…um…?”
Mara realized that she didn’t recall the girl’s name, although the other woman merely smiled and supplied, “It’s Amy, miss. As far as Lady Weston, she arrived yesterday. In bad shape, she was.” With a sorrowful expression, Amy shook her head.
“What do you mean?”
Amy quickly laced Mara’s corset and slipped the gown over her head to fasten the line of tiny buttons up the back, all the while speaking in a low tone. “Just between you and me, for I’m no downstairs gossip like most girls, poor Lady Weston was the victim of her husband’s abuse, but after yesterday, the countess won’t have to worry about the earl’s temper anymore.” Dropping her voice to a near whisper, she added, “Lord Weston is dead.”
Again, Mara gasped. “What?”
Amy nodded. “He fell and broke his neck, although there are some awful rumors going around as to whether it was an accident or not.”
“Oh, dear heavens,” Mara murmured. “I must speak with her. We used to be…” She hesitated, not wanting to give away too much of her past to this girl. She finally ended with, “Friends.”
“I’m sure she’d appreciate a familiar face,” Amy agreed. “She’s just down the hall, second door on the right, directly across from the master’s suite.”
As the maid turned to leave, Mara frowned as her words abruptly registered. “Wait. You don’t mean to say that this is…” She swallowed. “Themistress’sbedchamber?”
“Indeed, it is,” Amy nodded, before she took her leave, oblivious to the sudden drain of color on Mara’s face as her gaze reluctantly moved to the connecting door on the opposing side of the room. Likely an empty sitting room beyond was all that separated her bed fromRoarke’s…
Her mouth instantly went dry.
Shaking her head, refusing to dwell on such matters, Mara walked down to Lady Weston’s room and knocked lightly. She heard a quiet command to enter, so she slowly opened the door.
Lyra was seated at a small secretary desk with only the faintest amount of candlelight forming a circle about her. She was still in her nightclothes, though she had donned a blue velvet robe. Long, sandy blonde hair, the exact shade of her brother’s, slowly turned as she moved her head. “Mara?” She whispered, almost as if she’d seen a ghost. Standing, she moved cautiously across the carpet. “Is it truly you?”
Mara swallowed the gasp that sprang to her lips upon seeing Lyra’s malformed face. “Yes.”
Her former mistress instantly burst into tears as she enveloped Mara in a hug. “It’s so good to see you again. I’ve missed you dearly. You always were the sister I could never manage to acquire with Margaret.”
With a small smile, Mara said, “She could be rather difficult.”
“She is too much like our mother, I’m afraid.” Lyra winced. “Come, sit.”
The countess led Mara over to a cushioned settee and then turned for the windows. “Let me open some curtains. I need more light to make sure my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me and I find you’re just an apparition.”
As the window dressings were cast aside, the early sunlight flooded the room. Lyra blew out the candle on the desk and came back to sit beside Mara. Taking her hands in her own pale grasp, she spoke in hushed tones. “I’ve appreciated the correspondence over the years, although I don’t know why I couldn’t have paid you at least one visit, even at the shop.”
“You know it was too risky,” Mara whispered back. “I couldn’t chance that Roarke would discover the truth. Or that your mother would learn of it.”
