The woman, who looked to be a no-nonsense type of matriarch, blushed like a schoolgirl. Marietta tapped a foot in general annoyance at her gender.
Mrs. Rosaire gave her a once-over and circled her, looking at her serviceable shoes, closely inspecting her face.
“She’s not a bad one. Not too noticeable. Should be an asset.”
“That’s what I thought as well. A plain face that can be enhanced when needed or go unnoticed,” Noble said, his mouth sleek and satisfied as he smirked at her, deliberately provoking her. Her fingers itched.
“Should I send Clarisse with the usual garments?” Mrs. Rosaire asked.
“Yes, that would be helpful, thank you,” he said.
Mrs. Rosaire squinted at her. “She’s a bit tall.”
“Shall I give you a look at my teeth too?” Marietta bared her fangs.
“And she has a temper.” Mrs. Rosaire frowned disapprovingly. “Don’t you give Mr. Noble any of your lip, missy. You have no idea what he’s done for—”
“Thank you, Mrs. Rosaire. If you could speak with Clarisse, I’d appreciate it.” He picked up the boxes from the step where he had deposited them. “Give my regards to Mr. Rosaire.”
Mrs. Rosaire patted him on the forearm. “I will, dearie. See you soon.” She shot Marietta a warning glare and walked through the front door, shutting it behind her.
The sound echoed in the empty foyer. There were no pot stands or tables, no racks or rugs. Just her boxes, her case, and the two of them.
“Garments? What was she talking about? Who is Clarisse?”
Noble stepped on the first stair. “Clarisse is a seamstress. She will fit you with several outfits. For what we need to do, we can hardly have you walking around in that.” He looked pointedly at her dress. “Come.”
She maneuvered with her box up the stairs—bare as well—to a sparsely finished room on the first floor. There appeared to be two others farther down.
“This is your room. Mine is down the hall. I’m sure you can find whatever you need.” He put the boxes down. “The kitchen is fully stocked. If you need help dressing in the morning, make sure to be up between eight and nine, as Mrs. Rosaire will check in at that time each day to see if you need assistance. Otherwise, I’ll be obliged to help you.” A rakish smile crossed his face. “Somehow I expect you will be up at eight.”
“And that is the only time there will be anyone else around?”
“There are no servants, so you are on your own in the morning. I don’t have servants here for the simple reason that the fewer people who know what we are doing, the better. Servants are an invaluable source of information for other people. Something I remember when it comes to my own.” He gave her another pointed glance.
“And Mrs. Rosaire?”
“Is not a servant.”
“But how do you know she’s trustworthy?”
“Because I do. Good night. Oh, and eat some of the stew downstairs before you wither away.”
And with that, Gabriel Noble walked through the door, leaving her with three boxes and a case full of her items in a cold, nearly empty, foreign room. The click of a door closing down the hall echoed in the bare hallway.
Marietta sank onto the bed. It was soft, but the down was little comfort. It was just a nicer version of a lodging house. A rented room. Their dire straits had been leaning in that direction for a while. She had been dreading it, and now it was upon her.
Her stomach growled. Her pride rebelled. She didn’t want to go downstairs to the kitchen. He would hear her. He’d be smug.
Her stomach growled again. She’d give it ten minutes. Maybe he would be asleep and she could salvage some pride. In ten minutes and one second, though, pride would be damned.
Her eyes focused on the first box and she opened it. Trinkets and letters, a locket and some pressed flowers.
Her finger grazed the hope medallion she’d made as a little girl. Wishing for a brave and handsome man to come along and solve her troubles. Troubles which then had consisted of sneaking out to the pond and being chastened for skinned hands and muddied hems. Her troubles had turned so much worse when she hadn’t been looking. And she no longer could count on some nameless, faceless man to come charging in to save her. She was going to have to save herself.
Her marital prospects had gone the way of their country house. Gone forever. But it would do her little good to worry about that now. She would survive.
She ran a finger over a letter from Kenny. One written his first year at Eton. She pulled the letter against her chest and closed her eyes. She could do this. She would save Kenny.
