“But the room!”
“I’ll clean it. Right now. Before anyone else sees.” Eliza turned to the governess with a pitying smile. “Take the boys to their rooms and get them cleaned up. Quickly.”
“Ellie, I can’t let you do this. I cannot have you risk your own position?—”
“Yes, you can. And you will.” Eliza looked at Arthur and Philip. “And these two are going to keep this a secret as well. Aren’t you?”
Both boys nodded vigorously.
“We promise,” Arthur whispered.
“We won’t tell anyone,” Philip added. “We swear it, Miss Ellie.”
“We won’t be so bad again,” Arthur added.
“I am unsure I believe that, but I do appreciate the sentiment, boys.” Miss Winslow’s eyes shone with gratitude. “Ellie, thank you.”
“Go,” Eliza said. “Now. Before Mrs. Dawson comes looking!”
“Perish the thought!” Miss Winslow cried as she ushered the boys out of the room.
Eliza waited until their footsteps faded, then surveyed the damage. She had perhaps twenty minutes before someone noticed she’d been gone too long.
I have to act fast!
She worked quickly, gathering cloths and a broom from the nearby supply closet. She started with the bed, carefully brushing the flour into a pile, then moved to the dresser, wiping down every surface carefully.
The Turkish rug was by far the worst. Flour had settled deep into the fibers. Eliza knelt and began beating it with the flat of her hand, sending up clouds of white dust as she sneezed.
She shifted her weight, bracing herself against the wall to take a deep breath. Suddenly, her hand pressed against something that gave way.
A soft click echoed through the room. Eliza froze. A section of the wall, a panel she’d assumed was solid, had shifted inward, revealing a narrow gap.
A hidden door?
Her heart hammering, Eliza glanced toward the bedroom door. Still closed. No footsteps in the corridor.
I should leave it alone. Close it. Pretend I have never seen it.
But in the end, curiosity won out. She pushed the panel fully open and peered inside.
It was a small closet. No other maid cleaning inside, thankfully. But what was inside made her breath catch.
Silk ribbons, neatly folded in shades of crimson and midnight blue. Blindfolds made of soft black velvet. Venetian masks, ornate and beautiful, their surfaces gleaming in the dim light. Fluffy ostrich feathers, arranged in an ornate crystal vase. Small glass bottles filled with rich oils that caught the light like amber.
Eliza’s face burned.
She’d read about things like this. Once. In a novel calledThe Highland HolidayAbigail had smuggled into her room, giggling and blushing. The book hadn’t been explicit, but it had hinted at pleasures that existed beyond the bounds of propriety. At games played in the dark by people who sought something more than duty.
This is… This is… the Duke of Kirkhammer’s private collection.
Eliza’s pulse raced as her blood ran hot. She reached out, her fingers hovering over one of the silk ribbons, then snatched her hand back.
No. No. No.
She shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t have seen this.
She carefully closed the panel, making sure it clicked back into place just as she’d found it. Then she returned to cleaning with renewed urgency, her mind spinning.
