“Where are those tarts?” Cook’s voice bellowed, startling Sarah and the two girls. “Damn me. I’ll get ’em myself.” She glared a warning to the potato peelers and stomped from the kitchen to another room behind.
This would be her only chance.Keeping her eye on the two girls across the room, she held the brown bottle at her back and entered the kitchens. “Oh, the tray looks lovely.”
The potato peelers gave one another a smirk and turned their backs to her. Sarah poured half the contents in the beautiful pot and a good portion of the sugar from the servants’ bowl. The rest of the contents of the bottle went into the servants’ tea with the rest of the sugar.
She glided back to the door. “The girls will love their party,” she said softly. She was sorely tempted to rush back up the stairs to her chamber. But there was nothing left in her stomach to expel.
Sarah paused at the library doors that opened out into the gardens. She still held the bottle. She glanced around. The base of a nearby potted plant would suffice. Smoothing her damp palms down her dowdy day dress, she went through the doors.
Unease ate at Thorne. Could this day drag out any longer? Estate planner, steward, banker. So many details and never-ending tasks. Each passing hour set him to wearing down the carpets in Brock’s massive study. The sense of disquiet nagged at him like a sore tooth.
He snatched a piece of parchment from Brock’s desk and penned a short note, bawdy enough to warrant a response. It drew a small laugh from him, loosening some of the tightness in his chest.
“My last dying breath at dawn, and you’re snickering like a school lad.” Brock shook his head.
Thorne tugged the bellpull. “How much longer shall we be?” A servant Thorne didn’t recognize materialized. He thrust the note at the man. “Have someone deliver this to the Kimpton town house on Culcross.”
“Very good, sir.”
The door clicked shut. “Where’s Punkle?” Thorne asked.
“Taking care of Virginia.”
Brock’s grim tone left little room for questions, but Thorne would not be put off. “Is she conscious?”
“Barely.” Brock let out a heavy sigh, leaning back. “She has twenty-four stitches on her head. I don’t think she’s even aware that part of her head has been shaved. She suffered a broken wrist, maybe a rib. Her face is a mess. It’s a wonder she survived.”
It sickened him. “Good God. And the girls saw her like that.”
“She didn’t have stitches yet. The bastard tried to kill her.” Cold steel glazed Brock’s eyes. “And now is my opportunity to kill him.”
Sarah sat so still a bird flew within inches of her feet, pecking at the ground. True, Lady Cecilia was running about and screaming like a banshee, so perhaps the bird was looking for refuge. Its dark-brown head bobbed and jerked, pausing intermittently at the four-year-old’s infuriating shrieks. One more high-pitched squeal, and Sarah would pour the drugged tea down Cecilia’s tiny throat herself.
Lady Kimpton gathered the troops. “Lady Irene, would you care to do the honors?”
The table was set for six. Sara was glad to see Bethie, Lady Kimpton’s terrifying maid, absent. Mrs. Wells held Nathan, while Lady Kimpton and Irene arranged serving plates filled with lemon tarts and biscuits.
Sarah cleared her throat with a small cough. “Um, where is Miss Hollerfield?”
“I’m not certain. She should be down shortly.” Lady Kimpton frowned. “Liza, Lady Cecilia, come. We are ready to begin.” She turned to Lady Irene. “I don’t know what is keeping Miss Hollerfield, but we shan’t wait.”
Panic skittered over Sarah. “But…” She clenched her hands tightly in her lap and forced herself to speak calmly. “She would want to be here.”
Lady Kimpton glanced at her, her smile gentle, sympathetic. “Yes. But she has much to occupy her mind. She’ll be along when she is ready.” She turned to Irene. “Ready, dear?”
Irene rose and began pouring out the tea.
“Leave Miss Hollerfield’s cup, dear. It would be impolite to serve her cooled tea,” Lady Kimpton said.
Sarah willed herself from watching the doors for Miss Hollerfield’s arrival. Lord Maudsley had been most specific.
“Delicious,” Lady Cecilia said. “It’s sweet, just like I love.”
Lady Kimpton sipped from her cup and frowned, but refrained from commenting.It would be too impolite.Sarah heard her as clearly as if she’d spoken aloud.
Sarah dropped her eyes, picking up her own cup. What would happen if she followed the others? Could she drink enough to do herself in? If she survived, Maudsley would hunt her down and cut her up into tiny pieces and dump her in the Thames. She didn’t drink. Just pretended, then reached for a biscuit and nibbled. It tasted like dust.
Over the course of the next twenty minutes, the constant chatter migrated to utter and complete silence. Lady Cecilia’s head fell against Liza’s arm, her eyes drooping.
