The children run out of the room, making a beeline straight for their bedrooms, and I curtsy at both Rowan and Bellamy and leave the room, only to stop when I hear Rowan speaking to Bellamy now that he thinks I’m gone.
“I don’t know about spending all this time with Marcella. I’m not sure it’s safe. We know nothing about her.”
“Rowan, she’s been living and working here for over four months, and there hasn’t been an issue with her. Emily promoted her because she’s the best housekeeper, and thus far, I haven’t seen any reason to argue that. She’s sweet and kind. Yes, she’s very reserved and formal, but I can’t blame her for that. It’s her job to be that way.”
“There are security concerns?—”
“What security concerns? Do you know of a threat?”
He blusters out a heavy sigh. “Not specifically, no.”
“You, me, and Sebastian looked over her background check. Over her family, who we also looked up, and they checked out without so much as a speeding ticket. She’s not Charlotte. She’s not trying to ingrain herself in our family or slide in between Sebastian and me.”
“I know.”
“Then what is this? Is it because you’re attracted to her?”
He laughs mirthlessly. “No. It’s not because of that, though that certainly doesn’t help anything.”
“What’s the problem with that? I honestly don’t get it. Is it because she’s a housekeeper?”
He makes a dismissive scoff. “No. I don’t care about that, just as Sebastian didn’t care that you were a schoolteacher and a nanny.”
“Then what is it?”
“Just be careful with her. That’s all I’m asking.”
She makes a noise, and I hear her move. “I will be.”
What on earth changed in the last twenty-four hours for him to say that now? Is it because of what happened in his room? How exactly does that make me a security risk and a threat to Bellamy and the children? I mean, I guess I technically am, but I don’t see how he could know that from one sexual encounter today.
I bet this is how he is with all of his lovers. Plays until he’s satisfied and finds or conjures reasons to get rid of them. What an asshole.
Before they can leave the room to check on the children, I slink away, unease prickling at my skin and leaving me unsettled. I don’t know how much longer I can stay here without everything falling apart around me.
20
ROWAN
It’s been bothering me all day. Every waking moment, it’s all I’ve thought about. The questions continue to mount, each with no logical answer I can find. Her palace persona doesn’t lend itself to sneaking into a royal ball in disguise. The accent adjustment and ability to alter facial recognition are jarring and suggest she’s a professional of some sort.
She doesn’t seem violent, but again, neither did Charlotte, and that’s what I keep coming back to. How easily we were duped and how dangerous that situation turned out to be. I might also be losing it. There’s that possibility too.
I haven’t gone to Sebastian about this. I haven’t gone to Javier, who comes home tomorrow with Emily.
The truth is, I have nothing concrete to go on other than my gut instinct. I need something to prove it. Something real.
Dinner service for the staff is when I decide to sneak downstairs to the servants’ quarters. It’s quiet, the dim hall illuminated by a series of overhead lights that glow over each door I pass.
I had to do some digging, but Marcella’s room is thelast on the right—of course, because why should this be easy? Glancing around to ensure I’m alone, I turn the knob and find it unlocked, which surprises me. I assumed I’d be shut out before I could even get in.
Her room is small, consisting of a double bed, a nightstand, a dresser, a chair, and a closet. The window up by the ceiling is as small as the room and provides minimal daylight, but it doesn’t matter because, to my surprise, the lights are already on.
I shut the door behind me and look around, wondering where I should start. I don’t exactly make it a habit of sleuthing around people’s bedrooms. Everything is impeccably neat. The bed is made without even the slightest wrinkle in the blanket, and there’s not a scrap of paper or an article of clothing on the floor. I open the closet and find rows of shirts and pants, most dark-colored like she’s been wearing, and two new gray uniforms that have the tags still on them.
On the floor is a line of shoes—an old pair of sneakers and the black nondescript work shoes she tends to wear. Nothing is nice. Nothing is extravagant. So unlike the gown she wore that night and the diamond earrings that I know to be real since I had it appraised.
The closet door shuts with a tiny squeak that makes me wince, but I continue, going to the dresser next. It’s more of the same. Plain, brandless cotton underwear, matching bras, some T-shirts, shorts, socks, and not a lot else.
