“Me lady,” came a female voice a few moments later. “I brought you some food and drink.”
Gemma hopped off the bed and hurried to the door. “Thank you,” she said through the portal. She tried to open the door, but it was still locked.
“Please go sit on the bed, me lady. Tell me when you’re there, and I’ll open the door.”
Gemma frowned, but after a few moments’ thought, she decided to do as she was told. After all, she had no way of knowing if the housemaid was alone or if Pembroke or another servant was with her. And Gemma would have to convince this maid to trust her if she had any hope of convincing her to help her escape this madhouse.
“Very well,” she called when she was sitting on the bed again. “I’m on the bed.”
The housemaid had clearly heard her voice coming from farther away and must have been satisfied with that because the lock turned and the door opened. The maid entered with a tray of food held in front of her. Gemma thought she saw a glimpse of a footman in the corridor before the door closed. But thankfully, Pembroke wasn’t there.
“Here you are, me lady,” the maid said as she placed the tray on a sideboard to the right of the door. She turned, wiped her hands on her apron, and blinked at Gemma, who remained on the bed.
“Oof. They said ye was a real beauty, but I had no idea,” the maid admitted with a crooked smile. She was petite with blond, curly hair and a shy smile.
“Thank you,” Gemma replied. “What is your name?”
“Louisa, me lady.”
“Who did they tell you I am, Louisa?” Gemma asked, truly curious if Pembroke’s household was aware they had a duchess trapped inside.
Louisa waved her hands in front of her, palms out. “I don’t ask any questions like that, me lady. The only thing I heard was that ye was a lady, and by the looks of ye, that’s certainly true.”
Was this Pembroke’s attempt at being discreet? If so, it was bizarre.
Now that they were alone together, Gemma hopped off the bed and hurried over to Louisa. “Iama lady,” she confirmed. “A very wealthy one. And if you’ll help me leave here, I can promise you a fat purse.”
The maid began backing toward the door, waving her hands in front of her again. “Oh, no, no, no. No, me lady. I couldn’t. Me family has worked for the Pembrokes for generations. I wouldna do nothin’ ta put me job in danger.”
“But Lord Pembroke is keeping me here against my will, Louisa,” Gemma continued, trying to appeal to the woman’s sense of justice. “Please.”
“Oh, I don’t believe Lord Pembroke would do anythin’ so unbecoming of ’im,” the maid said. Her back was pushed up against the door now, and she rapped her knuckles against it twice without turning her back to Gemma.
“Then why am I locked in here?” Gemma cried as the door opened and the maid nearly flew out of it. Gemma leaped toward it, hoping to grab the knob before it closed, but she missed. And the door was quickly locked.
Grr. Next time, she would just have to be less hopeful Louisa would help her willingly. God only knew what Pembroke had told the obviously frightened servants.
Turning in a frustrated huff, Gemma glared about the room once more. There had to besomethingshe could do to escape. She just had to think. She barely spared a glance at the food on the tray. She wasn’t hungry…but…could she use the fork or knife to pry open the door?
She rushed over to the tray, only to find that the food consisted of pastry and tea without any cutlery whatsoever. Not even a spoon. Pembroke must have anticipated her thoughts. Damn him.
She walked over to one of the windows and was pulling hard at it with all of her weight when another sharp, quick rap at the door startled her again.
This time, there was barely time to turn around before the door opened and Pembroke stalked in. Gemma clutched at the window frame behind her back while Pembroke strode determinedly into the room and tossed a copy of the paper on top of the writing desk. “Here you are,” he said, smiling. “All is going precisely to plan.”
Dread slowly filled Gemma’s middle. What did that paper say? She pried her fingers off the windowsill and calmly pressed her hands together, willing them to stop sweating. Sweating never helped anything.
Swallowing, she slowly walked to the desk and looked down at the headline.
Duchess of Grovemont Seeks Divorce!
She gasped and her accusing gaze flew to Pembroke. “Who told the papers?”
“I did.” Looking smug, Pembroke grasped his lapels and rocked back and forth on his heels.
She plunked her fists on her hips. “You had no right.”
“The sooner everyone thinks you’ve left town, the better. Now.” He opened the desk drawer, pulled out a piece of vellum, and set it on top. Then he splayed his hand toward the chair in front of the desk. “Write your brother a note telling him you’re spending time with friends.”
