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“Why did they not stay there? You did tell me you hailed from the city of York.”

“I was raised in York, yes. My father is a second son,” Isla said. It was true, even if it meant nothing in the modern world. “It was not his place to inherit my grandfather’s property.”

Lady Whitely sniffed. “So he became a merchant of some sort, I imagine.”

“He is a much-sought-after teacher.” That was also true. Lady Whitely didn’t need to know that his popularity was manifest in his classes at secondary school consistently filling up first rather than in a steady stream of nobles wanting him to tutor their sons.

“Good heavens!” Lady Whitely’s exclamation was followed by a murmur of surprise that circled the entire table.

From her position near Lord Monteagle, Martha shot her a worried look, and as the small army of servants arrived to exchange the empty platters on the table for the ones containing the meal’s next course, Isla realized that in a few short minutes, she had gone from being almost invisible to being the center of attention.

“Blast the woman!” Simon’s frustrated whisper told her that he’d come to the same conclusion. “If she keeps up her infernal prying, I shall come up with another way of facilitating your escape.”

“Does your father consider himself an expert in any particular subjects?” the Duke of Tunstow asked.

“The sciences, Your Grace.”

“By Jove, in my youth, I would have benefited greatly from a tutor with that expertise.”

Under the circumstances, it was a generous thing to say, but Isla would have much preferred to end the discussion. In fact, she had to end the discussion. If she was going to leave with the servants, it would have to happen in the next minute or two.

“Forgive me,” Simon whispered. “I can think of no other way.”

Isla darted him a puzzled glance, but a servant standing between their stools blocked her view of his face. The maid was raising the pitcher in her hand, but before she could pour more mead into Simon’s empty goblet, he shifted, bumping her arm. Giving a startled cry, the maid staggered back, her grip on the pitcher slipping. Reddish-brown mead spurted upward, landing on Isla’s shoulder and running down her sleeve. The women at the table gave a cumulative gasp.

Lord Monteagle rose to his feet. “What is the meaning of this careless behavior?”

“Forgive me, miss, m’ lord.” The maid turned her stricken face from one to the other. “I didn’t mean t’ do it. The jug. It just slipped out o’ me ’ands.”

“I must take the blame, my lord,” Simon said, speaking out quickly to absolve the maid of responsibility. “Your servant deserves no censure. She could not have anticipated my sudden movement.”

“It is quite all right.” Isla stood. Simon had orchestrated the spill as a means of getting her out of here, and she meant to seize it. “There was no harm done.”

“But your beautiful bodice is ruined,” Lady Monteagle moaned.

“Not at all.” Isla moved away from the table. “If—” She paused to face the quivering maid. “What is your name?”

“A-Agnes, miss.”

“If Agnes would be so good as to take me somewhere where I might make use of some water,” Isla continued, “I shall simply mop off the worst of it and then return.”

“Yes, of course,” Lord Monteagle said, the relief in his voice suggesting that he was more than happy to accommodate her proposal.

Interpreting her master’s agreement as her cue to leave, the perceptive maid bobbed a hurried curtsy, and with the empty pitcher in her hand, she turned toward the door. “This way, if you please, miss.”

Needing no second bidding, Isla hurried after her.

Chapter 15

Isla followed the maid down a narrow hall, her thoughts racing. They were moving away from the front of the house, but maybe that was for the best. If she were to be seen leaving through the front door, it might raise questions she was unwilling to answer. Surely there would be a back door associated with the kitchen or the servants’ quarters.

They passed three or four closed doors before the smell of roasting meat and baking apples signaled that they’d reached the kitchen. An older woman stood in front of an enormous fireplace. A cauldron-like pot hung over the flames, and as Isla entered, the woman drew a peeled apple out of the pot with a long-handled ladle and set the fruit on a platter beside a dozen others. A younger servant girl then proceeded to pour some kind of syrup over them.

“This way, miss.”

Unaware that she’d slowed her steps to watch, Isla turned to see Agnes standing at the entrance of another smaller room.

“This ’ere’s the scourin’ ’ouse,” she said.