Page 11

The maid, neat as a pin in her tidy black and white uniform covered by a spotless, starched apron, looked on in utter fascination. More aptly, she practically salivated over his lordship, though she was careful to keep her expression bland as plaster when her mistress glanced in her direction.

Willow couldn’t help but be impressed with her acting skills. Or wary about the servant’s trustworthiness.

“Your trunk arrived hours ago, Miss Harwood.” Rank disapproval weighted each snipped word. And Mrs. Smitherman’s inquisitive expression clearly indicated she expected to be told precisely what had delayed Willow.

It was none of the busybody’s business.

“Oh, thank goodness. I’ll admit to being a trifle worried my trunk would be delayed.” She summoned a warm smile, hoping to thaw the woman’s frigid countenance. “I’m so sorry to have inconvenienced you by my tardiness.” She turned to Lord Scarborough, and he silently handed her the valise and umbrella. “Thank you for your assistance, my lord.”

That caught the woman’s attention. Her eyes flexed, and her nostrils flared with interest.

He withdrew a card from his pocket and passed it to her. “Mrs. Smitherman, allow me to apologize for the late hour as well. Through no fault of her own, Miss Harwood was detained. I insisted on seeing her to your fine establishment.” His ambivalent, vivid blue gaze flicked over her. “One never knows where or when one might encounter unpleasant riff-raff.”

Willow cut him a swift glance, having the absurd notion he wasn’t only referring to the insensate miscreants they’d left sprawled on the cobbles.

His face a blank slate, he gazed straight ahead once more. Except…there was the tiniest twitching near his left eye, and mayhap—just mayhap—the merest sardonic tilt to his lips.

Mrs. Smitherman’s cow-dung colored green-brown eyes grew round, and her sparse eyebrows wrestled with her hairline as the frostiness dissolved into sickening coyness again. “Yourlordship. How very privileged I am to have you honor my humble establishment.”

Her tone indicated she thought the lodging house the equivalent to Buckingham House. She brazenly gestured to a common room across the foyer. “I am also the proprietress of a coffee and tea room,” she gushed. “Perhaps one day soon, you might visit?”

Having a peer frequent her establishment would be a tremendous boon for business.

She batted her eyelashes. Actually, batted her stubby, almost invisible eyelashes, and it was all Willow could do to check her amused grin. The woman was old enough to be his mother, and she flirted with his lordship as if she were a green girl of seventeen.

The maid all but rolled her eyes as well and smirked behind her mistresses back.

Catching Willow’s regard, the servant’s focus dove to the floor, but a rosy hue skated up her round-as-sugar-plums cheeks.

“I can say, with absolute certainty, my lord, you’ll never enjoybetter…scones or tea cakes.” The proprietress brushed a boney hand over her almost nonexistent bosom. “I would personally service you.”

Had she…? Did she…?

Willow bit the inside of her cheek and forced an expression of blandness to her countenance. Oh, dear God.

More brazen than a bitch in heat.

“Perhaps.” Lord Scarborough’s tone plainly indicated that was as likely as angels descending from heaven for a cup of India tea and a ginger biscuit. He slid a glance to Willow, as if to say, Isn’t this woman beyond the pale? Turning an impassive, cold gaze on Mrs. Smitherman, he stared straight through her.

The bright-eyed maid turned aside, overcome with a coughing fit.

Her equine face crumpling in distaste, Mrs. Smitherman turned on the servant. “Trudy, don’t stand there, contaminating the air. You know how frail my constitution is. I shall see to it, Miss Harwood. Seek your bed at once. I expect you up at half-past four, as usual.”

After a quick bob and a smile still trembling about the corners of her mouth, Trudy bustled off.

Lowering his square chin an inch in a movement just this side of a dismissal, Lord Scarborough said, “I shall bid you good evening, and I thank you again, Miss Harwood.”

The door had no sooner clicked shut with a soft snick behind him than Mrs. Smitherman clasped her hands before her and gave Willow a flinty, self-righteous glare.

“I shan’t have promiscuous women in my rooming house, Miss Harwood. As Lord Scarborough has vouched for your character, I shall let this single occurrence pass. However, you will not be so fortunate next time. You will be shown the door.”

This woman who’d fawned all over his lordship, practically drooling on her polished floors and offering to service him, dared to admonish her? Anger welled, swift and blistering, in Willow’s middle, but she stifled her wrath. She didn’t relish trying to find other accommodations this time of night.

“I understand perfectly, Mrs. Smitherman. I assure you, nothing the least untoward will occur during my stay.”

“The door is secured at ten each evening and won’t be unlocked until seven in the morning. In the future, I suggest you remember, else you find yourself locked out.” Mrs. Smitherman reprovingly pursed her thin lips.

If Willow hadn’t paid a fortnight in advance and doubted Mrs. Smitherman would refund her deposit, she’d seek other accommodations tomorrow. Instead, she painted her most benign expression on her face and dipped her chin. “Of course.”

“Hmph.” The arrogant woman sniffed disbelievingly, her critical gaze lingering on Willow’s out-of-fashion green bonnet before sliding to her plain, faded blue, woolen coat.

Perhaps she’d failed to appear as appropriately cowed as Mrs. Smitherman required.

“What, precisely,” the proprietress snidely asked, “was Lord Scarborough thanking you for?”