Page 49

“Lady Filminster’s room is ready.”

Michaels had summoned Wesley, who was now leading her up the steep staircase of Ridley House. The thick runner beneath their feet muffled each step, though its edges were worn and fraying. Apparently, the townhouse had been operating with a reduced staff, just enough to maintain the premises and attend to her husband, who had likely not entertained in years. That meant there was currently no housekeeper in residence, and Michaels himself was overseeing the maids.

They reached a landing on the second floor, and the footman veered into a narrow corridor lit only by an aging wall sconce and the gloom beyond. Dour portraits of Ridley ancestors loomed on either side of the hall, their powdered faces and oil-darkened eyes watching Lily in eternal judgment. It was absurd, but she could not shake the feeling that their painted gazes followed her, tallying her missteps.

Wesley must have noticed her hurried gait, for he slowed his pace to match her smaller stride. She smiled up at him, grateful.

“Ridley House is much bigger than it appears from the outside.”

“I believe the darkness exaggerates the size, milady.”

“It is very dark in here. The place has not been used much, by its appearance.”

“Until now, Mr. Rid—Lord Filminster is the only one who has lived here in years. Many of the rooms have been shrouded, but Mr. Michaels directed us to open them up when we received word the baron was coming to London for the coronation.”

Lily listened with interest. Her curiosity itched with questions. Had Brendan entertained visitors? Had Lady Slight ever crossed its threshold? But she was a newcomer in the household and could hardly interrogate poor Wesley like a character from one of those gothic novels she and her cousin liked to read.

Lud. Her need to know was difficult to ignore.

“And my room?”

“Lord Filminster has been moved into the baronial bedroom, and your room connects. It had not been occupied in many years, but Mr. Michaels replaced the bedding, and we have cleaned the rooms thoroughly in anticipation of your arrival.”

They reached the end of the corridor, where a tall window let in a reluctant sliver of gray light. The glass panes were dulled with age and time, warped ever so slightly. The faded drapes framing the window bore the wear of decades, and the air was tinged faintly with dust, polish, and something older, like time itself had steeped into the walls.

The footman opened a heavy door and stepped aside for her. Lily entered cautiously, her slippers brushing against the well-worn rug that stretched across the floor. A wide stone fireplace yawned at one end of the room, flanked by windows that peered out with their cloudy stare. The drapes there were of the same ancient fabric, their folds stiff and reluctant to sway. A massive four-poster bed, carved with climbing vines and crowned with a cheerful new coverlet, drew her gaze at once. Beside the bed sat a chest, atop which lay her French dictionary and her book on military strategy.

But it was the door across the room that truly captured her attention, the connecting door to Brendan’s chambers.

“The maids have unpacked your trunks,” Wesley said, gesturing toward a tall ebony wardrobe. “And there is a dressing table and washstand over here. The bell is here, should you need anything.”

She nodded, though her eyes remained on the bed. “Wesley, is there a bed step?”

The top of the mattress rose to her waist. It looked fit for a duchess—or a circus performer.

Wesley frowned and walked over, peering beneath the bed. His features creased slowly into an expression of dismay, and he rubbed his jaw with clear regret. “I don’t believe I have ever seen one in the house, now that you mention it.”

Lily sighed and considered. “Is there a spare chair I can use while steps are ordered?”

“Of course. I shall fetch one from another room and inform Mr. Michaels of the issue.”

“That would be excellent.” She offered him a bright smile.

He disappeared and, within a few minutes returned with a sturdy armchair, which he positioned at the foot of the bed before excusing himself with a polite bow.

Exhaling heavily, she paced the room with growing familiarity. She opened the wardrobe to find her new gowns—sleek, well-fitted, and undeniably adult—hanging alongside a few of her older frocks. The latter would be donated at once. She had no intention of donning anything that made her resemble a schoolroom miss.

Her fingers drifted unconsciously to her lower lip. She could still feel the ghost of Brendan’s mouth there. That her wedding gown had kindled interest in her husband’s eyes was no small triumph. If it gave her even a slender chance of banishing Lady Slight’s memory, then she would not risk being mistaken for a child ever again.

Sophia’s abigail had taught her how to arrange her hair simply, and her cousin was already interviewing prospective lady’s maids on her behalf. If fortune smiled, she would have one within the week. She only wondered who was to attend her until then.

Climbing onto the bed using the chair, Lily flopped back against the pillows and stared up at the ceiling. Ornate plasterwork in the shape of interlacing vines twined above her. The room had once been grand but it needed life breathed back into it. She would have to speak with Brendan about restoring Ridley House. Not to mention hiring a proper housekeeper. Would he bring one from Baydon Hall?

She sighed again. There was still so much she did not know about her new life.

Brendan paced the library, uncertain what to do with himself. He had a bride upstairs. The thought still startled him, as though some stranger had married in his stead and left him with the consequences. It was something he would need to grow accustomed to.

Michaels had informed Lily earlier that there was no housekeeper currently in residence, and the revelation had mortified Brendan more than he liked to admit. He had not taken the time to assess the state of Ridley House beyond his own needs. It had simply not occurred to him. And now, was there even a maid assigned to attend her?