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As for myself, I am settling in very well. The work here is not as grueling as I expected. Sharing responsibilities with Mrs. Clarke makes it easy, and I get plenty of rest as a result.

How goes your mission of finding and “appraising” rare objects in the wealthiest houses?

Have you run across Thorn yet? I know you’re still vexed with him for how he treated you—and you have every right to be—but I hope you won’t confront him if you do see him. It is of utmost importance that you maintain your disguise.

Love, Honor

P.S. I think I’ve finally perfected the method of applying the dye with a pair of tongs and without anyone’s assistance. I can finally see the natural color of my skin on my fingers—they are brown no more.

Caldwell Manor, A month later…

Thunder rumbled across the sky as Honoria carefully dragged the small pot of walnut dye closer to the candlelight. She yawned, picked up the sponge with a pair of tongs, and dipped it into the acrid liquid before carefully pressing it to her roots.

She had to do this every two to three weeks to cover her blond roots.

Her arms ached from holding them above her head, her eyelids drooped, and all she wanted was to collapse into bed. It was late—too late. Well past midnight. She had only a few hours before she’d need to rise again.

She removed the sponge and brushed her hair out slowly, peering at her reflection in the small mirror.

Just a few more sections and she could rinse it out, then finally rest.

She dipped the sponge again. Pressed. Brushed.

Another dip.

A yawn overtook her, making her hand tremble. A drop of dye fell onto her other hand.

Damn. The whole point of using the tongs was to avoid this. If only she’d learned to be more careful. She dropped the sponge and scrubbed at the mark, only to smear the black dye further.

Perfect. Just perfect.

Pouring a bit of water from the pitcher onto a cloth, she tried scrubbing it off. No luck.

She paused and let out a long breath. One more mishap, and she might just cry. As it was, her eyes stung—either from exhaustion or the smoke curling from the guttering candle, she didn’t know which.

“Just hold on a few more minutes,” she whispered to the candle, as she picked up the hairbrush. “You can go out once I am done.”

Boom!

A sudden crack of thunder split the air. Honoria jolted, then turned her head, concentrating on the thin, frightened wail that followed.

Honoria froze for a moment, straining her hearing. What was that? Another wail—a continuous one getting louder and louder—

“Rosie!” She cursed, the brush slipping from her fingers and clattering into the dye pot.

Oh, for heaven’s sake!

She reached for the brush before snatching her hand back. No time now. She’d have to leave the brush behind and attempt to clean it later. She leapt up, taking a step toward the door before realizing her hair was still wet with dye. She couldn’t risk staining Rosie, not to mention her bedding and the clothing.

She grabbed for a towel, fumbling as she wrapped it around her hair. In her haste, her foot caught on the edge of her discarded wrapper, and she stumbled forward, barely catching herself on the washstand. Water sloshed over the sides of the basin as she righted herself.

Blast!

Hopefully, she hadn’t sloshed the dye all over her floor. She’d have to worry about it later.

Snatching up her wrapper, she threw it over her shoulders and rushed from the room. Still tying the sash at her waist, she burst into the adjoining nursery, breathless and disheveled—only to stop dead in her tracks.

Lord Caldwell stood in the middle of the room, Rosie already in his arms.