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  “And so ends the sad tale,” the housekeeper concluded. With that cryptic utterance she fell silent, her unnerving stare once again riveted on Sophie’s face.

  Again Sophie got the unsettling feeling that she read her thoughts, and it was all she could do not to fidget. Just when she was certain she could bear the tension no longer, the housekeeper blinked and barked, “Are you willing to work, and work hard, girl?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes!” she exclaimed with a surge of hope. “And do you promise to follow all my directives?” “You have only to ask for me to comply.”

  The housekeeper rubbed her chin as if considering her response, then smiled. “Welcome to Hawksbury Manor, Sophie Barton.”

  Chapter 8

  It took only a day of drudgery for Sophie’s feelings of gratitude for Terry to wane.

  After a full week, one in which each day was more demeaning than the last, she grimly concluded that their meeting wasn’t her prayed-for deliverance, but God’s vengeance for every single sin she’d committed in her seventeen years of life.

  Casting the heavens — all right, so it was the beamed kitchen ceiling — a look of tragic remorse, she trudged to the servants stairs and dragged herself up the two flights to the first floor.

  For a being touted as kind and merciful, He certainly had a wicked talent for punishment, for what could be crueler or cause greater suffering for an Incomparable than to tear her from the heaven of the Haute Ton and cast her into the hell of servitude? And who, but one with a most spiteful bent of mind, would add degradation to hardship by landing that poor girl in the lowliest of low positions in the hierarchy of servitude?

  More angered than humbled by her punishment, Sophie stepped up onto the first-floor landing and stopped before the concealed servants door. Sighing as much from outrage as at the ache in her arm, she set down her heavy bucket and flexed her overtaxed elbow.

  Never in her life had she imagined there to be a hierarchy among the servants. Why, the very notion of such a thing was beyond absurd. Any fool knew that a servant was a servant, and thus all equal in their inferiority. That the servants at Hawksbury chose to believe otherwise was vexing to the extreme … almost as vexing as the manner in which they ordered their preposterous society.

  Unlike the ton, whose members were justly ranked according to breeding, appearance, and wealth, one’s status downstairs was determined by nothing more discerning than position. Hence, the housekeeper and Dickson, the majordomo, reigned as king and queen; the valet and lady’s maid as duke and duchess; and so on down the ranks until you reached a level commiserate in the ton to the by-blow of an Impure: the maid-of-all-works. Her, Sophia Barrington, granddaughter of an earl and the Toast of the ton.

  She sniffed at the gross injustice of the system. Any servant with half a wit could see that she was his superior, and thus above him and his silly order. It was galling beyond tolerance how the Hawksbury staff chose to ignore her obvious preeminence.

  But tolerate it I must, at least for a month, she reminded herself, shifting her light supply basket from her untaxed left arm to her overtaxed right one. After opening the hidden panel before her, she hoisted the bucket with her left hand and stepped into the dimly lit corridor.

  Down the long hallway she plodded, past plants and paintings, sculptures and chairs. When she rounded the West wing corner, she let her nose guide her to her final destination: a dog-fouled carpet near the marchioness’s chamber door. As she stopped before it, grimacing at the stench, she found herself wishing that Fancy were there so she could dump it over her head. The spiteful cat was responsible for this mess, and nothing she could say or do would ever convince her likewise.

  Snorting her contempt for both the woman and her actions, Sophie kneeled beside the excrement to prepare for her vile task.

  No one with an ounce of wits could possibly believe Fancy’s tale of the gardener’s terrier wandering into the house, not if they considered the lateness of the hour and the fact that all the doors, save the Dickson-guarded front one, were routinely locked at ten. No. Someone had deliberately set the animal loose. Someone who disliked Sophie and knew that the disagreeable chore of cleaning up after him would fall to her.

  That person had to be Fancy. No one else bore her such enmity. Besides, this wasn’t the first bit of nastiness she’d inflicted on her. Indeed, so often did she sabotage Sophie’s labors, then finger her as the culprit of the resulting disaster, that she was beginning to think that the shrew spent every waking hour plotting to make her life miserable.

  Sighing her self-pity, Sophie pulled a rumpled sheet of newspaper from the basket and scooped up the bulk of the mess. Ah, well. She only had to endure the jade for three more weeks, a month, at the longest. What were a few more weeks when she’d already endured so much?

  Sighing again, she set aside the soiled newspaper, then dug a worn scrub brush, a cracked ball of Ox Gall soap, and a clean rag from the basket. Assuming the wretched mien of a condemned martyr, she wet the soap and rubbed it into the remaining dung. As she did so, she dolefully added the terrier accident to the list of trials she’d suffered since coming to Hawksbury. And, oh! What a list it was, recording the most unimaginable sorts of atrocities.

  Take her sleeping arrangements, for example. Had she even suspected that she’d have to share a bed, and a lumpy one at that, she’d have dismissed this maid business the instant it entered her mind … especially if she’d known that her bedmate would be a laundry maid named Pansy.

  Talk about a trial! The creature was a most tiresome chatterbox. From the moment their heads hit their pillows, it was prattle, rattle, natter all night long, and always on the subject of some farm laborer the chit loved. How she could think her interested in a romance between nobodies, she didn’t know. All she knew was that she hadn’t had more than four hours of sleep on any given night since coming to Hawksbury.

  Shaking her head, Sophie picked up her brush and dipped it into the bucket of water. Of course, in all fairness, she couldn’t lay the entire blame for her sleeplessness at Pansy’s door. Were she allowed to sleep until a decent hour, say, eleven or twelve, Miss Tittle-Tattle’s gab would be more an annoyance than a trial. Unfortunately, such was not the case, which was a trial unto itself.

  As she scrubbed the soaped area, diligently working it into a froth, she miserably contemplated the hour at which she must rise. Five o’clock. She must rise at five. Why, it was inhumane, that’s what it was; inhumane to require a person to wake so ungodly early. Well, it was inhumane if the person in question was of quality. It was quite all right to expect those of the lower classes to rise before dawn. Such hardship was their lot in life, which they must accept without question or complaint.

  She, on the other hand, was born to live a privileged life, thus giving her the right to protest every discomfort. And protest she would, the moment her uncle rescued her.

  Sophie smiled at the thought of that happy day. How gratifying it would be to finally voice her grievances, what a relief to vent her outrage at having suffered them. Most pleasurable of all would be shedding her servants rags.

  Pausing from her scrubbing, she glanced down at her work clothes, shuddering at the sight of them. Because she, as maid-of-all-work, had little or no contact with the family, her attire was selected more for thrift than appearance. Therefore, instead of getting one of the crisp, blue-sprigged muslin gowns the house and chambermaids wore, she was issued a limp, linsey-woolsey skirt and an old-fashioned jacket bodice made of what felt like burlap.

  And, oh! That bodice was awful. Not only was it inexpertly dyed a blotchy mustard yellow, it had a waist, a real one that defined her figure in a most demode manner. Paired with the faded brown-and-green-print skirt, she looked as if she’d tumbled from a thirty-year-old rag barrel. And don’t even get her started on her cap!

  Groaning aloud at the frightfulness of her attire, Sophie resumed scrubbing. As wonderful as it would be to voice, vent, and shed, the best part of her uncle’s return would
be her release from slavery. Between the scrubbing, dusting, polishing, fetching, and whatever other odious chore anyone thought to fling her way, the business of being a maid was drudgery of the worst kind. One had only to look at her hands to see that it was so.

  Giving the carpet a final scrub, she tossed her brush into the bucket and picked up her rag. As she blotted the moisture from the now clean, but wet carpet, she grimly eyed her rough red hands. With luck and at least a month of nights spent sleeping in cosmetic gloves, she might be able to restore them to their former glory.

  Maybe. She dropped the rag into her basket and extracted a dry brush. Her strokes long and even, she swept the carpet, carefully smoothing its ruffled nap. That finishing touch done, she straightened up and examined her work.

  Unlike the dining room carpet she’d attempted to clean on Thursday, this time she hadn’t made the dye bleed. Or the wool pill. Or the edges ravel. Why, if her eyes didn’t deceive her, she’d even managed to remove the entire stain.

  Leaning down, she sniffed the freshly cleaned area, ammonia and clove … Ox Gall soap. M-m-m. Not so much as a lingering trace of dog odor. Perfect.

  Curiously pleased by her accomplishment, she straightened back up and repacked her basket. With the basket and bucket in one hand, and the paper full of droppings gingerly clasped between two fingers of the other, she rose. As she did so, she heard the tread of heavy footsteps ascending the nearby family staircase.

  Oh, botheration! It had to be Lord Beresford coming to bid his ailing wife good night. Mrs. Pixton had warned her that he might do so, admonishing her to be quick about her task so as not to offend him with the sight of her person.

  Fearful of receiving yet another scolding, she backed toward the unlit far wall. As she slipped into the shadows, a dark form came into view.

  From her brief glimpses of his lordship, Sophie knew him to be tall and strongly built. But this man! Why, he was huge. A regular giant, rather like —

  Lyndhurst. Her heart missed a beat. Dear heavens. Could it indeed be the Earl of Beastliness?

  No. Of course not. Whatever would he be doing here? She must be daft from sleeplessness to even conceive such a notion. Nonetheless, she kept a wary eye on the figure as she stepped deeper into the shadows.

  H-m-m. How very odd. He wore his greatcoat and hat. However had he gotten past Dickson without relinquishing them? From the bits and scraps she’d overheard in the kitchen, he took the utmost pride in the immediacy with which he appropriated visitors’ outdoor garments. It was thinking of the majordomo that prompted her to make another, more disturbing, observation: The man was unescorted.

  A niggling sense of disquiet pricked her mind. Whatever was he doing stalking about the family wing at this hour of the night? Even if Dickson was for some reason away from his post, the gentleman should know better than to run tame in someone else’s house …

  Unless he was no gentleman. Her disquiet exploded into a full-blown case of alarm. Oh, heavens! What if he was the maniacal, murderous fiend Lydia’s brother had mentioned? The one who broke into country houses and butchered everyone in their beds?

  A scream welled up in her throat. It was him. It had to be. Who else would be lurking about the halls at this hour of the night, and in his coat to boot?

  As Sophie stood poised to scream, the man bowed his head and removed his tall hat. Candlelight, soft and flickering, washed over his hair. Her scream escaped as a squeak. His hair was a deep, rich lustrous brown burnished with gleaming copper highlights —

  Like Lyndhurst’s.

  Tucking his hat beneath his arm, he reached up and adjusted his neck cloth, lifting his face as he did so —

  His scarred face.

  Thump! Bang! Slosh! The bucket and basket slipped from her hand, loudly spattering their contents across the parquet floor.

  Lyndhurst’s head snapped in her direction.

  In the next instant the marchioness’s chamber door burst open and out stalked the marquess. “What in Hades is that noise?” he bellowed. “Don’t you cabbage-heads know that your mistress — ” He stopped abruptly at the sight of Lyndhurst.

  Lyndhurst nodded. “Father.”

  “Colin! My dearest boy!” Crowing his delight, the marquess dashed the short distance to Lyndhurst and swept him into a vigorous embrace. “Ah, Colin. Can’t tell you how glad I am to see you. Your mother’s been in a stew wondering when you’d arrive.”

  Colin? Sophie frowned as the marquess gave Lyndhurst another hug. But his name was Nicholas, not — She almost groaned aloud. But of course. Colin was a nickname for Nicholas. Lyndhurst must be the “young Colin” to whom Mrs. Pixton had referred. Expecting “young Colin” to break from his father and brand her as the felon she was, Sophie shrank against the shadowy wall.

  To her bewilderment his first utterance wasn’t one of denouncement, but a polite inquiry. “How is Mother this evening?”

  Mystified, she hazarded a glance at his face. He gazed at his father, ignoring her as if she were any other servant. Could it be that he hadn’t recognized her after all? As she pondered that heartening notion, the marquess chuckled and released him.

  Draping his arm around his son’s shoulders, he led him toward the marchioness’s room, replying, “If you ask her, she shall no doubt profess to be dying.” He chuckled again. “I, however, doubt her claim. She was in the best of health until you wrote her of the unfortunate Barrington affair. Two hours after reading your letter she lay upon her bed, moaning some nonsense about dying without holding your children. You know how she desires grandchildren.”

  Lyndhurst groaned. “After years of suffering her matchmaking and being needled about ‘doing my family duty,’ how could I not know? She’s relentless in her efforts to get me buckled.”

  “Well, I doubt she shall let up until she’s successful,” the marquess replied, coming to a stop before his wife’s door. “Indeed, I suspect that the Barrington business has driven her to hatch a desperate new matchmaking scheme.”

  “What!” Lyndhurst more spat than uttered the word.

  His father nodded. “Afraid so. How else can you explain the way she fell ill like she did?”

  “And why else would she summon me, and only me, to her bedside,” Lyndhurst moaned. “If she were truly dying, she’d want Quent by her side as well. How could I have been such a cods-head? I should have thought of that and guessed her illness to be the bait in another of her matrimonial traps.”

  The marquess patted his arm. “Well, she’s caught you, and there’s nothing to do for it now but find out what, or more precisely, for whom she’s trapped you.” Grasping the doorknob, he inquired, “Shall we?” At Lyndhurst’s nod he opened the door and disappeared inside.

  Lyndhurst, however, remained poised outside. After a beat he slowly turned his head.

  Sophie gasped and shrank into the shadows, praying that he hadn’t and wouldn’t recognize her. The instant she saw his face, she knew that her prayers had again gone unanswered.

  He looked wrathful, bitterly so.

  She shrank back a fraction more, shaking her head over and over again, mutely begging for the mercy she knew he wouldn’t grant.

  He tipped his head to the side, as if considering her plea, then smiled. Nodding once he stalked into his mother’s room, closing the door behind him.

  Sophie shivered, chilled by the ominous message behind his response.

  His smile was a threat, his nod a promise.

  Bloody hell! What was she doing here?

  Finger by clenching finger, Nicholas pried his hand from the doorknob, his composure shattered by his encounter with Sophie. He’d thought to find peace at Hawksbury, to escape the prying eyes of the ton and lick his wounds in private. Instead he’d found her, the false-hearted chit who had crushed his confidence and instilled a crippling sense of inadequacy; the same shallow baggage responsible for reawakening his self-consciousness about his scar.

  Hating his new vulnerability and her even more for provoking it
, he dropped his hand to his side, balling it into a fist in his tension. Well, he’d be damned if he’d allow her to continue hiding there, which was undoubtedly what she did, hide from her creditors. No. He intended to corner her the instant he finished speaking with his mother, and find out exactly how she’d wormed her way into service there. Then he’d … he’d … well, then he’d decide upon a fitting manner in which to deal with her.

  A bitter smile curled his lips at that thought of dealing with her. The most fitting manner of doing so would be to make her pay for her treachery, something that would be ridiculously easy given her current situation. Indeed, by styling herself as a maid and taking refuge in service there, she’d unwittingly given him the upper hand.

  His smile broadened into an exceedingly wicked grin as he considered the possibilities of that hand. Oh, but this was rich! By the mere act of accepting a position at Hawksbury, she had agreed to subjugate herself to the Somerville family — the entire family. That meant that as the Somerville son and heir, he had every right to command her as he pleased. And as their servant, she had no choice but to obey. Not if she wished to preserve her position …

  And his silence. Or so he’d allow her to believe. He almost laughed aloud in his sardonic glee. Had the goosecap deigned to listen to his views on debtors and their imprisonment, she’d know that he’d never turn her over to her creditors, not even if she defied him at every turn. Since, however, she’d ignored —

  “Colin? Is something amiss with the door?”

  Nicholas started, his father’s voice jerking him from his vengeful trance. “What? No. Sorry.” Blinking twice to fully regain his sense of time and place, he turned, staring at his surroundings as if seeing them for the first time.

  Salmon, sienna, and blue-patterned wallpaper graced the walls, hues that were echoed in the thick Axminster carpet at his feet. To his right arched a richly sculpted fireplace next to two tapestry chairs and a tambour, upon which was stretched a needlework masterpiece in progress. Against the far wall, set beneath a jewellike expanse of mullion windows, was his mother’s dainty tulipwood desk, cluttered, as usual, with favored books and lovingly preserved letters.