A Rogue by Any Other Name
Page 47

“You’re very young to be a housekeeper.”
Mrs. Worth’s gaze grew guarded. “I was very lucky that Lord Bourne found room for me here.”
A dozen questions flashed through Penelope’s mind, and it took all her energy to hold herself back from asking them—from uncovering the truth about this beautiful woman and how she had come to live with Michael.
But now was not the time, no matter how curious she was.
Instead, she reached up and unpinned her hat, moving to a nearby dressing table to set it down. Turning back, she dismissed the housekeeper. “My trunks and supper sound lovely. And a bath, please.”
“As you wish, my lady.” Mrs. Worth was gone instantly, leaving Penelope alone.
Taking a deep breath, Penelope turned in a slow circle, considering the room. It was beautiful—lushly appointed with silks on the walls and an enormous rug that had to have come from the East. The art was tasteful and the furniture perfectly wrought. There was a fire in the hearth, but the chill and the lingering smell of smoke on the air proved that the house had been unprepared for her arrival.
She crossed to the washbasin, set by a window that overlooked a wide, extravagant garden, poured water into the bowl, and set her hands to the white porcelain, watching as the water distorted their color and shape, giving them the appearance of being broken and unhinged. She took a deep breath, focusing on the place where the cool liquid gave way to the air of the room.
When the door opened, Penelope leapt back from the basin, nearly toppling the stand and splattering water on herself and the carpet. She turned to face a young girl—no older than thirteen or fourteen—who entered with a quick curtsy. “I’ve come to set the fire, milady.”
Penelope watched as the girl crouched low with a tinderbox, and a vision flashed of Michael, only days earlier, in the same position at Falconwell. The kindling caught fire, and Penelope’s cheeks heated as she remembered all that came that evening . . . and the morning after. The memory brought with it a pang of regret.
Regret that he was not there.
The girl stood, facing Penelope with her head dropped low. “Is there anything else you need?”
Curiosity flared again. “What is your name?”
The girl’s head snapped up. “My—my name?”
Penelope tried for a comforting smile. “If you care to share it.”
“Alice.”
“How old are you, Alice?”
She dipped a half curtsy again. “Fourteen, milady.”
“And how long have you worked here?”
“At Hell House, you mean?”
Penelope’s eyes went wide. “Hell House?”
Dear Lord.
“Yes’m.” The little maid rushed to answer, as though it were a perfectly reasonable name for a house. “Three years. My brother and me needed jobs after our parents . . .” She trailed off, but Penelope had no difficulty filling in the rest.
“Your brother works here as well?”
“Yes’m. He’s a footman.”
Which explained the unexpected youth of the footmen.
Alice looked extraordinarily nervous. “Is there anything else you’ll be needing from me?”
Penelope shook her head. “Not tonight, Alice.”
“Thank you, mum.” She turned for the door and had almost reached freedom when Penelope called her back.
“Oh, there is one thing.” The girl turned back, wide-eyed and waiting. “Could you tell me where the master’s chamber is?”
“You mean, Bourne’s rooms?”
There it was again. Bourne.
“Yes.”
“Most of us use the next door down the hallway, but you’ve a door direct,” Alice said, pointing at a door at the far end of the room, nearly tucked away behind the dressing screen.
A door direct.
Penelope’s heart began to beat a bit faster. “I see.”
Of course she’d have a direct passage to her husband’s rooms.
He was, after all, her husband.
Perhaps he’d use it.
Something shimmered through her, something that she could not identify. Fear, possibly.
Excitement.
Adventure.
“I’m certain he won’t mind you being in here, milady. He does not often sleep here.”
Penelope felt heat wash over her cheeks again. “I see,” she repeated. He slept somewhere else. With someone else.
“Good night, m’lady.”
“Good night, Alice.”
The girl was gone then, and Penelope stood staring at that door, unbearably curious about what was behind it. The curiosity remained as her trunks arrived, followed by her supper—a simple, sumptuous meal of fresh bread and cheese, warm ham, and lovely, rich chutney. It gnawed at her while she ate, and as her newly arrived maid unpacked her most vital pieces of clothing, and while the boys who had brought her trunks filled her bath, and while she bathed, and dried, and dressed, and tried desperately to write a letter to her cousin Catherine.
When the clock struck midnight, and she realized that her wedding day—and wedding night—had come and gone, the curiosity about what was behind that door turned into disappointment.
And then irritation. Her gaze was drawn to the adjoining door once more. She eyed the mahogany, anger and not a little bit of embarrassment coursing through her. And in that split second, she made her decision.
She went to the door and yanked it open, revealing a great, yawning darkness.
The servants knew he did not plan to return that night, or they would have kept a fire lit for him. She was the only one who had expected him to return. The only one who thought, perhaps, their wedding night might be something . . . more.