Penelope shook her head. “My maid cannot be far behind.”
Relief flashed across the other woman’s face, and she dipped her head in acquiescence. Penelope watched her carefully, fascinated by this beautiful creature who seemed to be both competent servant and not servant at all.
“How long have you been here?”
Mrs. Worth’s head snapped up, her eyes finding Penelope instantly. “With Bou—” She stopped, catching herself. “With Lord Bourne?” Penelope nodded. “Two years.”
“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.”