Chapter 34
Iris had quickly adapted to the life of a chambermaid in the castle. In fact, from the hour of her arrival she had found so many flaws in her fellow servants’ efficiency that she had no time to worry whether a radical was standing in her shadow.
It was good practice, she decided, for her future in a noble household. Considering this as her training for a glorious future rather than thinking of herself as an inept spy made it easier to forget her fears.
Unfortunately Viscount Deptford gave his bodyguards no little grief in their efforts to shadow him. He refused to adhere to a routine. He resented following rules. An eccentric known to raid the kitchen for a midnight collation, he often sat up talking to the scullery maids until the sun rose.
The guests had retired to their beds after a brain-numbing performance of the French satire Tartuffe when Iris felt Winthrop slip from her side as she pretended to sleep. She had given up any hope of maintaining a decent decorum between them and had insisted they share the bed in their stone-floored room.
It would have been cruel to assign him to a chair or a cot. Heaven knew he hadn’t touched her when they were in bed together. Not a brush of a bare toe to her ankle. She wondered what was wrong with her that she had caught herself more than once hoping for a kiss. She would have to rebuff him, of course. She was a lady’s maid, not a ladybird.
Iris appreciated that he had kept his promise to show her respect. But she did begin to question whether his coolness had less to do with duty than it did with the fact that he found her unappealing.
She also wondered where he had snuck off to this early in the morning. She’d noticed after the play that he had his eye on another housemaid, who grated on Iris’s nerves. The minx had made an excuse about checking an upstairs chimney during the last act. When a few minutes later Iris had followed, she had spied the snippy maid looking outside the door of the room Winthrop had entered.
“Let the needle puller have his maid,” she muttered, scooting across his bare place in the bed. Iris would make a cup of tea and maybe indulge in a little flirtation herself with the castle’s rheumy-eyed butler, if the man were about at this hour.
She tightened the sash of her robe and wended her way through the warren of the castle kitchens. She wasn’t surprised to discover the fires and ovens lit, the chef overseeing the production of meat and fruit pies on numerous tables while scullions scrubbed great black pots for gravy and delectable sauces.
She peered at the menu on the table:
Braised Beef
Roast Leg of Lamb and Pheasant
Salmon in Lemon Sauce
Buttered Peas
None of this surprised her. She was not even alarmed when the kitchen hedgehog brushed around her feet. Winthrop had explained that the nocturnal creature was kept to eat any beetles that might crawl onto a platter. Winthrop, however, was nowhere in sight.
Before anyone could notice her, she turned on her heel and climbed the kitchen steps back to the servants’ quarters. And walked straight into Winthrop’s wiry frame.
“What are you doing out of our room?” he said.
“I had a feeling that something was wrong.”
He paused. “There has been an incident. An unidentified person shot at the viscount as he rode off with his hunting party.”
Iris felt a sudden need to drop into a chair.
“Is he dead?”
“He is distraught but not otherwise harmed. The shot missed. It is still dark. It could have been an accidental discharge, but I doubt it.”
Iris blinked, aware of light footsteps in the hall. “Hunting mishaps are common, aren’t they?”
“Yes. But until I am convinced it was an accident, it is prudent for him to retreat for a time. At last he believes that his life is in jeopardy.”
He stilled at the rustle of linen behind him. Iris looked past him to the young chambermaid who had materialized from the gloom of the hall.
“What is the matter?” the girl asked in a tentative voice. “Did I see Lord Deptford leaving in his coach? I thought he’d gone hunting with the other guests.”
“Go about your duties,” Iris said, vexed at the girl without justification. Or perhaps it was because Winthrop had fallen silent to stare at her. Didn’t he pride himself on being the consummate professional? Hadn’t he enough to do without ogling the housemaid? Worse, it seemed to Iris that the impertinent girl was staring right back at him. It wasn’t that Iris gave a fig. But if she had to pretend to be Winthrop’s wife, he must pretend to behave like a proper husband. Even though their “marriage” was a sham, Iris would not tolerate a philandering mate. It went against the grain.
She waited to question Winthrop until the maid excused herself to polish the ancestral coats of armor displayed in the entry hall. “Wouldn’t a guest have admitted his gun went off by mistake?”
“Aristocrats and their followers are prideful people, Iris. It is not in their nature to apologize easily. They consider themselves above the law, my employer being the exception.”
“Pride seems to be a failing in all classes.” She released a sigh. “You do not suspect anyone in the castle?”
“I do not care for Mr. Batleigh of York. He excused himself early from the performance.”
“I can’t say I blame him for that. I only peeked in on the first act and noticed more than one guest dozing off.”
“I shall keep a closer watch on him nonetheless. And I insist you do not go to his chamber should he summon you.”
“I thought my job was to investigate the guests.”
“Investigate, no. Observe, yes. I forbid you to put your life or your virtue in peril.”
Her knees felt as shaky as a jelly trifle. He forbade her. “I suppose you will launch a personal investigation into the maids who are recently employed at the castle?”
“What you mean by that?” he demanded, catching her by the elbow before she could elude him.
Iris shook off his hand. “Nothing. One of those observations I have been asked to make, that’s all. You carry on your work, sir. As I shall do mine.”
“I have to inform the earl of this incident immediately. I might be gone a few hours while I locate one of our contacts in the castle.”
“Do not worry about me, Winthrop. There is little danger that anything will happen during your absence. I will keep an eye on Mr. Batleigh from a safe distance. And when you return, you can resume eyeing the maids again.”
? ? ?
Before Emily, the most twisted machinations of mankind had seemed so simple, and now, as she stretched across him to stare out the carriage window, Damien realized that her slightest move could undermine him. It had become more difficult by the day to deny her anything.
He wanted to please her. He had dragged her into this mess. She deserved what little happiness he could give her.
“Damien,” she said, shaking him from his slouched position. “Isn’t that a country fair?”
“What of it?” he asked grumpily, aware of nothing but her silk-clad curves pressing into his vital organs.
“I’ve never been to a genuine fair.”
His eyes closed. “Unless you have an immediate wish to buy a cow or catch a pig by the tail, there’s no reason we can’t go at another time.”
She sighed. “Fine. I suppose you’re right. It is frivolous to ask.”
Damien and Emily had traveled during the early-morning hours, when the busy traffic made highway robbery less likely to occur. Winthrop had drawn a precise map and timetable for his master to observe, and Damien had followed his instructions so well that he was ahead of schedule.
That didn’t mean he could fiddle while Rome burned. If anything happened to Viscount Deptford before Damien reached the castle as promised, he would be at fault. It wouldn’t matter how many maidens he had saved or married along the way. A man’s assassination would be on his conscience. It wouldn’t matter even if all his efforts to save Deptford failed. He had given his word that he would help guard the man.
“Then that’s settled,” he said, smoothing his hand down her back.
“Yes, Damien.”
Dammit.
For a man accustomed to wearing a disguise, it was frightening to realize he no longer recognized himself. He reached around her and rapped on the roof for the driver to stop.
Emily slid out of his lap. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know.”
She smiled. The siren knew she had won.
A half hour later they were eating gingerbread and watching a wheelbarrow race. They drew attention, too, an aristocrat and his enchanting wife. “I think we need to leave,” he said, brushing some crumbs off his coat.
He turned, glancing idly at a puppeteer’s cart, and his heart took a plunge. Several notices had been nailed to the back of the cart, but there was only one that caught Damien’s eye. He pulled Emily by the hand. “Turn around. Walk toward our carriage. Don’t look at anyone. If you must nod and act preoccupied.”
“What is it?” she said as he swiftly helped her up the carriage steps. “Did you see one of the rebels?”
“No. But there’s a sketch of you posted on the Punch and Judy cart.”
She paled, but to her credit did not look back. “Does that mean we’ve been followed?”
“Not necessarily.” He hesitated. Their frivolous hour had been ruined. “It does mean that Ardbury is intent on catching you.”
“This is far afield, isn’t it?”
“He won’t find you.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he is being hunted down himself by men more dedicated than he realizes even exist.”