“It is hideous, Mary, and you obviously agree, since you wouldn’t let me foist it on you when you married.”
Her ladyship narrowed her eyes at the earl. “That doesn’t meant I want to see it dashed to pieces.”
“It is no tragedy.” Lord Whitby moved a few steps nearer, pulling the girl along with him. He met first Beatrix’s gaze, then Deirdre’s. “Don’t let it concern you. This is a day of celebration.”
Words that soured Deirdre’s stomach more than any dressing down. She nodded, curtsied again, but then darted a glance at the newcomer.
The earl had always seen through the others quickly enough, no matter how compelling their stories or appropriate their looks. What made this one different?
“Tea is ready to be poured, Lady Ramsey.” Deirdre was tempted to curtsy yet again but settled for a respectful nod toward the marchioness. “I shall fetch another saucer.”
The lady motioned for her daughters and started for the table. “How do you like your tea, Brook darling? Strong or weak?”
Deirdre and Beatrix hurried out of the way of the encroaching family—and the newcomer, who for some reason laughed at the simple question. “Honestly, my lady, I have rarely drunk it. The prince always served coffee, as did my maman.”
Lord Harlow—or rather, Abingdon now—grinned. “I dare
say you would like it best strong, Brook. Perhaps without the usual sugar and cream.”
Deirdre and Beatrix slipped from the room, and her friend frowned. “She doesn’t drink tea? Who in the world doesn’t drink tea?”
“Not an Englishwoman, for sure and certain.” Deirdre shook her head and wrapped the broken plate more tightly. With any of the other pretenders, that would have been proof enough that she lied.
“Do you think she’s really the baroness?” Beatrix looked over her shoulder, though they were too far away to see the family now.
Deirdre led the way down the back hall and to the servants’ stairs that would deliver them to the kitchen. Most days she didn’t notice the abrupt change between the ornate and the plain, the decorative and the serviceable, but today it struck her soundly. For all they knew that nicely clad young woman would be more at home belowstairs. Like the last one, an orphan from the workhouse someone had decided to dress up.
“I think,” she said quietly enough that no one would be able to overhear, “that the babe died along with her mother, sad as that is. And that the earl will be doing a terrible disservice to his niece if he allows a charlatan into the family.”
“It
does
seem unfair to Lady Regan. Unless of course this girl
is
who she claims, in which case it would be unfair for her rightful inheritance to go to her cousin.” Beatrix sighed and reached up to secure a lock of fair brown hair that threatened to escape her cap. “I’m glad I’m not making such decisions.”
They took the stairs as quickly as they dared and nearly ran into Mrs. Doyle at the bottom. She greeted them with a tight smile. “Are they settled with their tea?”
Deirdre nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Doyle frowned at her balled-up apron. “What have you there?”
“Oh.” Her cheeks flamed again as she revealed the broken plate. “I must hurry back up with a replacement.”
With a click of her tongue, Mrs. Doyle took the pieces. “Deirdre, how unlike you. This will have to be docked from your pay, you realize.”
The taste of bile returned. How much would a saucer edged in gold-leaf cost? Surely the price of a meal for the whole family in Kilkeel, if not a week’s worth of meals. And she hadn’t even been the one to . . . But Beatrix’s family was no better off and relied as heavily on what she sent home. Deirdre dipped her head. “I understand, Mrs. Doyle.”
“Deirdre, no.” Beatrix put a hand on her arm, then squared her shoulders. “It was me who broke it, ma’am. She made the earl think it her, but it wasn’t.”
The woman’s face softened, and a smile teased lines onto her face. “We shall worry with this later. Fetch another saucer, Deirdre, posthaste. Then go to the Green Room to unpack our guest’s trunk.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Deirdre patted Beatrix’s hand and slipped away.
“I daresay she won’t be long considered a guest, Mrs. Doyle.” Beatrix made no effort to speak softly now. “His lordship says she’s his daughter.”
“What? So soon?” Mrs. Doyle sounded as dismayed as Deirdre felt. Perhaps even more so, having known the late Lady Whitby.
Much as she would have liked to tarry to hear more, Deirdre didn’t dare. She had only a few minutes to arrive with the new saucer while Lady Ramsey made each cup of tea. Her hands shook again by the time she reached the china cupboard.
Though she hated to take even a single moment to herself, she had to, to calm down. The last thing she needed was to drop the one replacement saucer. And praise be to heaven that
Lady Thate had taken tea in town, or they would be in a fine predicament.
Plate in hand, she hurried back through the great hall and into the drawing room.
Everyone sat round the tea table, those still without cups nibbling on biscuits. Lady Ramsey’s brow was creased with thought as she tipped the pot over one of the last two teacups. “Collette Sabatini? Why does that sound familiar?”
Deirdre skirted the edge of the room as the girl—what was she supposed to call her?—smiled. “You probably saw her perform at some point, my lady. She was a legendary opera star in her day.”
Not so much as a spoon clinking against china dented the silence. Deirdre paused a moment, then hurried to Lady Ramsey’s side and slid the saucer into its place with a quick bob.
The newcomer didn’t look cowed by the riveted attention of the other ladies. She sighed and turned to Lord Abingdon. “Did you not mention that?”
“He did.” Lord Whitby took the cup from his sister and tested it. “I did not deem it worth mentioning to my sister until I knew whether you were my daughter. And, Mary, I’ll thank you not to overreact.”
“Overreact?” The marchioness lifted her chin. “Certainly not. But of course this is information we must guard. It could ruin your reputation before you even have one, my dear.”
Deirdre started back around the perimeter of the room, but not before she saw the steel enter the blonde’s eyes.
“I will do my best not to offend anyone.” The girl set her cup down with nary a clatter. “But I will not deny the woman who sacrificed so much to raise me when she had no obligation to do so.”
Deirdre could hardly resist peeking around to see how Lady Ramsey would respond to that. She found the woman’s smile
softening, but her eyes none too relenting. “Of course not, dear—in private. I only mean we need not bring up in society a relation so scandalous. We will simply emphasize your association with the Grimaldis.”
Lord Abingdon choked on a laugh. “You surely realize the royal family leads the way in scandal, my lady.”
The marchioness turned horrified eyes on the young woman as Deirdre nearly bumped into a chair.
“Not
me
,” the girl said on a laugh of her own. “I hadn’t had the chance to scandalize anyone yet, other than by rehearsing with the Ballet Russes. And ignoring all opinions on the matter, which is to be expected of a Grimaldi.”
As Deirdre turned to the door, Lord Whitby snorted in amusement. Not surprising, since he had thumbed his nose at society for years. She slipped through the door, catching only one more glimpse of the family.
Enough to see that Lady Regan had sat forward, desperation in her eyes. She never was one for conflict. “Your English is good, Brook. I detect only a hint of a French accent.”
Deirdre paused outside the door. If this was another case of an imposter having been schooled by someone who wanted a piece of Whitby’s pie . . .
“Justin has spoken it with me since I was five, and then I had formal lessons beginning at six. Prince Albert insisted I take my lessons at the palace even when I still lived in a flat with Maman.”
“Who is Justin?” Lady Ramsey’s voice bespoke dread.
It sounded like one of the young men who cleared his throat. “I am. Brook has long been like a sister to me, so I pray you indulge our familiarity.”
Deirdre stared at the wall, wishing she could see through the white panels. Not that watching the family would clear up any of the puzzlement.
“Are you spying, DeeDee?”
Hiram’s whisper sent her a foot into the air. Barely holding back a scream of alarm, she clapped a hand over her chest and glared at him—then hurried away from the door. “I most certainly am not.”
He chuckled and kept pace, balancing a few hatboxes in one arm. “So you call standing there with your ear all but pressed against the door what, exactly?”
“Curiosity.” Had it been anyone else to catch her at it, she wouldn’t have admitted that much. But Hiram wasn’t to be fooled, and his exaggerated “Ahh” even made her grin. “You can hardly blame me. What do you think of her?”
Hiram shrugged and opened the door that would give them quickest access to the servants’ stairs. “What
can
I think? I only saw her for those moments outside. She’s beautiful—that’s all I can say with certainty.”
“I’ve a bad feeling about it all. I . . . Why are you carrying hatboxes?”
“Hmm?” He glanced down as if surprised to find them in his arms, when he ought to have left it to the lower manservants. “Oh. Trying to be useful. Everyone’s in a tizzy.” He shifted his awkward burden to the other arm. “Now, why are you uneasy? This one isn’t like the others—we’ve no reason to think a future duke would lie to us about who she is.”
“Don’t we?” She frowned, though he wasn’t likely to be able to see it in the dark hallway. Perhaps someday they would be able to flip a switch here for light, as in the master’s part of the house. Today she would count the stairs as she always did. “Who’s to say what shape the Stafford estate’s in? Perhaps he fancies her but couldn’t marry someone without a fortune.”
“Dee.” Somehow his voice combined humor with disappointment. “You never used to be so cynical. All the other maids are tittering behind their hands at how handsome our gentlemen guests are, and all you can think of are dark motives?”
His words were a fist, setting up an ache in her heart where they hit her. But she could hardly explain why handsome young lords all seemed little better than tyrants. She could hardly tell him it was easy to ascribe to one a motive she knew for a fact another had.
A chill chased up her spine. Lord Pratt would find this news most interesting when they met next week.
“Dee?”
Luckily her feet paid better attention than her mind—she stopped on the landing by rote and opened the door so he could pass through with his burdens. “I don’t want to see another imposter hurt the family. Strange as it seems to feel sorry for the masters, such wealth comes with too much deception.”
No one knew that better than she.
Hiram waited for her to emerge into the hall and studied her with furrowed brow. “We’ll have to trust that his lordship will know if she’s really his daughter.”
A sigh found passage through her lips. “He thinks she is. He said as much in the drawing room.”
“Well then. Our part is to welcome her.”
“Oh, Hiram.” Only he would try to make it so simple. But then, he would still answer to Mr. Graham and then Lord Whitby, while she and the other female servants would have to deal with the presumptuous girl when she tried to make herself mistress.
With Hiram following behind, she hurried to the Green Room—and came to an abrupt halt when she saw the girl’s chaperone within. “Beg pardon.”
The Frenchwoman looked up with acute relief. “Ah,
bonjour
. You can help here,
oui
? I can tie her corset and pin up her curls, but I am better with organizing books than the dresses of the
princesse
.”
Princess? Doubt compounded with doubt. If they were fabricating this story, would they have chosen such a difficult one to believe? Deirdre plastered on a smile and moved to take a
heavily beaded gown from the woman’s hands. “Of course. You’re probably exhausted from your trip—why not head to the housekeeper’s parlor? Or we’ve a chef who would delight in speaking French with someone.”
Hiram laughed and set the boxes upon the bed. “Monsieur Bisset—taking delight?”
But the woman’s eyes lit. “You have a
chef de cuisine
?”
Much to the dismay of most of the servants. Temperamental as old Mrs. Wallis had been, she at least hadn’t spat at them in a foreign language. “Aye, and I daresay, being French yourself, he would welcome you eagerly.”
The woman paused midstep, her dark brown eyes snapping. “I am not French. I am Monegasque.”
Deirdre shook out the gown, deemed it too heavy to hang, and pulled open a drawer of the armoire. “My apologies. I thought it French you were speaking.”
“
Oui
.” The woman grinned. “Much like you speak English, but with an accent decidedly Irish. So if I were to call you an Englishwoman . . .”
“I see your point.” She stepped back over to the trunk and pulled out another gown, equally as exquisite. And gave the woman a smile. “Or you could rest until the dressing gong. I trust Mrs. Doyle showed you your room?”
Understanding glinted in the woman’s eyes. “
Oui
. Now I will remove myself from your way.
Merci beaucoup
for your help.”
“You’re welcome.” Deirdre watched her leave, glanced at Hiram lingering in the doorway, and turned back to the armoire. “Well. This girl has lovely things, I’ll grant her that.”
“Would have taken a fortune to have all that commissioned. Too much a one to invest in a false story, eh?”
Deirdre folded the dress around a square of tissue and placed it on top of the first. “Hadn’t you better get back belowstairs, Hiram?”
“I will. Should I move the trunk for you?”
“I wouldn’t object.” She indicated a spot nearer the armoire and while he hauled the laden trunk, she moved to the smaller satchel sitting atop the bed. Inside she found the usual items a lady was wont to travel with, and a book that made her snort.
“What?”
She held the tome up for Hiram to see. “
Dracula
. Our so-called baroness apparently has a taste for gothic novels.”