“Posie,” Kate said, digging in her heels. “Lord Wingate is hardly the type of man to forgive a girl for whacking him on the head.” Her grin grew broader. “But if you’d only seen his face when I did … though I don’t suppose there’s anything funny about losing three hundred pounds.”
“Can’t think of anythin’,” Posie agreed. ” ‘Specially considerin’ how long a body could live on three hundred pounds, an’ never even have to work.”
Posie’s voice rose to a squeal as Kate dropped a hand to her arm and squeezed it, hard.
“Oh,” Kate said, through lips that had suddenly lost all hint of color. There was no humor in her voice now. “Oh, God, Posie!”
Posie said, quite calmly considering the pressure on her wrist, “Change your mind about the unfeelin’ rich, did you? I thought you might.”
“I didn’t think,” Kate whispered. “I didn’t think … I forgot all about her. But three hundred pounds. Three hundred pounds would pay her rent for a long while ….”
Posie had no idea what the older girl was talking about. All she knew was that Kate had finally come to her senses.
“And,” Posie said, “he’s bound to have plenty of atlases, a rich bloke like that. You could just chuck one at ’im, every time he gets fresh. Like as not he’ll get the message.”
Kate felt as if something cold had clutched her heart. “Do you suppose he’s gone?” she asked, through lips that seemed to have gone numb.
“Only one way,” Posie said, “to find out.”
The two girls tore from the room so noisily that Lady Babbie, who’d retired to the desk, puffed out her tail to three times its normal size, and growled ferociously before settling down again atop the papers Kate had left behind.
The Marquis of Wingate had not, in fact, gone. He was standing in the foyer, making out a note to the Reverend Billings, which was what Mr. Sledge had requested in lieu of compensation for the loss of his stained-glass window. It galled Burke to the core, writing this note—especially since it was for twice what the window was worth—but what else could he do? He’d already attempted the unpardonable—stealing a neighbor’s servant. He didn’t dare add insult to injury by refusing to pay for something he had broken quite purposefully.
What made it worse was that the Sledges hadn’t the faintest idea how he’d broken the window, or even why he’d come to call in the first place. They thought no more of Miss Mayhew than they bothered to think of anyone else outside of Papua New Guinea. Even their own children, who came trooping through the front door just as he was signing his name to the note, inspired no more than a brisk “Wipe your feet before you come in.” Not even a peck on the cheek or a “Stop striking your brother with that riding crop.”
In fact, it was Burke himself who snatched the crop away from one of the boys before the lad did any serious damage. His sharp admonishment, “You could put your brother’s eye out with that,” was met with a sneer, convincing him that Katherine Mayhew must be an angel. How else could she so ably manage Sledge’s little beasts?
An angel, or a witch. He was beginning to suspect the latter, since he doubted the former would have left him with the pounding headache he was currently suffering.
And then, as if the very thought of Miss Mayhew summoned her, there she appeared on the stairs. No one else seemed to notice her. Mr. Sledge was still going on, at some length, about the barbaric treatment of dogs by the natives of that ubiquitous country, one more utterance of the name of which was likely to cause Burke to go mad, while his wife was announcing to some women in a nearby drawing room that they needn’t get up, it was only the Marquis of Wingate, who frequently stopped by to call upon her husband. The butler very glumly passed by, carrying a dustpan filled with broken shards of brightly colored glass, and the children kicked at one another with their muddy riding boots.
And yet, somehow, above it all, Burke was able to hear Miss Mayhew’s voice call from the stairway, which was as near to him as she could get, with all the people in the entrance hall: “Lord Wingate, I’ll gladly come, if you’ll still have me.”
Burke Traherne had been quite rightfully accused of many things in his day, but stupidity was not one of them. He hadn’t the slightest idea what had caused the girl to change her mind—though he had a suspicion that the redhead in the maid’s uniform standing behind her might have had something to do with it, especially since she seemed to be poking Miss Mayhew quite forcefully in the back.
But he wasn’t about to stand there and question her decision.
Oh, he was not at all charmed by the way she’d rebuffed his advances. He was insulted and a little chagrined. But she was, after all, only a servant, and undoubtedly knew no better. His father had always warned him not to dally with the help, advice Burke now saw as quite sage.
The girl was clearly a man-hater. That was the only explanation for it, really. Burke had never in his life been rebuffed by a woman, so the experience had been particularly demoralizing … and unique.
But a man-hater, while irritating, would make a splendid chaperone for Isabel, and so he gave a low bow, and said, his deep voice carrying easily over the tumult around them, “Miss Mayhew, I’m honored. May I send my footmen this evening, then?”
She nodded mutely. Indeed, she couldn’t have spoken if she’d wanted to, since the din in the entranceway had risen to such a level that no one, not even Burke, would have been able to hear her if she’d tried. He cast her a final, appraising glance—really, but she was uncommonly pleasant to look at. It was a shame about the man-hating thing. Then he retrieved his own cloak and hat, since the butler seemed busy, and there was no footman that Burke could see, and left the house, satisfied that he had just purchased not only peace of mind for himself, but a bright future for his daughter. And all for the bargain price of three hundred pounds.
Of course, there was also the matter of the sizable welt on his forehead. But he had a feeling that that was best left ignored. He’d behaved ignobly, and Miss Mayhew had very properly let him know it. It wouldn’t happen again.
Or, if it did, he’d see to it there weren’t any heavy books lying about.
Kate dashed up the stone steps, her heart hammering in her ears, her throat constricted so tightly with fear, she could hardly breathe. Please, she prayed. Let it be unlocked. Please let it be unlocked. Please—
The front door swung open, however, before she even had a chance to touch the handle. Vincennes, Lord Wingate’s butler, looked down at her quizzically. “Miss Mayhew,” he said, pleasantly enough. “How do you do? Did you—”
But Kate hadn’t time for pleasantries. She pushed past him, seized hold of the door, and shut it behind her.
Vincennes, to his credit, looked as if this extraordinary behavior was perfectly normal, and said only, “I do hope you managed to get to the post office before it closed, miss.”
Kate hardly heard him. Rushing into the drawing room just off the foyer, where a fire had not yet been lit for the evening, she went to one of the large casement windows, and parted the drapes.
“Mr. Vincennes,” she panted, gazing out onto the street. “Do you see that man out there? Standing on the corner, in the light from the gas lamp?”
The butler obligingly peered over her shoulder. “Indeed, I do, miss,” he said.
So! It hadn’t been her imagination! Not this time.
“Pardon me, miss,” the butler said, as the two of them stood in the darkened room, staring down at the rain-soaked street. “But do you have reason to dislike Mr. Jenkins?”
Kate’s breath fogged the pane through which she was peering. She reached up to rub at the spot. “Mr. Jenkins? Who is Mr. Jenkins?”
“The gentleman we’re looking at.”
Kate squinted astonishedly up at the butler. “You know him?”
“Certainly, miss. He’s a physician. He frequently pays calls in this neighborhood ….”
Kate, feeling her cheeks heat up, let the curtain drop. “I’m such a fool,” she confessed sheepishly. “I thought … I thought he was someone else.”
“Perfectly understandable, miss,” Vincennes said kindly, “in fog like that.”
But Kate could not so easily dismiss her mistake. Freddy, she thought dejectedly to herself, as she made her way up the wide, curving staircase to her room, had been quite right. She did have too much imagination. What on earth would Daniel Craven be doing, standing on a street corner—in the rain, no less—in London, when no one had seen or heard from him in seven years? She was being ridiculous. Worse than ridiculous. Hysterical, even.
But when she approached the door to her bedroom, and saw that it was slightly ajar—when she had most definitely closed it when she’d left—she grew suspicious. Surely Vincennes would have told her if someone had come calling for her. And he certainly wouldn’t have allowed the visitor into her room! No, it had to be one of the maids, or—
Kate flung open the door and was more than a little surprised to see the Lady Isabel Traherne—lying on her stomach with her feet in the air—stretched out across Kate’s bed, petting Lady Babbie.
“I didn’t know you had a cat, Miss Mayhew!” Isabel cried, when she noticed Kate upon the threshold.
So much for keeping Lady Babbie’s presence a secret, Kate thought to herself. All that trouble she’d taken, smuggling the indignant cat into the house in a basket, had been for naught.
And good thing to know that in the future, if she didn’t care for visitors, she’d best keep her door locked.
Aloud, however, Kate said, “Be careful. She bites, when she’s in the mood.”
Lady Babbie, probably just to be contrary, allowed Isabel to scratch her ears without the slightest protest, however.
“Listen to her purr!” Isabel sighed. “I always wanted a cat, but Papa always said I was too irresponsible to take care of a plant, let alone an animal, and he’d never let me have one. What’s her name, Miss Mayhew?”
Kate cleared her throat uncomfortably as she undid her bonnet strings. “Lady Babbie,” she said.
“What was that? I didn’t hear you.”
“Lady Babbie,” Kate said, a little more loudly.
Isabel looked at her curiously. “What a strange name. Did you call her after someone you know?”
“Not exactly,” Kate muttered, as she removed her hat, and went to the mirror to adjust her coiffure. Then, noticing Isabel’s dissatisfied expression, she explained reluctantly, “I’ve had her since I was ten. At the age of ten, I’m afraid the name Lady Babbie struck me as inexpressibly elegant. That’s all I can say in my own defense.”
“Since you were ten,” Isabel said, giving the cat a wondering stroke beneath the chin. “She must be ancient now.”
“Only thirteen,” Kate said, not without some indignation.
“So you’re twenty-three?” Isabel, quickly losing interest in the cat, rolled over onto her back and stared up at the filmy white canopy, sprigged here and there with pink and green florets. “That’s quite old. I thought you were much younger.”
Kate went back to work arranging her books on a shelf near the fireplace, a task she’d left an hour earlier to post a letter. “Twenty-three,” she said, a bit defensively, “isn’t so very ancient.”
“It is not to have been married already.” Isabel rolled over and propped her hands up on both elbows, then dropped her chin into them. Dressed only in her underthings and a silk robe, her hair tied up in strips of rag, she put Kate in mind of Posie, who’d often visited her in a similar ensemble of an evening. “Why haven’t you been married before, Miss Mayhew? You’re such a pretty little person. I can’t imagine why someone hasn’t picked you up and put you in his pocket and kept you. Hasn’t anyone ever asked?”
Kate said, looking down at the spine of the book in her hand, “Asked if he could put me in his pocket? Certainly not.”
“Well, to marry him, then.”
“No one with whom I was in love.”
“Really? Did he marry someone else, then?”
Kate slid the book into place on the shelf. “Did who marry someone else?”
“The man you loved, of course.”
Kate laughed. “Not hardly. I’ve never been in love with anybody.”
Isabel sat up, quite shocked. “What? Never? Miss Mayhew! I’m only seventeen, and I’ve been in love five times! Twice in the past year alone.”
“My goodness.” Kate reached into the box Phillips himself had brought over from the Sledges’, so great was his delight in seeing her gone, and retrieved another book. “I suppose I’ve been far too discerning, then, in my affections.”
“I should say so,” Isabel declared. “Did Papa tell you who I’m mad about lately?”
Kate placed the book on one shelf, saw that it didn’t quite fit, and transferred it to another. Since she had not seen Lord Wingate—not even once—since that afternoon in the Sledges’ entranceway, she could not exactly say that yes, she’d had a lengthy conversation with him about his daughter’s romantic life. In fact, it had been well over a week since she’d last seen the marquis. Mr. Sledge had thrown quite a tantrum upon learning she intended to leave his family, and Mrs. Sledge had taken to her bed for a full forty-eight hours. Kate had felt it only right to remain until they found a replacement for her, and sent a note explaining as much to the marquis. She’d received a letter back, but not from the marquis. It had been from his lordship’s housekeeper, Mrs. Cleary, urging her to take all the time she needed.
And while it had been gratifying to learn that the Sledges valued her as an employee—Mrs. Sledge, in particular, had been extremely liberal in heaping abuse on the marquis for stealing her away—it had also been lovely beyond words to bid adieu forever to that cramped, over furnished house. Posie was the only person Kate supposed she’d miss—Posie and, surprisingly, the four littlest Sledges, who’d wept quite bitterly when she’d broken the news to them, and refused to promise, though she asked them very seriously, not to torment the new governess with thorns in her sheets and snails in her tea.
Kate might have been perfectly content with her decision had it not been for Freddy, who’d been so appalled upon hearing of it the next time she’d seen him, he’d been struck dumb for several minutes, a circumstance Kate could not remember ever happening before, not in all the years she’d known him.