She heard Mr. Notley’s voice and then a woman’s voice, and then what sounded like a rather heated argument. Frances stirred again, and Genevieve rose from bed and made her way to the window. She pulled back the curtains and looked down to see a woman and Mr. Notley squabbling below. With a furtive glance at her sleeping charge, Genevieve opened the window and poured out the last dregs of the pitcher of water. Sheintentionally missed the couple, but she aimed close enough to get their attention.
“Oi!” Mr. Notley called. “What’s this?”
“Go and argue elsewhere!” she hissed. “You’ll wake Miss Lumlee.”
The woman peered up at the window. “Genevieve Brooking, is that you?”
Genevieve blinked. She hadn’t expected to know the woman Notley brought home.
“It’s me, Rose Musgrave.”
“Rose?” Genevieve had a sudden image of a little girl with glossy black curls. She had sat behind Rose at the village school and stared at those curls for a long, long time, wishing she had been born with pretty brown hair her mother might fashion into springy curls rather than bright red hair that seemed to have a mind of its own. “What are you—”
“Miss Genevieve?”
Oh, drat.Now Frances was awake. “Excuse me, Miss Lumlee is awake now.” Genevieve closed the window and hurried to Frances’s side.
“Who were you talking to?”
“Mr. Notley brought a friend of mine to say hello. She’s a woman I haven’t seen since we were both just a little older than you. I was about to tell them it’s bedtime and to call another day.”
“May I meet her?”
“Not tonight.” She stroked Frances’s hair. “You and I must go back to sleep.” Genevieve tucked Harriet in the crook of Frances’s arm and pulled her covers up to her ear. “Go back to sleep.”
It took only a few minutes before the little girl’s breathing slowed and deepened, and then Genevieve went back to the window. Mr. Notley and Rose were gone. But they shouldhave never been outside arguing to begin with. Frances, not to mention the staff, needed uninterrupted sleep, and this was the second night hers had been disturbed.
She found her robe and her slippers, put them on, and took an unlit candle, which she lit from one of the sconces outside the nursery door. Then she made her way downstairs, holding her breath for fear she might meet Notley and Rose engaged in some activity she did not want to observe.
But the only people about were Gables, the butler, and Mr. Chaffer, the valet. He was carrying a blue coat of superfine away from a closed door.
“May I help you with something, Miss Brooking?” the butler asked her.
“I need to speak with Lord Emory. His friend has disturbed Miss Lumlee’s sleep and mine, yet again.”
Mr. Chaffer and Gables exchanged a look, and Gables said, “I think it better you have that conversation in the morning, Miss Brooking.”
Before Genevieve could answer, a footman rushed into the foyer and, seeing her, whispered something to Gables. “Excuse me,” the butler said, and the two men hurried away.
Genevieve looked at the valet, who nodded at the closed door he’d just exited. “His lordship is in the library.”
“Thank you.” Genevieve started in that direction.
“He’s quite foxed,” Mr. Chaffer said.
Genevieve sighed and squared her shoulders. At the door to the library, she tapped three times and, at Lord Emory’s grumbled “What now?” opened the door and stepped inside. It took her a moment to locate him, as he was sprawled on a couch across from the desk. It was upholstered in red, and a similar couch in cream sat opposite it on the Turkish rug before a low fire. It seemed clear this couch was one preferred by LordEmory, as a stack of books sat beside one end, as well as a glass and a decanter of a liquid that matched his brandy-colored eyes.
“May I come in?” she asked, stepping inside and closing the door.
“Not you,” he said, his words slightly slurred. “The last thing I need is another lecture.”
“May I?” She gestured to the cream-colored couch, since he did not remember his manners and stand or offer her a seat. He waved a hand, his sleeve flapping at his wrist. Chaffer had been carrying his coat, and he was dressed in shirt sleeves, waistcoat, breeches, and boots. His cravat was loose, the white ends making a contrast against his blue waistcoat embroidered with gold thread.
“Go on, then,” he said. “What have I done now?”
“It’s Mr. Notley, actually. His, er, companion and he were arguing loudly below the nursery window and woke your daughter and me.”
“I’ll have a word with him.”
