Alexander found Margaret again once they arrived at Somerstead Hall, standing outside the secondary drawing room where they had left her driver to convalesce. Alexander had washed himself and changed into a new set of clothes, but Margaret still sported her tattered outfit, including his coat. One of the maids had found some house shoes for her, meaningshe had trailed only a minimal amount of mud throughout the manor instead of a lot.
He rolled up his sleeves and approached. “You are still here.”
Margaret gasped softly and turned around.
“You should retire. The housekeeper has been told to attend you.” He looked past her through the crack in the door. “Your driver will be safe in the care of the butler until we can call a doctor. He had recuperated somewhat already. He is at no risk of dying tonight, and he is not your charge regardless but mine. As are you.”
“And since you have commanded me to bed, I suppose that is where I must go.” Margaret nodded and stepped past him before remembering something. She slipped out of his coat. “Under normal circumstances, I would launder it first, but this will have to do. It was a good thing you did... helping Mr. Plim.”
Her footsteps echoed down the corridor as she slipped into the entrance hall, a little uneven because of her limp. Alexander inspected his coat, holding it at a distance.
Nothing about that night had gone according to plan.
A recurring theme, it seemed, when Miss Pembroke was around.
CHAPTER 5
"You’re lucky your hair didn’t mat into knots, Miss Pembroke,” the maid said from behind Margaret as she ran a comb through her wet waves. “The amount of dirt that came out of it in the bath... I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Margaret winced as the maid tugged too forcefully on the ivory comb. From what she had gathered, the young woman was a chambermaid whom the housekeeper had instructed to act as a lady’s maid for Margaret. She pressed her eyes shut to block out the pain, remembering how gentle her own lady’s maid had been. Like most of the staff, poor Augusta had been sent away months ago, and she was now working in some house out in Surrey. If Margaret restored herself – no,whenshe restored herself – she would go first thing to Surrey and take Augusta back.
Her present attendant, a freckle-faced girl named Beth, was certainly no Augusta. Admittedly, shehadbrought a stool forMargaret to elevate her ankle on while she finished her toilette – clever and diligent, if not delicate.
“I think I have the pouring rain to thank for saving my hair. It washed most of the mud away... and threatened to strip me of my skin too,” Margaret said, settling in the chair. She glanced around the room. The yellow wallpaper bordered on gold, a perfect complement to the rest of the furnishings. “His Grace has no wife, yet this room is outfitted for a queen. Who once resided here? Do you know?”
“Erm...” Beth paused to glance around, and Margaret was glad to give her scalp a break. “I think it was His Grace’s grandmother, but I can’t be sure. That was long before my time. But the chemise you’re wearing was from the Duchess of Langley. The old Duke and Duchess’s chambers are on the other side of the house where His Grace now sleeps. I’m in charge of changing his linens, you see.”
She obviously took pride in her work. Margaret imagined that it was no easy task.
“Does he treat you well?” she asked, looking for Beth in the mirror. “He seems to be an exigent master, to say the least.”
“Oh, he is, of course,” Beth replied emphatically, then gasped, remembering herself. “Although I shouldn’t say anything about His Grace’s personal habits. It’s only that he likes things a certain way. But he treats us well and is generous with our pay. I don’t mind, really. And since he is so rarely here at the manor, it hardly matters.”
“Why rarely?” Margaret asked. She shouldn’t have been curious about the duke after what he had said, but there was something about him, his history, that intrigued her – maybe because of her affinity for Somerstead Hall. “A house of this size and history requires a constant guardian.”
“Right you are, Miss Pembroke.” Beth set down the brush – thank heavens – to start braiding Margaret’s hair. She was much gentler now, and Margaret moaned as the weaving pattern of the girl's fingers soothed her. “But usually it is Lord Somerton, His Grace’s uncle, who remains in residence while His Grace lives in London. This is the first time we have had the pleasure of attending His Grace since last summer.”
“He must be a busy man.”
Beth snickered. “Oh, aye.”
Margaret raised a brow at Beth’s tone.
“I was speaking about his work,” Margaret said.
“Oh.” Beth paused, her cheeks coloring. “As... was I.”
“No, you weren’t.” Margaret felt a smile pull at the side of her mouth. “Have you heard things, Beth? Is the duke...? He cannot possibly be that popular. The man is?—”
She cut herself off, worried he would be able to hear her sayinsufferablefrom the other end of the house. Of course,Margaret wasn’t blind. The Duke of Langley was young and handsome, absurdly rich, and cultured. The list of his qualities was long indeed. But so was the list of his flaws. She couldn’t imagine what it might be like to spend any measure of intimate time with a man like that. It must have been a rigorous, unfeeling business.
Her skin suddenly tingled at the thought, and she corrected her train of thinking. Helena read too many novels she wasn’t supposed to and told Margaret too much about them. She cleared her throat, but when she looked up, Beth was staring at her with a grin.
“We are both women,” Margaret said coolly, grabbing a ribbon and thrusting it toward Beth. “We know precisely what he is.”
“Precisely,” Beth agreed, giggling quietly. “A stream of tall dark-haired women,” she continued, looking proudly at her work, draping the braid over Margaret’s shoulder. “That’s what they say comes in and out of the London house. We don’t get any of that here at Somerstead Hall – not with Lord Somerton watching.”
“I see the duke has a type,” Margaret scoffed. “But a veritable stream,you say?”
