“Do you know her name?”
Another curtsy. “No, sir.”
He looked out at the crowd. “Do any of you know her name?”
Heads shook and wisps of hair wafted across confused faces. Twenty maids to match the twenty names in his book in his study. But no yellow-hairedsidhein sight. She didn’t work here. But she did, too. He’d seen her in Hestia’s green and white, carrying trays, mopping up floors. The others had seen her as well, had handed off their tasks to her. Likely, they loved the little ghost. Thought her an angel of mercy. If they did know her name, they wouldn’t give it up easily.
Why did he want it? Any of these maids would do for his purposes. He flicked a wrist at them. “You’re dismissed.”
Mrs. Smith held open the door as the women filed out. “Did you find what you were seeking?”
No, he hadn’t. Inexplicable. “Yes, thank you.”
The housekeeper nodded and pulled the door as she stepped into the hallway.
“Mrs. Smith.” She paused, waiting, and Rowan rounded his desk. “If you see her, send her to me.”
Mrs. Smith curtsied. “Of course, Mr. Trent.”
No need to say whichherhe meant. The door clicked shut, and he eyed the letter sitting in the shadows of his desk. He needed a wife to get his inn. Aunt Lavinia wanted him wed. Rowan only wanted his freedom. His solitude. And that damn inn. But he certainly wouldn’t marry to get it. Hiring a pretend wife solved fifty percent of his problems. Aunt Lavinia would survive her disappointment.
And surely the little fairy maid who completed everyone else’s tasks would help him complete his own.
If he could find her.
Chapter Three
Weekly Hyde Park walks always conjured some game. Today, Isabella and her sisters counted. Samuel walked ahead of the twins, Felicity, Gertrude, and June, a lady strolling on either side of him, and Isabella kept meticulous count of how many times Miss Haws flicked her left hand toward Samuel’s hip, arm, and leg, almost but not quite touching him, pulling back at the vital moment.
“You’re wrong,” Imogen said. She was Isabella’s mirror image—yellow curls and blue eyes, small of stature and, they’d been told, elfin of appearance. The major difference between them, according to others, was the steady blaze of seriousness in Imogen’s eyes and the spark of mischief in Isabella’s. Imogen was indeed serious at the moment, studying the sliver of space between their brother and the lady who very much wanted him to court her. “She’ll not do it again. She’s already attempted to touch him ten times.Ten. That’s an astronomical amount. She won’t be so silly as to try again. What happens if she does touch him?”
Felicity shivered. “Awkwardness. Can you imagine? Accidentally brushing against a gentleman you hold a tendre for? How humiliating.” Felicity was four years younger than Isabella and Imogen, but at oneand twenty, she remained unwed, thanks to their mother, who’d demanded her daughters choose husbands for themselves. Felicity resembled their brother the duke, and their youngest sisters, her dark hair sleek and heavy and her eyes gray as a stormy sky.
“You clearly hold no tendre for any gentleman,” Imogen said, “or you’d not say that. It would not be awkward unless… unless he did not care for you.” Her face flushed crimson. Like she was embarrassed, like sheknew… but how? What was Imogen not telling her?
Isabella’s ribs cinched her chest like ill-fitting stays. Did Imogen know something she did not? She opened her mouth to ask, but a flash of movement silenced her.
“Look!” Isabella hissed. “There! Miss Haws has done it again. Ha. I win.”
“Not yet,” Imogen grumbled. “We clearly haven’t found her upper limit. Let’s take another bet. I say she goes no further than fifteen attempts.”
Isabella snorted. “You do not wish to pay your debt, that is all. And it is unsportsmanlike. I say she tries at least thirty times. The entire walk without stop.”
Miss Haws, tall and slender with bouncy brown curls, already reached toward Samuel again. Isabella could taste victory.
“Thirty!” Imogen’s and Felicity’s combined cries caught the attention of June and Gertrude, who were strolling closer to Samuel but to the side of the group. They cast curious glances over their shoulders.
So too did Samuel. So too did the two ladies bracketing him.
Imogen and Isabella waggled their fingers at him, offering bright smiles.
He scowled and once more gave his attention to Lady Margaret, a short, pretty, plump blonde with a sweet smile.
“Do you think he notices?” Felicity asked. “Her attempts to brush against him?”
“Samuel notices most everything,” Imogen said. The most in that sentence being the important bit. He was thankfully unaware of Isabella’s activities, of the sisters’ reading materials, and of various other rather risky enterprises they’d participated in during the last several years. “Would you do it? Try to touch a man like that?”
Felicity squirmed. “Absolutely not. I’m still having difficulty wrapping my mind around”—she lowered her voice and leaned in close—“how many different ways there are to touch a man. It’s all rather unnerving.”
