“Says she wants her toast less toasted,” the maid said with a sniff, holding up a triangle of bread. “But look! It’s barely cooked! If I ask Cook to toast it any less, she’ll toss me out the window.”
“I can help,” Isabella said, keeping her voice low. “I’ll take this same one to her. She’ll never know. And if she does, you won’t get in trouble for it. I will.”
The two maids stared at her, then as if of one mind, their gazes darted toward the stairs where the head housekeeper Mrs. Smith stood, queen of the domestic domain. Something was off. The maids never wavered. They handed over their unwanted tasks without hesitation.
Isabella backed away from them. She hid her face behind a palm and headed for the back door. The entire room had gone quiet. Even the boiling water and the sizzling foods—all of it seemed to pause. The only sound was footsteps, easy and unhindered behind Isabella. Pressing her feet more quickly against the floor, she didn’t dare look back. She would stop for nothing.
Except for the hand on her shoulder, strong and insistent.
She’d been caught. She was ready. She’d always been ready, and her story, her excuse for being here, settled calmly on her tongue, ready for use.
“Miss…” Mrs. Smith gently nudged Isabella’s shoulder. “I’m afraid I do not know your name. Apologies.”
Isabella dropped a deep curtsy. “Miss Crewe. I—”
“Look at me, please. And remove your cap.”
Hands shaking, Isabella did so. All over. Her long, clever schemefinally ended. How would she come by information to help Samuel now?
Mrs. Smith lifted Isabella’s chin, examining her hair, her face, her figure. “I believe you’re her. Fascinating. Mr. Trent would like to see you.”
“Mr. Trent?” The name a hiccup. “Who is that?”
“The Hestia’s owner.” Mrs. Smith headed for the stairs. “Follow me.”
Isabella had no choice. She followed, parting the throng of whispering staff.
“I heard he’s part wolf. Never speaks. Only barks and howls.”
“No. That’s not it. He’s a Frenchman. And he plans to turn the Hestia into a gambling hell.”
“I heard he’s so tall he has to duck to go through doors.”
“I know that’s true. I’ve seen him.”
“They say his you-know-what is as big as my arm.”
“No!”
No was right. Absurd proportions. Isabella would have corrected the maids, but Mrs. Smith led her upward. They climbed into the dark all the way to the top floor and emerged into a darker hallway, lit only by a few candles. Not a bit of natural light anywhere. No windows, no sun. The man who resided here would clearly be comfortable in the very depths of hell.
Who was he? Wolf? Frenchman? Absurdly large? She shivered. Why did she know nothing about him? As often as she’d haunted these halls, she should have heard some tiny whisper of truth.
Another shiver. Curse not knowing. The unknown worse than any other possibility the maids could imagine.
Mrs. Smith knocked on the first door to her right. “Mr. Trent, I’ve found her.”
Heaven and Hell, she was to be sacrificed. No, no. She would be lectured and tossed out onto the street. She could survive that.
But the door… Why did it appear so ominous? Made of some dark wood, almost black, it seemed to soak up the fragile candlelight flickering along the walls. A dark maw. If it opened, there’d be teeth.
Isabella shook her head. No. Imogen would conjure such shadowsout of her spider’s web of an imagination, but Isabella would not. Isabella lived in the real world, knew sunlight banished shadows and always revealed a monster to be a coatrack. Knew true information would present an entirely rational understanding.
But that door…
A candle to her left flickered out. Another corner of the hallway surrendered to darkness.
“Come in,” a deep voice rumbled from beyond. A voice like chocolate, rich and sweet. Yet gruff as well, as if unused. Couldn’t pour sunshine on that voice, melt it into something that made sense.
