She understood that the manor wasn’t wealthy and hadn’t been kept up for decades, so she was grateful that she at least had a room with heat and a down-filled cover.The maid had even carried in warm water, and amazingly, a jar of hand cream with a note from Lavender.The young seamstress was every definition of a true lady, even if she’d been born on the wrong side of the blanket.
The cream wouldn’t be of any use tonight, but the new gloves were so thin and silky that they were better than her own skin.She didn’t mind being deemed an eccentric.
She simply didn’t think she’d be of any use spying on the nobility.It simply wasn’t her place or, to be honest, in her character to be secretive.
Telling herself that she’d never see most of the guests again, she smothered her doubts and gathered her courage to open the door at a knock.
Damien stood outside, terrifyingly handsome and sophisticated in his tailored blue frockcoat, starched linen, and elegantly embroidered waistcoat.She’d never grow accustomed to believing this worldly man wanted a rural nobody likeher.
“Did you bring Jacques with you?”she asked in awe.Someone had trimmed his thick hair to a fashionable London style.
“I did.”He held out his elbow for her to take.“He makes a useful spy.Besides, I didn’t wish to appear slovenly while escorting a princess.You will notice I am politely not letting my tongue hang out or look lower than your haunting eyes.”
His nonsense relaxed some of her tension, and she couldn’t help a thrill at his words.He almost made her feel warm, despite the drafty hall.She adjusted her shawl so his eyes didn’t fall out as well as his tongue.“You could not appear slovenly even if I pushed you into a pigsty.”
He squeezed her gloved hand circling his elbow and chuckled.“As you have done when I became insufferable.I am quite certain, though, that pig slop is not fashionable.”
“You pulled my braid and made me fall from a tree!Really, insufferable is only half of it.It’s a wonder I even speak to you.”Jesting with the man she’d known from childhood eased her nerves a trifle more.Under the Town attire, he was still the country boy she’d once known.
Descending the marble stairs with half the elegant company gathering below...She tried not to tense again.She did her best imitation of a lady by discreetly lifting her skirt so she didn’t tumble head over heels on her hem.Without her breeches underneath, it was beastly chilly, and she felt exposed.
“One of those salivating gentlemen watching you could very well be a killer,” Damien reminded her, sounding as if he might be clenching his teeth.“You are not to go anywhere alone with them.”
Concentrating on not falling down the stairs, she hadn’t noticed their audience.Brydie pinched his arm for reminding her.“Lavender has already warned me not to believe flattery.Is there anyone down there taller than I am?”
“Height has nothing to do with it!Do not be fooled by their elegant clothes.The marquess may be slender, but he fights regularly in a boxing salon and has been known to shoot two men in a duel.These are not all idle fellows.”
“The marquess is Lady Spalding’s stepson?He is married.I am fairly certain he will not attack me or even notice my existence.”Reaching the bottom stair, she gave a curtsy to Captain Huntley and his lady.
“Married men are the worst,” he whispered before he made his bow.
“We are gathering in the formal drawing room for sherry while we wait for dinner to be served.”Clare Huntley gestured down the hall to a well-lit chamber.“Mr.Sutter, do you know everyone?Will you be able to introduce Miss Calhoun to the company?”
Brydie had sat with Clare in the inn’s kitchen, conspiring to lure neglected women away from a preacher’s camp, planning the new schoolroom, and other charitable discussions.This elegant lady wasn’t the commonly dressed housewife who had sat at the inn’s kitchen table.This one sparkled with gems, wore her gold hair in a complicated coiffeur adorned with pearls and delicate side curls.She had even darkened her pale lashes and rouged her cheeks.Brydie didn’t know her at all.
Captain Huntley, however, despite his valet’s attempts to squeeze his muscular frame into fashionable clothes, still resembled a pirate with his scarred features and abrupt manners.He jerked his head in the direction of a trio of laughing young men just entering the drawing room.“I’d start with watching that lot.They came down with Villiers.One is some relation to the duke and the others are friends.They have done nothing but drink my brandy.”
“I thought they’d come down to hunt and fish.”Damien watched the trio.“Why did Villiers bring them?”
Brydie did a mental tabulation of the manor folk and recalled the Earl Villiers was brother of Lady Elsa, the cook.The duke...was most probably the Duke of Castlefield, a bibliophile and frequent visitor of the manor library.He had half a dozen sons and numerous nephews roaming around.His title was in no danger of dying out as the Wycliffe one had.Just trying to remember all the names and relationships had her tense.
“The relation is feuding with his father and didn’t wish to attend the duke’s family gathering.Another is some distant relation of Lady Marlowe, Lavender’s grandmother.Lady Marlowe believes he’s here to visit her and is quite pleased.The third...I have no notion.Younger sons tend to have empty pockets at the end of the year, before their allowances arrive.They’ll go anywhere anyone feeds them.”The captain abruptly turned to greet another guest who demanded his attention.
The drawing room’s décor dated back a century, with plaster floral ribbons and cherubs on the ceiling, peeling gilding on the frames of ugly, dark portraits, worn silk upholstery, and faded carpets.But in the lamplight, glittering jewels, rustling silks, and blindingly white linen filled Brydie’s vision.There was a marquess and an earl among the company.Verity ought to be here, not her.Or Minerva, who had worked in a duke’s palace and probably knew the visiting relation.
A maid with a tray of glasses offered her a sherry.Brydie was quite certain she could not manage to drink while clutching Damien’s arm.
Damien steered her toward the safe harbor of Henri Lavigne, the owner of Monk’s Tavern, and his wife, Patience, who was forming a church choir.They were descendants of nobility but had lived hard lives and never owned land.She was comfortable with them.
“I will leave you in good company so I may circulate,” Damien murmured.“I will return to lead you into dinner.”
Abandoned, Brydie accepted the sherry this time, just to occupy her—gloved—hands.“May I spill this and go back to my room now?”she asked the welcoming couple.
They laughed, which helped settle her a little more.
“That gown looks far better on you than it ever did me,” Patience said admiringly.“Now that I’m expecting, my top has grown beyond enormous.I feel as if I should wear a tent.”
“You are radiant, as always,” her husband assured her.“You could make a tent beautiful, but I must admit to a fondness for the gown you’re wearing.”He wasn’t shy about glancing at his wife’s ample bosom.
