Page 133 of Caging Darling

The footman sighs, but his face twists. Eventually, he groans and shoots a look of warning in Peter’s direction. “I shall inform the Whittakers of your arrival. Though I can’t guarantee entrance,” he says.

He leaves his post to the second footman, and we’re left to shiver in the cold. What has to be half an hour later, he returns, and without a word beckons us through the gate.

My heart accelerates in my chest. I’m torn between the dread of betraying Tink and the desire to see with my own eyes that Michael is okay.

The inside of the Whittaker manor is as meticulous as the outside. Everything, down to the grout pattern in the walls, is all sharp right angles. The paintings on the walls exhibit the most lifelike portraits I’ve ever seen, every detail accounted for. The frames are simple, even, and lined up perfectly in a grid.

The footman winds us through hallways, though wind isn’t the right word, as each hallway is as straight as an arrow.

When we finally reach the parlor, he beckons us toward the fireplace. “Wait here. The lady of the house will be with you shortly.”

“The lady of the house?” says Peter. “I was under the impression that we were to speak with Lord Whittaker.”

“Then you should have come a year ago. Lord Whittaker is ill and hardly feels well enough to eat his own breakfast, much less welcome uninvited guests.”

With that, the servant absconds.

I swivel to examine the parlor.

There’s something off about it. The way there’s a stain on the far corner of the rug. An empty table beside the chaise with a dust mark where a vase obviously once sat. The leg of the lounging chair on the far end of the room also appears to be broken.

For all that Lord Whittaker seems to be obsessed with perfection, it does not seem as though his servants are intent on keeping the house to his standards, nor is his wife forcing them to.

Perhaps there’s been money trouble since the lord fell ill. Perhaps they’ve been unable to keep up enough staff to meet the demands of the house.

Eventually, quiet footsteps sound down the hall. Through the doorway steps Lady Illyan Whittaker.

She’s the austere sort. Her light brown skin, likely once robust in color, has the look of having been shut away indoors for too long. Her black hair is slicked against her skull with styling oil, her curls neatly coiled away in a knot at the base of her skull.

“I’m unaccustomed to presumptuous guests showing up unannounced,” she says coldly.

“I assure you we’ll make the late-night visit worthwhile,” says Peter.

“Look around,” says the lady. “Does it look as though we are in want of anything?”

“Adequate staff to keep up the demands of the house,” says Peter. “Or do you prefer for there to be stains on the rugs?”

Lady Whittaker’s stony facade falters, but only for a blink.

“Tell me what you want. It’s late, and I was just about to retire to bed.”

Peter withdraws a pouch from his pocket. It jangles in his hand. “I’m prepared to offer you a generous sum to attend to the needs of this girl for the next six months, until she gives birth. She’s a well-trained maid. Does what she’s told. Never gives a reason for complaint.”

“I’m sure the lady of your house has no complaints about her maid falling pregnant with her husband’s child,” says Lady Whittaker.

Peter’s mouth curves into a lethal smile. “You can keep the child, and the money, when the child is born. All I ask is that you return the girl to me when her predicament is over.”

“So you can impregnate her once again?” asks the lady of the house, judgment suffusing her tone.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“And what makes you think I would want to keep your baby?”

“Please. We’re aware of the sort of business your husband runs. Or used to run,” says Peter. “From the state of the house, I’d say the money isn’t exactly flowing in anymore.”

Lady Whittaker stiffens, her neck tall and proud. “You intrude on my privacy in the middle of the night asking for a favor, then insult me?”

“It’s not a favor,” says Peter. “That would imply no benefit to you.”

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