Page 79 of West End Earl
Mrs. Shephard eyed Phee with a small smile. “The copper gown looks lovely on you.”
Well, at least her wardrobe choice was sorted. Phee skirted down the narrow servants’ hallway toward the rear of the house, where a stairwell would take her to the second-floor bedrooms.
She’d almost made it to her chamber when she bumped into a hard chest. “Oh, pardon me! Kingston?” Phee froze at the sight of the tall valet.
Kingston knew of her relationship with his master, but whether that meant he’d realized she was female, Phee didn’t know.
Not until now, at any rate.
He bowed. “I’m happy to see you are alive and well, Miss Hardwick. The servants worried when we saw theTimes.”
Inexplicably, tears rose to her eyes again. She hadn’t thought anyone would care about Adam’s death notice beyond her uncle and Calvin—who wouldn’t believe it, anyway. “Thank you, Kingston. I, ah, was in the kitchen. I’m a bit of a mess and need to change before I greet his lordship.”
Kingston studied her for a moment until the silence made her shift from one foot to the other. “May I, miss?” He gestured toward her head.
“May you what?”
Kingston cleared his throat. “Would you like assistance styling your hair once you’ve changed gowns, miss?”
She bit into her bottom lip to stave off more tears at the kindness. “I would appreciate that. I’m afraid I don’t know what to do with it as it grows longer. Give me a few minutes to change?”
He nodded in a shallow bow. “I’ll gather supplies and meet you in the hall outside your door. Which chamber is yours?”
“Just there.” She pointed. “I’ll see you momentarily, then.”
Thankfully, the copper gown was freshly washed and pressed. It had become her favorite and always made her feel sensual and beautiful. The deep scooped neckline showcased her collarbones and creamy skin, and the skirt swished when she walked.
Washing her face and hands in the small porcelain basin took only a moment, then changing gowns took a few more. When a lady’s maid would have been required, she and Emma helped each other, but Phee had deliberately chosen a wardrobe she could don without assistance. They were living quietly here, with minimal staff. The lower a profile they kept, the better, until the timeline of their arrival and the baby’s age blurred in the memories of the locals and their acquaintances in London.
She opened the door to find Kingston waiting in the hall, as promised.
“May I, miss? We can leave the door open to observe the proprieties.”
She did just that, touched that he would think of her comfort and reputation. The man had adapted to the news with remarkable grace. Unless it wasn’t news at all.
Phee took a seat at the vanity table, and he set to work combing her curls. “Kingston, how long have you known?”
He met her eyes in the mirror. “Awhile, miss. His lordship swore me to secrecy when I discovered, and you can trust I’ll hold my tongue now. Lord Carlyle would hate me saying so, but he’s been grieving the loss of you something awful. Did you get the letter?”
“You’re the one who posted it?”
“I know I overstepped, but I thought you should have it. Now, as to your hair. Until it gets longer and has some weight to it, you’ll need a product like this.” In the mirror, he held up a small jar of pomade. “Whereas men use enough to slick the hair down, you only need a little on your fingers. Then you either shape the curls like this,” he instructed, working some kind of magic that turned her fluff into an honest-to-God curl, “or you can form waves with your fingers instead of individual ringlet curls. With your bone structure, you’ll wear either style well, but it depends on how much time you have to devote to your toilette. For today’s purposes, we shall keep it simple.”
“I’ll be damned,” she muttered, staring at the result. The valet’s wizardry distracted her from the flurry of nerves tickling her stomach at the thought of seeing Cal again.
Kingston laughed under his breath.
“You’re a miracle worker.” Gone was the baby-duck fluff. No, she didn’t miraculously have a pile of thick hair, but she had a style instead of puffy ginger chaos. Finger waves, with a side part, and small curls framed her features.
“Do you have any rouge, or kohl for your lashes? You’re a trifle pale. And there’s only one chance to make a first impression. We want you to feel your best when his lordship begs to get you back, after all. That is the point, yes?”
If he was here to beg, then yes. Phee placed a hand over her racing heart. Cal was here. In the house. Without Violet bloody Cuthbert. The ire over that last letter battled with her nerves and won. Phee firmed her jaw. If he was going to beg, then she’d look like a queen while he did it. “I have a pot of rouge Emma gave me, but I rarely use it.” She opened a drawer. Like the others in the vanity table, it was nearly empty of fripperies. The memory of slipping her carved bird into Cal’s bedroom table surfaced. Had he found it yet? Had he connected what it meant—that she’d chosen freedom and hoped he would too?
The little black ceramic pot with gilt lettering rolled when she tried to grab it. “Here.”
As if he did this every day, Kingston dabbed a bit of the cream on her cheeks and lips, gently blending it until she looked healthy and not like someone who could believably lie about nearly dying from a fever within the last few months.
The one time she’d played with the stuff, her outcome had been nowhere near as attractive. The valet surveyed her from head to toe.
