Page 8 of The Confessions of a Lady
Not a woman. Just a servant.
A sentiment he’d already reminded himself of several times that evening. Because he needed the repeated message. Miss Smith was someone of whom he should take no note, and certainly entertain no interest. Far more pressing issues demanded his attention than a surly maid with cream-and-cinnamon cheeks, eyes of the forest, and a personality as sharp as a lemon tart. Yet, as he sipped a frothy mouthful of ale, he couldn’t help contemplating exactly what caused her contempt. Perhaps she knew the truth. That Liam was a monster cloaked in the trappings of nobility. Wouldn’t that be shocking? A maid who knew the worth of her marquess.
3
Penny could not believe her luck. Mrs Harding was dealing with a monumental disaster. The beef delivered for the marquess’ first evening meal in his London residence was spoiled.
Mrs Harding announced in her most imperious tone, ‘I must visit the butcher immediately to ensure fresh meat is delivered. It is my own fault for stupidly believing a cook might be capable of doing more than chopping onions.’
Mrs Harding informed her nemesis, Sally O’Brian, that she was about as useless as a bit of lace on a battlefield. The ensuing row between housekeeper and cook was as entertaining as it was fearsome, concluding with Mrs Harding storming out to see the butcher while Mrs O’Brian refused to cook another meal for the ‘pompous-faced arse of a housekeeper.’
‘Let the old witch starve on burned toast and salted fish,’ Mrs O’Brian huffed as Penny poured the woman a restorative cup of tea.
‘I’m sure she didn’t mean anything by it, Mrs O’Brian. You’re such a talented chef. The best I’ve ever worked with, I swear it.’ It didn’t hurt to have one of the below-stairs generals on Penny’s side. Mrs Harding was a lost cause. Mrs O’Brian was the nextlogical choice. The butler, Mr Coggins, was completely out of the question. He hated her.
‘That’s kind of you to say, love. Fetch me one of those scones, and take one for yerself, there’s a dear.’ Mrs O’Brian’s apple cheeks lifted in a smile as Penny did as she was told. ‘Now, off with you and do your work. I don’t need that hateful woman to come back and accuse me of distracting her staff.’
Penny nodded, tucking the scone in her pocket and rushing for the servants’ stairs. With Mrs Harding out for at least an hour, the marquess still abed after his early-morning arrival, and all the servants bustling about, ensuring the house was at its best when the marquess finally did descend, Penny had a window of opportunity she was determined to exploit.
The most obvious place to search for evidence would be the marquess’ private rooms, but as he was currently using them, it seemed unwise. Later, then. Instead, Penny turned her steps toward her second option. His study. She had been itching to explore the room but thus far, her efforts had been limited to polishing the wood with lemon oil and beeswax while Mr Coggins kept his sharp gaze on her, presumably ensuring she didn’t steal the silver inkwell, or ruin the leather on Lord Renquist’s massive chair.
Coggins gave Penny a twitch in her eye. He didn’t move like a butler. Every other head of household she knew walked with a stiff, ramrod straight spine. Clipping steps. Dour voice. Coggins slithered silently over the floor, his tone was harsh, his eyes shrewd. He reminded Penny of the cutpurses she met in prison. He was a right devil and would make the perfect husband for Mrs Harding.Two sour grapes creating a cup of vinegar between them.
Penny smiled to herself. The vigilant Coggins was overseeing the dining room in Mrs Harding’s absence this morning. He wouldn’t have time to check on Penny.
‘This is my chance,’ she whispered, slipping into the masculine study reeking of Lord Renquist’s wild scent. How did one capture the essence of wood, wind, and freedom, then place that fragrance in a bottle?
Wizardry.The bastard must be friends with druids. It’s the only possible answer.
Penny glanced around the room, searching for the best place to start her investigation. The walls were papered in dark blue with geometric diamond patterns in silver. The desk, bookshelves, and a sideboard holding crystal decanters full of expensive whiskey, rare port, and French brandy, were all made from stained mahogany. The carpet was thick and soft under her feet. Penny was intimately acquainted with the details of this room. She’d spent hours rubbing the wood into a gleam, polishing the crystal until it sparkled, and staring at the drawers in Lord Renquist’s desk with the same intensity some women might employ while staring at their lovers. Secrets were hidden in those drawers. Confessions waiting to be discovered. And she would be the one to discover them.
A large leather settee sat ten feet from the marquess’ desk. Two wingback chairs in midnight-blue upholstery, darker than the walls, stood sentinel on either side of the settee with a low coffee table in the centre. A fireplace was at the far end of the room, already set with coal to be lit before the marquess arrived. But it wasn’t burning yet, which gave Penny important clues about Lord Renquist’s activities this morning. Penny exhaled a breath. He must not be planning to work in his study until later in the day or Coggins would have been sure to inform her the fire must be lit. She needn’t worry about interruption.
Rushing past the seating area, she made a beeline for the marquess’ desk. Pulling a hairpin from her neat chignon, she bent the metal at an angle and deftly inserted it into the lock on the desk’s largest drawer. Prison could teach a girl so manyuseful tricks. Lockpicking had been a favourite pastime of hers during hours spent in a solitary cell. In Penny’s experience, one didn’t lock a door, box, or drawer unless something precious lay within.
‘What treasures are you hiding, Lord Renquist?’ She fiddled with the lock, listened for the tumblers, and felt the catch and pull of complex metal workings within. A satisfying click alerted her to success, and she carefully opened the drawer.
Stacks of papers sat neatly within, all littered with senseless symbols. Penny picked up the top leaf of parchment, hating her illiteracy.
A world of knowledge is right in front of me and I’m too stupid to decipher it.
She bit her cheek and squinted at the letters on the page. They might as well be Sanskrit for all she could determine. One more way her inferiority kept her apart from the wealthy men and women of London.
Education, income, social clout… all things denied to a silly servant girl from the gutters.
But she wasn’t silly. And while she might not have a formal education, she knew things no pampered princess of the beau monde would learn painting plates and needlepointing cushions. She pushed the frustration away. It didn’t matter if she couldn’t decipher the words scattered over the pages like flecks of soot. She didn’t need to be able to read the letters. She just needed to find the right seal. Flipping each page over, she looked for a distinct pattern. The head of a crow, the body of a wolf, and the tail of a snake. The seal of the Devil’s Sons. Constable Sweet needed those letters, and by God, she was going to find them.
Penny diligently sorted through all the papers, but she found nothing. Just as she was about to return them to the drawer, the wooden bottom caught her eye. Crouching on the ground to better determine the dimensions of the drawer, it became clearto her the base was too shallow. She tapped the wood, and a hollow sound confirmed her suspicions. The drawer held a false bottom.
Exactly what might a marquess keep in his secret drawer?
Penny was going to find out.
A few more minutes of fiddling and she was able to pop the thin piece of wood free.
Huzzah!
Excitement and anticipation coursed through Penny, making her fingers tingle and her breath come fast. She lifted the wood free and found… more letters.
