Читать книгу Second Chance Cinderella - Carla Capshaw - Страница 11

Chapter One

London, England

September, 1842

It was the woman’s hair that drew Sam Blackstone’s full attention. The waterfall of gold tumbling down her narrow back from beneath a serviceable black bonnet reminded him of Rose Smith. As the blonde disappeared into the sea of pedestrians, his mood soured that same instant. The last thing he wanted or needed was a morning poisoned by memories of the past.

Relying on the years of strict mental discipline he’d employed to rise from being a village ne’er-do-well to one of London’s most prominent stockbrokers, he forced memories of Rose’s betrayal from his mind and descended the wide front steps of his elegant Mayfair townhouse.

In the past nine years, he’d played the game well and few challenges remained. He’d acquired more wealth than he’d ever dreamed as a young orphan in Ashby Croft. Far from going to bed with an empty stomach gnawing his ribs, sleeping in a drafty hovel and wearing itchy rags, he dined on delicacies, lived in a mansion and dressed in the finest Savile Row suits. Few rivaled his influence in financial circles. His advice on monetary matters was sought by everyone from potato farmers to Parliament members.

His driver opened the coach’s door. Sam climbed in and sat heavily on the black, embossed leather seat, impatient to get underway.

As he waited, his gaze slid back to the Georgian edifice he’d acquired three years earlier. The echoing monstrosity boasted every luxury and admirably performed its duty to impress, but the residence was devoid of human warmth or cheer. He much preferred to spend his waking hours at the city offices of Stark, Winters and Blackstone or overseeing the firm’s vigorous trade of commodities at the Exchange in Capel Court.

“Beggin’ yer pardon for the delay, sir,” his driver, Gibson, said over the din of the busy street. “Oxford’s in a tangle. The fine weather’s drawn everyone out. I ’spect there’s nary a church mouse to be found indoors at present.”

The coach finally pulled away from the curb. The pungent aroma of horseflesh and smoke carried on the air. Sam consulted his pocket watch before extracting several reports from the leather portfolio he’d brought with him. Not one to waste time when there was more wealth to be gleaned, he shuffled through the pages.

The list of figures blurred and the brisk activity all around him faded as his mind wandered to the taunting vision of the woman with blond hair. Something about the stranger beckoned him to find her, but he remained in his seat, determined to shut her out with a stubbornness that bordered on vice. She was nothing and no one to him. True, she’d been of similar height and build as Rose. And that golden hair—such a unique color. What if, by some twist of fate, Rose had come up to London and—

He scrubbed his hand over his eyes, dispelling the wild notion before his imagination grew to unrealistic proportions. Nine years had come and gone since he’d left tiny Ashby Croft. He was never going to see Rose again, and frankly, good riddance. Far from waiting for him as she’d promised, she’d married another bloke within months of his leaving. If a heart could break into a thousand jagged pieces, his had the day he’d returned to Devonshire to collect her and learned she’d thrown him over for someone else.

As much as he’d tried to forget her, the foul taste of her faithlessness had tainted every day for him since.

Despising the black mood overtaking him, he stuffed the reports back into the portfolio and closed the latch. The flow of vehicles congesting the street had slowed to a standstill. “How much longer, Gibson?” he demanded. “The ’Change opens in an hour.”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“Bother this.” Sam thrust the door open and climbed down from the vehicle. “I’m certain I’ll find the pace more brisk if I walk. Pick me up at half past six as usual...if you manage to be free by then.”

“Forgive me, sir, but shall I make that half past five? I overheard Cook say you was dinin’ with guests tonight.”

Sam frowned. He’d forgotten all about his dinner companions, including Lord Sanbourne and his beguiling daughter, Amelia, who was to serve as his hostess for the evening. “Right you are, Gibson. Half past five.”

The driver tipped his cap with a quick, “Aye, sir,” before pulling along the curb and setting the brake. The matched pair of gray geldings hitched to the conveyance whinnied and shook their heads as though disappointed by the loss of their morning exercise.

Portfolio in hand, Sam started off, shouldering his way through the occasional gaps that opened between his fellow pedestrians. He pressed his top hat tighter to his head to keep it from being dislodged by one of the frequent gusts of wind. At Oxford Street a seemingly endless row of traffic forced him to wait on the crowded corner.

“My, what a glorious day,” a lady in front of him cooed, nearly poking him in the eye with her ruffled parasol.

“Indeed, ’tis marvelous,” her elegant companion agreed.

Sam supposed it was true. The sun shone with undaunted enthusiasm, and rather than fog or London’s usual gray haze of coal smoke, the air seemed clear for once. Pots of flowers graced the steps and entryways of the grand terraces on both sides of the busy thoroughfare. Their late-summer blooms shone in shades of bright pink, fiery-red and, to Sam’s everlasting irritation, a golden-yellow that once again reminded him of Rose’s burnished hair.

Gritting his teeth, he headed toward Regent Street.

He wasn’t one for mysteries. He understood himself well enough to know that if he didn’t at least try to ascertain the truth of the blonde’s identity his imagination would pester him forever.

Aware of the unlikelihood of finding the stranger in the crush of people and that a solid quarter of an hour had passed since he’d first caught sight of her, he soldiered on as though some insistent, yet invisible force were pulling him forward.

Half a block later he began to wonder if he should retire to Bedlam. If there’d ever been a wild-goose chase, he was on it. Feeling foolish to his core, he scanned the hustle and bustle along the street and shook his head at his own stupidity. The woman, whoever she was, had disappeared like a vapor in the wind.

Annoyed by the bitter disappointment that assailed him, he wedged the portfolio under his arm, removed his top hat and combed a hand through his short, black hair. With a sinking heart, he wondered if he’d ever be truly free of Rose Smith.

His hat back in place, he was determined to forget the blonde and the lunacy that compelled him to chase after her. The pounding of workmen’s hammers making repairs on the row of buildings behind him mixed with the call of newspaper boys and the clamor of horses and carriages. In the distance, the bass notes of a church bell announced the ninth hour.

A momentary break in the rank of pedestrians allowed him a glimpse of his quarry on the corner at the next block. His heart kicked against his ribs. He sprinted after her, her lovely hair drawing him like a lodestar as he pushed through the gaggle of people meandering along the footpath.

A gust of wind swished the lady’s cape up and out behind her. She carried a battered valise he hadn’t noticed before, and the black garb she wore appeared to be the typical frock of a servant.

A passing barouche and row of horse carts impeded his progress at the corner of Holles Street. For a few, tension-filled moments he feared he’d lost her again, but the way cleared in time for him to see her stop in front of a Palladian townhouse on the east side of Cavendish Square. Although she stood in profile, the details of her face were obscured by the bill of her bonnet. Her head nodded as she looked from the front of the building to a piece of paper she held.

The paper gave him pause. Rose didn’t know how to read, or at least she hadn’t when he’d known her. Perhaps she’d learned in the past nine years, the same as he had acquired new skills and bettered himself.

He picked up his pace. “Rose!” he shouted, drawing startled looks from the other walkers, but he paid them no mind. “Rose!” he called again, dodging several horses as he crossed to the square. No response. Either she didn’t hear him over the activity in the street or he had the wrong woman altogether.

And yet she seemed so familiar. The fluid way she walked, the expressive tilt of her head... The cape she wore made it difficult to tell, but now that he’d had a better look, she seemed shapelier in the hips and bust than his Rose had been. But wasn’t that to be expected? She was no longer a girl of sixteen, but a mature woman of twenty-five.

The mystery lady disappeared down the townhouse steps leading to the servants’ entrance. Sam yanked off his hat and broke into a run. A door slammed just as he reached the front of the house. He moved to the narrow flight of steps he’d seen the woman take and stared at the scuffed black door that led to a basement and the source of the rich aromas filling the air.

Sam slapped his hat against his thigh in frustration. He considered inquiring after the woman but discarded the notion. Servants were often a prickly lot with an abhorrence for being intruded upon by outsiders.

Besides, what would he do if he found out his quarry did happen to be Rose? Strangling her wasn’t an option and he doubted she’d come willingly to the door to hear his abysmal opinion of her.

He noted the address. The townhouse boasted mansion-size proportions, wide front steps, imposing columns and lead-glass windows. If he wasn’t mistaken, the edifice belonged to Baron Malbury, a shifty fellow who’d risen to his current status through the untimely death of his predecessor in a boating accident the previous month.

Sam had been reluctant to take on the self-important, nearly impoverished peer as a client, but if Malbury employed Rose, he’d have to reevaluate the situation and determine the best way to use the connection to his advantage.

Sam returned to the corner across the street and called to a newspaper boy leaning on the gas lamp.

“Aye, govna?” the boy rang out as he bounded over to him. A child of no more than seven or eight, he was unkempt with dirt smudges on his cheeks, his muddy-brown hair uncombed. His ragged clothes were too big for his scrawny frame and the hungry look about him reminded Sam of his own miserable childhood. “You wan’ ta buy a paypa?”

Sam shook his head. He’d already looked over The Times at breakfast. “What’s your name, young man?”

“Georgie, sir.”

“Well, Georgie, I have a proposition for you. How would you like to earn a quid for say...ten minutes of your time?”

Georgie’s brown eyes rounded with a hopeful eagerness he couldn’t quite hide. “If it ain’t on the up and up, me mum—”

“Oh, it’s honest, all right. You needn’t worry. I want you to go to the servants’ entrance of that residence—” he pointed to the Malbury mansion “—and ask if there’s a maid by the name of Rose employed there. If so, ask if her name was Rose Smith before she married. Do you think you could do that for me?”

“That’s all I ’ave to do for a ’ole quid?”

Sam nodded. His gaze slid back to the mansion. His eyes narrowed on the glossy front door. Curiosity burned in his veins. “Yes, and if you hurry I’ll give you two.”

Georgie took off at a flat run.

* * *

Praying she’d come to the right place, Rose knocked on the kitchen door. Ever since she’d become a Christian eight years ago, she’d relied on the Lord to direct her path. Relying on His guidance eased her mind when the shifting letters and numbers others seemed to read with ease made little sense to her.

The scuffed black door swung open. “Ye’re late,” said a young, frowning kitchen maid.

She blinked, surprised to see a woman instead of a footman answer the door. “I know. I apologize. The coach from Paddington station suffered a broken wheel.” Her heart racing from the mad pace she’d kept in her failed attempt to arrive on time, she switched her battered valise to her other hand and descended the final step into the basement. A blast of heat assaulted her along with the aroma of roasted fowl. “I had to walk the last few miles and I lost my way a bit. I came as quick as I could.”

The door slammed shut behind her as the dour-faced Scot ushered her farther into the entryway. A stone arch separated the small space from the ovens and activity of the kitchen beyond. The harried staff reminded her of the frantic crowds in the maze of streets outside.

“Then yoo’d best get settled an’ tae work straight awa’,” said the maid. Dressed in a column of black wool and a sullied white apron, the young woman inspected her with a quick, unimpressed glance. “I don’t ken how ye bumpkins in th’ coontry work, but our cook, Mrs. Pickles, isna a body for tardiness or excuses of any kind.”

Taking exception to being called a bumpkin, Rose bit back a tart reply as she followed the maid down a hallway that led to a spiral staircase. Before leaving Hopewell Manor, the Malbury family’s country estate where she’d been in service for the past eight years, she’d been forewarned of the infamous Mrs. Pickles’s reputation as a taskmaster. It was said the cook ran her kitchen like Wellington at Waterloo and with nearly as many casualties.

The mere thought of losing her job made Rose’s stomach churn. It was imperative that she make a favorable impression on the irascible woman who held Rose’s job in her hands. Rose was on excellent terms with the staff at Hopewell Manor and only in London for a fortnight to help with a shortage of trained servants in the townhouse kitchen, but that did not mean she couldn’t be dismissed. The tragic death of the previous baron and his wife had put the livelihood of every Malbury employee in jeopardy.

Apparently, the new baron had inherited the title and lands with very little coin to sustain the expenses that accompanied the prize. His servants worried he planned to terminate long-term staff in favor of importing cheaper, Irish labor. Nothing could be taken for granted, nor a foot placed wrong. She could not afford to be sacked. Finding another position was nigh impossible for anyone and doubly so for a woman in her precarious situation.

“My name is Rose Smith, by the way,” she said over the banging of pans and calls for more boiling water.

“Ah be Ina McDonald.”

“Have you been in service here long?” Rose asked as they reached the third floor.

“Six months. Five and a half too many if ye ask me. Min’, th’ auld baron an’ baroness were kind enough, but Mrs. Pickles makes every day a sour circumstance.” Ina took a skeleton key from her skirt pocket and unlocked a door across the hall. “Ye’ll be sharin’ quarters wi’ me whilst ye’re here. Keep yer belongings tae yer own side of the room an’ we’ll get on jus’ dandy.”

Rose found the converted attic similar in size to the room she shared with Andrew at Hopewell Manor. Her former employers had always displayed a unique sense of Christian charity toward their servants’ well-being and the snug space was pleasantly situated. Morning sunlight and a cool breeze streamed through two dormer windows dressed with faded blue curtains. Simple white moldings edged plastered walls painted in a cheerful shade of yellow.

Three single beds hugged the opposing sides of the room. Ina had claimed the one left of the door and arranged her few belongings with obvious care and neatness in mind.

“Hurry, if ye ken what’s good fur ye.” Ina headed back to work. In a rush to follow her, Rose moved to the bed nearest the windows and set her valise on the scuffed, but freshly swept wood floor. She would have to make up the bare mattress later.

She hung her cloak and bonnet on the wall hook at the end of the bed before opening her valise to fish for a fresh apron. The faint hint of talcum clung to the extra work frock, Sunday-best dress and other belongings that filled the case. With no more time to find the small mirror she’d brought, she did her best to repair her hair and repin the long blond tendrils that had bounced free when the coach suffered its broken wheel. She wished she could remove her shoes and rub her throbbing feet. They ached from miles of walking and she had a long day ahead of her.

As she stood to tie the apron around her waist, she glanced out the window and took in the bird’s-eye view. Amid the colorful parasols and scurry of pedestrians, a tall man on the corner of the square across the street drew her attention. The refined dark business suit and top hat he wore vouched for his importance, but there was a solitary quality about him that she recognized in herself.

Despite the need to make haste, she remained nailed to the floor. The distance between her perch and the square kept her from seeing the gentleman’s face. She willed him to move closer.

Instead, the newspaper boy he spoke with darted toward the Malbury townhouse whilst the man turned his back to her and made for one of the ornate, wrought-iron benches set along the gravel path. Tension wafted off him in waves.

A flock of pigeons scattered like feathers in the wind, jolting Rose from her musings. With no more time to spare, she dragged herself from the window and shut the door behind her as she left the room.

The stirring of curiosity toward the stranger surprised her. Not since Sam had she noticed a man with any personal interest on her part. After all they’d meant to each other, he’d simply forgotten her. He’d been gone for over a year before she’d given up all hope and admitted to herself that he’d cast her off the same as everyone else in her life had done. In turn, she’d banished him from her heart and mind—or at least tried to.

“How good of you to join us,” a stern voice said the moment Rose reached the bottom of the stairs. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust well enough to see the gaunt, gray-haired woman in spectacles at the opposite end of the hot, dimly lit corridor.

“I am the household’s cook, Mrs. Pickles. You shall report to me or the housekeeper, Mrs. Biddle, while you are employed here. Ina informed me your less than punctual arrival this morning is due to the state of the roads and an unreliable vehicle. I shall let the incident pass this once, but do not test me on future occasions. I do not abide tardiness in my kitchen. Since we’re short staffed, you will work as a between maid whilst you’re here. However, since the lion’s share of your time will be spent in the kitchen and scullery, rather than the rest of the house, you shall look to me should you have any questions. You are expected to be ready for work promptly at half past five each morning. To my way of thinking Mrs. Michaels allows you far too many liberties at Hopewell Manor. Be mindful that those privileges won’t be extended here.”

A ring of keys she extracted from her pocket jangled as she unlocked and opened a dark-paneled door. “What are you waiting for? Come into my office, and be brisk about it, if you please.”

Rose’s black skirts swished around her ankles as she rushed past the older woman whose rigid spine, stiff shoulders and prim collar made Rose wonder if she’d bathed in starch.

The spotless office smelled of pine oil and drying herbs. A battered bookcase bowed with old crockery and receipt books stood in one corner. Rose checked her posture and waited like the wayward servant Mrs. Pickles apparently believed she was. The cook folded into the chair behind the heavy oak desk with the ease of bending stone and removed her wire-rimmed spectacles.

Fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Pickles released Rose to work. Armed with the names of her superiors, the litany of her duties, a lecture on propriety and a key to her room, Rose aimed for the door.

“And one last thing,” Mrs. Pickles said the moment Rose turned the smooth brass doorknob. “I trust you aren’t in any trouble. Your personal difficulties won’t be tolerated in this household.”

Rose paused, unable to hazard a guess as to what the cook meant by that cryptic remark. Was she warning her against the prospect of bringing Andrew up to London? “I assure you I’m only here to do my duties to the best of my ability, ma’am. I’m grateful for my place at Hopewell Manor and look forward to returning there once you no longer require my assistance. If you’re referring to my son, he’s staying with a relative in the country. I assure you I have no intention of bringing him here.”

Mrs. Pickles returned her spectacles to the bridge of her nose before folding her hands into a tight knot on the desktop. “Ah, yes, the child.” Her thin lips curled distastefully. “Michaels mentioned him when she wrote to me about you. It seems everyone at Hopewell Manor, including the former master and his family, is quite taken with the pair of you. However, you are no pet here. I warn you that I’m wise to women of your questionable character, who put on airs and mimic their betters—”

“Pardon?” Rose grew hot in the face. She didn’t mimic anyone. Aware that most people considered her far beneath their notice, she’d made a concerted effort to capitalize on the education she’d received while living at the orphanage.

Although her inability to learn to read embarrassed her, she’d striven in other ways to improve herself. She had no wish to disgrace her son or give the other parents and children additional reasons to look down on him because of her lowly background or poor speech.

“—and bear children out of wedlock, then take advantage of the charity of others. Be aware that this is a respectable household. If you wish to sell your favors or dangle men on a string, then I suggest you go elsewhere for I’ll have none of your antics taking place under this roof.”

Offended to her core but forced to tread lightly lest she lose her much-needed employment, Rose prayed the Lord would guard her mouth. “Mrs. Pickles, I’ve made mistakes in the past to be sure, but I promise you I don’t participate in the behavior you’ve described.”

“Then be so good as to explain why, within minutes of your arrival, a boy came to inquire about you at the behest of a man waiting across the street.”

“A boy?” She frowned.

“Yes, the paper hawker from the opposite corner. He asked if Rose Smith worked in service here. When Miss McDonald told him you did, he explained about the man who’d sent him, then promptly ran away.”

The image of the well-dressed gentleman popped into her mind and an unexpected surge of excitement made her heart flutter. “Did the lad happen to mention the gentleman’s name?”

Mrs. Pickles shook her head. “Am I to assume you may be familiar with the identity of your admirer?”

“No, ma’am.” Rose’s hand tightened on the doorknob. “I haven’t the slightest idea why anyone would seek me out. This is my first venture to London and other than asking for directions from a rag woman a few streets over, I’ve spoken to no one.”

Mrs. Pickles stood, her expression skeptical. “You may claim you’re not looking for a man, but according to the boy, there is definitely one looking for you.”

“I assure you, ma’am, I—”

“Yes, yes, you’ve no idea who he might be,” the cook said. “We shall see. Off to work you go. We’ve got a busy day ahead.”

Rose wasted no time leaving the office and making her way to the scullery. Smarting from the housekeeper’s accusatory manner, she despised her lowly lot in life and her inability to defend herself. The foul odors rising from the buckets lined against the stone wall gagged her. Towers of breakfast dishes stood beside the sink filled with food-crusted pots and pans. Dampness from shallow puddles on the floor pervaded the small, windowless closet of a room.

Resentment rippled through her. Thanks to someone else’s whim, she’d been sentenced to the kitchen’s dungeon once more. The years she’d spent toiling her way up to kitchen maid, then cook’s assistant might as well have never been.

After fetching and heating the necessary buckets of water, she filled the sink and rolled up her sleeves before placing a stack of plates in to soak. She reminded herself to be grateful she had a job at all. The walk through London’s crowded, fetid streets this morning had proven she could ill afford to be particular. At the best of times, females had few, if any, real choices and a woman like her—with a young child to care for and no husband to rely on—had fewer options still.

Thankfully, she wasn’t alone. She had the Lord to depend on and He had yet to fail her. She never forgot that before she loved Him, He had loved her. Even in her darkest hours, when she’d been near starving, expecting a child and leeched of hope that Sam would ever return, He had not forsaken her. Instead, He’d brought Harry Keen into her life and then the Malburys, a loving and godly family who cared more for people than convention. Without them and their willingness to take her on despite her being an expectant mother, she would never have been able to keep Andrew or supply a roof over their heads.

Picking up two of the buckets by their rope handles, she headed outdoors. The thought of losing Andrew chilled her to the marrow. He was a gift from the Lord and the center of her existence. She’d do anything to protect him, to ensure he remained with her and in the happiest home she could provide. If that meant scrubbing pots and pans until her fingers bled, then that’s what she would do.

The first luncheon dishes arrived to be washed just as she finished drying the last pan from breakfast. By midafternoon, her hands were raw from the hot water and strong soap, and her feet ached from the hours she’d spent standing on the unyielding stone floor. It was a great relief when Ina fetched her to help the chambermaid make beds upstairs.

Early evening found Rose back in the scullery, another teetering mountain of pots and pans beside the sink to be washed. Hearing Mrs. Pickles’s joyless voice in the corridor set her teeth on edge. She glanced around for a bucket to empty outside as an excuse to escape the stern woman.

“Smith, there you are.” The cook stopped in the doorway. “I have revised instructions for you tonight.”

Rose faced the older woman. “What am I to do, ma’am?”

Mrs. Pickles dried her hands on her long, white apron. “You’re to go with Ina to a house on Hanover Square. There’s a well-to-do gentleman, a Mr. Samuels, I believe, who is short staffed for a dinner party he’s hosting this evening. Baron Malbury is keen to win his favor and has graciously offered to send the two of you to assist.”

“When are we to leave?” She wrung out her dishrag and laid it over the edge of the sink to dry.

“Immediately. I’ve already given the address to Ina. Be certain you change your apron before you depart. You look like day-old porridge,” she tossed over her shoulder as she left.

Rose wiped a trickle of perspiration from her temple and pushed back the damp tendrils of hair falling around her face. As she climbed the stairs to her room, she removed the offending apron and wished she could crawl into bed. Exhaustion crippled her. Considering the day had started with a carriage accident before dawn and gone progressively downhill from there, she began to wonder what trials the night held in store.

A downpour accompanied Rose’s unfamiliar trek through Mayfair’s confusing maze of slippery cobblestones and fog-shrouded streets. Her shoes squeaked from more than one dunk in a mud puddle and her soggy bonnet had quit shielding her face from the rain two blocks earlier.

The short jaunt should have been uneventful, but due to a pugnacious individual who seemed to believe he owned the entire footpath, Ina had been pushed off the curb and sent reeling into an open sewer. Her twisted ankle and filthy skirts left her unfit for work. After calling a hack to convey the other girl home, Rose had pressed on alone.

Shivering and keenly aware that she was late for the second time in the same day, Rose made use of the knocker on the glossy, black kitchen door of the Samuels’s townhouse. As she always did when visiting a new place, she worried she’d misread the address and come to the wrong establishment.

The door swung open. Heat from the stove and the delicious scents of savory dishes emanated from the large work area beyond. A uniformed footman stared down at her.

“Hello, I’m Rose—”

“My name is Robert. Weren’t there to be two of you?”

“Yes.” She explained about Ina’s predicament. “She twisted her ankle and had to return home.”

“I suppose that’s why you’re late?”

She nodded.

“The master’s waiting for you and his guests are expected soon. Follow me.” The footman stepped back to allow her entrance into the warm, cavernous basement that smelled of herbs and cinnamon.

“The master wishes to see me?” Struck by the oddity of the situation, she handed over her sodden bonnet, muddy cape and umbrella. Damp patches spotted her gown and a rip marred the hem. Water from her wet hair trickled down her temples and the back of her neck. “You must be mistaken. I’m in Baron Malbury’s employ. Mrs. Pickles sent me to help with the shortage of kitchen staff this evening. Why should your master wish to see the likes of me?”

Robert shrugged. “It’s not my place to ask, miss.”

“Does he interview all the temporary help?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

As she followed the footman, she noticed the copper pots bubbling on the wood stove and the variety of roasted meats resting on the chopping blocks. Kitchen maids buzzed about doing chores and putting the final touches on the sauces and desserts. Unlike the Malbury townhouse, or even Hopewell Manor at times of late, this kitchen seemed well staffed—perhaps overly so.

A flight of stairs delivered them to the ground floor where a checkered pattern of black-and-white marble anchored the central hall. Massive paintings of somber individuals looked down on her from ornate, gilded frames hung on walls covered with blue-watered silk.

Until now, she’d found Hopewell her ideal of refinement, but the grand manor where she’d worked for the past several years seemed like nothing more than a pretty house compared to the opulence on offer here.

“This way, miss.”

The faint sound of servants discussing the proper placement of cutlery filtered out of the dining room as Rose trailed the footman past marble busts, cut-crystal vases filled with hothouse flowers and a massive etched mirror. She cringed at her ghastly reflection of bedraggled hair and cold, blue-tinged lips.

Robert stopped in front of a door and rapped on the dark wood.

“Enter,” came a muffled order.

The flash of pity that crossed Robert’s expression gave her pause. “He’ll see you now.”

Trepidation snaked through her as he opened the door. The peculiar situation couldn’t be discounted. Employers usually took as much notice of their lower servants as a fallen leaf in the park.

With nervous fingers, she brushed damp tendrils off her face and tried to smooth the wrinkles from her skirt before she hesitantly crossed the threshold.

The scent of lemon polish and leather greeted her. Despite the glow from the fireplace, shadows lurked in the corners of the masculine room. Shelves crammed with books lined the walls and her exhausted brain began to ache at the thought of trying to decipher even the simplest among them.

“That will be all, Robert.”

Gasping, she spun in the direction of the deep voice.

Sam’s voice.

Disbelief coursed through her. Her heart clamored in wild abandon even before she found him standing behind a wide, polished desk at the head of the room.

“Hello, Rose.”