Regency 09 - Redemption (27 page)

She reached the village with some
time to spare as the stage left promptly at six; the clock boasted
only half past five. She purchased her ticket and sat down in a
chair in the far corner of the taproom of the small posting house,
hoping to be as inconspicuous as possible. Thankfully, her shabby
cloak and coal scuttle bonnet concealed her enough to elicit no
more attention than the landlord’s wife asking her if she wanted
breakfast.

After the homely woman left, Lady
Verena Westbridge looked about her with wary interest. She longed
for a more simple and peaceful life where she didn’t have to worry
what imaginary offense she had committed to warrant her newest
punishment.

Two men—highborn gentlemen to judge
by their dress and manner—entered the taproom then and she watched
them nervously. Why were they there so early in the day? One
glanced in her direction but looked quickly away as he and his
companion moved on to sit at another table. She endeavored to
ignore them, but their voices, while not overly loud, carried to
her isolated corner.

“I don’t know how the devil
Feldspar roped me into this,” the one with the blue eyes and blond
hair remarked lazily to his friend. “The only members of the female
persuasion that will be there are ladies and servants. The one is
untouchable and the other is best left that way.”

“True,” said his companion, a
rather tall man with black hair and strangely colored gray-green
eyes. “Nevertheless, you agreed to go, as did I, and at this point
we cannot honorably renege.”

The landlord’s wife approached at
that moment and set a plate of eggs and toast as well as a pot of
tea before Verena. She thanked her and darted a nervous glance at
the gentlemen who had continued to speak. The one with the blue
eyes stared at her intently and she turned away praying he would
leave her alone.

Images flashed in Verena’s mind,
hazy recollections of the past, a past too painful for her to fully
remember. She shook her head, banishing the thoughts.

The gentleman must have satisfied
his curiosity, for she heard him say, “But Hereford? Good Lord,
there is nothing of interest at Feldspar’s. As much as I consider
him a friend, the man is a complete bore. And he never has enough
servants to take care of everyone. Anyone with the least
subservient attitude can be sure to be hired yet no one applies
because even the servants find it a bore to live and work
there.”

Verena could hear a strange
inflection in his tone and she chanced a peek at him through her
lashes. He watched her again, his eyes half closed in lazy
attention. What game did he play?

Before she could reflect much upon
it, she heard the call to board the stage.

Swallowing the last of her
breakfast and throwing a few coins on the table, she darted out
into the early morning gloom. She handed her single valise to the
coachman who threw it into the boot. Then she climbed into the
coach.

Her eyes soon adjusted to the dim
interior. Only two other people waited in the carriage: a rather
worn looking farmwife who confided she traveled to see her ailing
mother, and a ponderous man dressed in old but professional garb
who journeyed to see his first grandchild. Verena favored them with
a tremulous smile but refused to share anything about herself other
than to tell them the name she’d chosen to use while hiding from
her father.

Doll Rendel.

The three passengers lapsed into
silence as the coach pulled away from the posting house.

Verena passed the time thinking
about where she could go. Unbidden a pair of deep blue eyes flashed
through her mind and she remembered Hereford. A house party with
too few servants guaranteed work. She would much rather be a maid
of some sort than a lady who could be forced into a distasteful
marriage. With determination, she decided to change in her ticket
at the next posting house and purchase one to get her to
Hereford.

Her decision made, Verena sat back
and let the rocking of the coach lull her into much-needed
sleep.

“Very well, I’ll hire you despite
your lack of references. Lord knows we need the extra help. But you
must work very hard to prove your worth.”

Verena agreed gratefully. Mrs.
Watts had proved to be a kind but stern woman and Verena knew she
would have no difficulty working for her.

“Have you any special abilities,
Doll?”

“I’m a dab hand at dressin’ hair,
I’d say, mum,” Verena answered softly, trying to hide her cultured
accent as much as possible. She experienced a rare spurt of
gratitude toward her father for disallowing a lady’s maid in his
home. How else would a lady have learned to dress hair? Necessity
ever was the mother of invention.

“Excellent! We have need of an
abigail for those ladies who neglected to bring theirs. And when
you are not busy with those duties, I will give you some other
chores to give the other girls a hand.”

“Thank ‘ee, mum,” Verena whispered
as she sank into a curtsy.

“Bridgette! Come here,
child.”

Verena watched a girl of about her
own age approach. Masses of dark red curls framed a face dominated
by large green eyes. Her countenance lacked the freckles that so
often cursed girls of her coloring. Carrying herself as though she
didn’t realize her own beauty, Bridgette gave the housekeeper a
blank look.

“Mum?”

“Take Doll and explain her duties
as ladies’ maid.”

Bridgette grinned and curtsied.
“Yes, mum.” Turning, she tipped her head at Verena. “Follow
me.”

Verena walked behind the girl and
marveled at her ability to remain so cheerful even though her
servitude probably made her prey to all sorts of rakes and
libertines.

“First, I’ll show ye where yer ta
sleep.” Bridgette pushed open the door to the attics and ushered
her fellow servant into a low-ceilinged room. “Ye’ll be sharin’
with me, Doll. You take that cot, there.” She pointed at a cot
placed in one corner of the tiny room, a thin woolen blanket
stretched neatly over it.

Verena dutifully walked over and
placed her valise on the bed. “And this here’s yers,” Bridgette
continued, pulling open the lid of a small trunk at the foot of the
cot. “You can unpack later.”

Removing her cloak, Verena laid it
carefully on the bed. “Yer to be a ladies’ maid in that dress?” the
other girl clucked reprovingly.

Verena looked down at her plain
gown of brown serge. As it boasted a rather unfashionable cut to
match the serviceable fabric, its suitability for work could not be
argued.

“What’s wrong with it?” she asked
in surprise, forgetting to mask her voice.

“That’s what I thought,” Bridgette
mused, her own accent slipping. “I could tell you were highborn.
You have such an innocent look about you and although you try hard
to sound like a servant, you still sound educated.”

“As do you,” Verena pointed out
with a rare flash of spirit.

“So I do. If you don’t pry into my
past, I won’t pry into yours. Agreed?”

Verena hesitated for barely a
second. “Agreed.”

And there began a friendship that
helped carry Verena through a very trying time. Bridgette, or Bri
as she insisted on being called, helped Verena to acquire a uniform
of unfashionable black bombazine but fashionable cut with two white
muslin aprons and two lacy white mobcaps. Both had thought the
black would make Verena look a trifle sallow but it merely
magnified her shining hair and large dark eyes. While her friend
enthused over Verena’s beauty, Verena shrugged it off as
inconsequential. She favored her mother, a woman Verena never knew
and inwardly resented.

Despite the demanding ladies with
their spiteful natures, Verena was content in her new life, moving
through her days well occupied and falling into her bed each night
pleasantly exhausted.

Women, spiteful or not, did not
present a constant threat. The gentlemen, on the other hand, caused
a nervous fear in Verena that refused to lessen. She went about her
days, anxiously aware of any and all men who gazed at her with more
interest than was proper.

In defending her virtue, Bridgette
had proven an apt teacher. The other girl taught Verena how to
deflect most gentleman’s advances, using physical means if
necessary.

Only one gentleman refused to
be repulsed. Viscount Steyne was a thorn in her side, a constant
annoyance that made her wish it was in her to permanently maim a
fellow human being. He offered her
carte
blanche
on a regular basis, his constant
refusal to accept her negative response galling in the extreme. She
had little actual dread of him, however. Lord Feldspar may have
been an easy master to work for, but he was known to have no
tolerance for dalliance with the servants.

Despite all she endured, Verena
felt safer as a maid among strangers than in her father’s house as
a lady, the only daughter of the Earl of Carstairs.

Two

“Did you see the new arrivals,
Doll?”

Verena looked at Bridgette with
feigned interest. She really didn’t care who else arrived so long
as they left her alone. Lord Steyne had been particularly annoying
that day, cornering her and demanding that she accept his insulting
offer. She had taken to carrying a small knife secreted on her
person just in case the aggravating gentleman decided one day not
to take no for an answer.

“The tall one with the black hair
is very handsome,” Bridgette said in the same low tone she’d
employed before. When together, they dropped part of their servant
façade, allowing their voices to slip into the accents most
comfortable for them, always careful to keep them low enough so
others didn’t hear.

“Hmm,” was all Verena said, much to
her friend’s annoyance.

“His friend is handsome too but I
don’t find blond hair quite as pleasing.”

Verena stopped polishing the table
and stared at the other girl. Her heart skipped a beat then picked
up speed when she happened to glance past Bridgette. The very
objects of their discussion were that moment crossing the landing
in their trek to their assigned chambers.

It was him. The man from the
posting house. She had wondered where they were, knowing as she did
that they were due. She had somehow managed to put it in the back
of her mind.

Now he was looking at her. And
smiling.

With a little gasp, Verena grabbed
Bridgette and fled down the corridor.

Verena managed to avoid the new
arrivals for an entire week. She stood in the corridor, diligently
polishing the legs of a chair. It was not normally a duty of a
ladies’ maid but with so many guests, Verena’s duties changed to
match the demand. With Bri’s help, she’d managed to learn all the
little things she’d never learned to do at home.

It was mindless work. She went
through the motions, free to ponder her situation and wonder what
she could do after the house party ended. She could not expect to
be kept on.

Which was just as well. She
realized the previous afternoon that she would not be able to stay
anywhere for long. It was only a matter of time before she met
somebody who knew her father or her mother and realized who she
was. She knew how much she favored her mother.

A step from behind made her tense
and turn. Heart sinking, Verena dropped a curtsy and lowered her
eyes to Viscount Steyne, praying he would just pass her by. For
once.

He stopped. “If it isn’t the lovely
housemaid. When will you cease this silliness and accept my
offer?”

Verena glanced up through her
lashes. He sidled closer, his pleasantly handsome features wreathed
in a charming smile that did not reach his pale brown
eyes.

A shudder of distaste and horror
made its way from her stomach to her throat where she firmly
suppressed it. “It would not be right.”

His smile widened as if genuinely
amused by her statement. “Of course it would not. You are only a
maid.”

Verena did not find this as funny
as Lord Steyne apparently did. She frowned, a surprising surge of
anger rising to the fore.

“And you are not a
gentleman!”

That wiped the smile from his face.
“You dare much, little maid.” He reached out and took her arm in a
painful clasp.

Verena twisted her body in a
fruitless attempt to free herself. “Leave me be, you big
oaf!”

A strong arm snaked around her
waist but Verena was ready. Her little knife appeared in her hand
without thought. He saw it and leapt back, the surprise on his face
almost comical.

“Northwicke, a little assistance,
if you please.”

Verena hadn’t noticed the silent
approach of another man. He stood only a few feet away, a still
being, calmly observing them both. It was with some concern that
Verena realized his main focus seemed to be on her.

She knew who he was. He was the one
she had seen at the posting house and the one who had only recently
arrived with his dark friend. Lord Connor Northwicke, younger son
of the Duke of Denbigh, an unmarried young lord who was not in the
market for a bride.