Chapter 24
CHAPTER 24
R ebecca stomped down a garden path and shoved her way through a cluster of guests. She didn’t care if she knocked people out of the way. Her pride had just been trampled, publicly, no less. And for what? For some lowly maid!
Her ruffled skirt swished violently with each step. When she spotted her mother near the maze sipping punch and gossiping with a woman in green silk, she huffed and marched toward them. Was that Mrs. Johnson’s cousin? Well, whoever it was, she didn’t care. Without ceremony, Rebecca stomped her way alongside her. “I have something to tell you.”
Mrs. Harrington raised an eyebrow. “Darling, lower your voice. You’re drawing attention.”
“I want attention,” Rebecca snapped, loud enough to earn a few glances.
Mrs. Harrington dismissed her companion with a faint smile and took Rebecca by the elbow, steering her a few paces away. “Fine, tell me what’s happened.”
“He humiliated me!”
“Who?”
“Baron Ewart Bailey! He humiliated me in front of half of Mrs. Pettigrew’s guests.”
Mrs. Harrington tilted her head. “He’s not a baron yet dear. Now tell me what happened.”
“He danced with that—thatmaid! And then he declared she was more charming than anyone he’d met in America. Then he said he didn’t care about his title or his family’s expectations.” She wiped at one eye. “And then he kissed her, Mother! Well—okay, herhand—but it was right there in front of everyone, like she was someone .”
Mrs. Harrington’s lips tightened, though whether it was from distaste or calculation was hard to say. Sometimes even Rebecca couldn’t tell. At least she was listening. “The housemaid,” her mother drawled.
Rebecca nodded, her cheeks burning. “Abbey. The redhead. That wretch.”
“Hm.”
“What? Isthatall you have to say?”
Mrs. Harrington tapped her chin thoughtfully. “No, darling. I’m thinking.”
Rebecca blinked as her mother’s smile deepened. “I assume Mr. Bailey’s affections are genuine?”
“He made it look like they were. Hesaidhe cared for her.”
Her mother’s gaze swept the area around them, ensuring no one was close enough to eavesdrop. “What we need,” she murmured, “is for him to see what sort of woman he’s so carelessly placing on a pedestal.”
“I already told people she was a maid,” Rebecca muttered. “No one cared. It must be the ballgown…”
“Pretty fabric can be very forgiving,” her mother said coolly. “Appearance is everything, my dear. What we must do is ensure she can’t hide what she really is.”
Rebecca’s breath caught. “What do you suggest?”
Her mother leaned in. “Let him see her make a fool of herself. Or better yet, let him believe she’s beenleading him on.”
Rebecca frowned. “But she hasn’t.”
Mrs. Harrington gave a thin smile. “Facts are irrelevant, dear.Perceptionis everything.”
“And how would we do that?”
“We don’t,” Mrs. Harrington said, eyes narrowing. “Ido. Now come with me.”
Rebecca followed half a step behind, humiliation still burning, but the promise of retribution kept her moving. Her mother swept toward the French doors, her posture regal and every inch the dignified guest. But Rebecca knew better. Her mother could ruin reputations with no more than a raised eyebrow.
They paused near the parlor, where a hired maid was setting out empty trays. Mrs. Harrington leaned close and whispered something too soft to hear. Coins changed hands. The maid nodded and disappeared into the grand foyer, heading upstairs.
“What did you do?” Rebecca asked a little breathless.
“I’m arranging for the maid, Abbey, to be summoned inside. She’ll be told Mrs. Pettigrew needs her.”
Rebecca frowned. “Mother, she’s noton duty.”
“No one questions a summons from the matron of the house.” She smiled. “But wait.” She glided down the hall toward Mrs. Pettigrew’s private sitting room.
“You want to do something inhere?” Rebecca asked.
Mrs. Harrington scanned the room. “It’s perfect. Dimly lit, small, private. Anything could happen in a room like this.”
Rebecca looked around and smiled. “Why, Mother, you’re positivelywicked.”
“I have my moments. But let me tell you this. I don’t intend to fall out of Mrs. Pettigrew’s good graces. So this had better work, Rebecca.”
“I have every confidence in you,” she said with glee.
Her mother nodded and slipped out of the room. “I have one more thing to do before everything is set. You’d best return to your booth.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Talk to a footman.” With that, she disappeared into the shadows.
Rebecca returned to the garden, grabbed some punch, and made sure to steer clear of Ewart and Abbey. From the looks of it, they were still dancing. The sight made her want to scratch somebody’s eyes out. It wasn’t long before her mother found her.
“All right,” Mrs. Harrington said briskly. “I’ve instructed a footman to leave the drapes pulled, the lights dimmed and have a bottle of wine opened and half-poured on the table near the settee.”
Rebecca gasped. “Oh, Mother. You’re going to make it look like she’s beencompromised, aren’t you?”
“Of course, dear. The footman will have his coat unbuttoned, his collar askew. I told him to look bewildered and very uncomfortable.”
“I can’t wait to see this.”
“Well, we might not see it, but we’ll definitely walk in on it.” She smiled wickedly. “I paid the footman to give Abbey the excuse he was told she needs help moving something. He believes she’ll meet him there. I paid one of the maids to deliver the same message to Mr. Bailey.”
“You’re going to make it look like sheluredhim?”
“Exactly.”
“Mother, this is so devious. Are you sure the servants won’t talk?”
“Of course, they’re here only temporarily,” Mrs. Harrington said. “Does it matter if Mrs. Pettigrew fires someone who is leaving in a day or two anyway?”
“I suppose not,” Rebecca said.
“Quiet now,” Mrs. Harrington said. She studied the French doors and took her by the arm. “There she is, heading inside now.” They hurried down an adjoining short hall, ducked into Mrs. Pettigrew’s library, then peeked around the doorjamb to watch.
Abbey came into view, brow furrowed, clearly confused. She approached the sitting room slowly. “Hello?” she called.
Like clockwork, the footman stepped into view, turned to the open door, and stepped inside. Low voices followed. A moment later, they heard Abbey gasp, followed by the sound of breaking glass.
Ewart suddenly appeared in the hallway. He paused, taking in the scene. The half-lit room. The footman now flushed and fidgeting as instructed. Then everything went quiet.
“Wait!” they heard Abbey say. “This isn’t…I mean, I was told Mrs. Pettigrew…”
Rebecca clamped both hands over her mouth to stifle her laughter, then whispered, “Now, Mother?”
“Yes, my dear,” she whispered back. “Now.”
Rebecca stepped out of the library, crossed the short hall into the next and let her hand flutter to her mouth. “Ohno!” she gasped when she reached the doorway to the sitting room. “Ewart… I’m so sorry…”
Ewart took everything in at once. The dim room, the half-poured bottle of wine, the wide-eyed footman standing like a man who’d wandered into the wrong scene of a play. Then there was Abbey. She stood frozen near the window, cheeks flushed, hands raised in a helpless sort of surrender. She looked confused, cornered, and very clearly not the orchestrator of anything.
He stepped inside just as Rebecca appeared behind him, one hand pressed theatrically to her lips.
“Oh, Ewart,” she said, feigning shock. “I’m so sorry…”
“That’ll be quite enough,” he snapped, cutting her off.
Rebecca blinked innocently. “I just thought you shouldn’t see…”
“I have seen,” he said, voice sharp. “And it’s obvious what’s happened here.” His gaze swept the room again, then landed on the trembling footman. “You. What’s your name?”
“Cecil, sir.”
“And what are you doing here?”
“I…I was told that this maid needed help moving something heavy. I swear, I didn’t…”
“Return to your duties,” Ewart said firmly. “Now. Or I shall tell Mrs. Pettigrew you’ve been shirking your duties.”
The footman didn’t wait. He fled the room like he’d been shot from a cannon.
Ewart turned back to Abbey. She hadn’t moved. She was staring at him like she wasn’t sure if she was about to be saved or sentenced. He stepped toward her. “Are you all right?”
She gave a small nod, still half-cringing.
He held her gaze, giving her the gentlest look he could muster, then turned to face Rebecca. “If you think this was going to change my mind about Abbey,” he said coldly, “then you don’t know me very well.”
Rebecca stiffened, but he didn’t give her a moment to recover.
“You dragged a hired footman into Mrs. Pettigrew’s sitting room, planted a bottle of wine, and thought I’d assume he was having his way with Abbey? Or that she was compromising herself with him? Or were you hoping I’d storm in and find her doing something more shameful?”
Her mouth opened, then shut again. She looked like a fish gasping for air.
“You made assumptions,” he said. “Whereas I’ve been clear about things from the very start.”
Rebecca’s face went crimson. “You’ll regret this, Ewart Bailey.”
“I’ll just have to live with that,” he said with a shrug, still frowning. He turned to Abbey and closed the distance between them. “I do know you,” he said tenderly. “And I’d like to know you more.”
He faced Rebecca again, his voice steely. “So here it is, Miss Harrington. There’s nothing you can say, no trap you can set, that will change how I feel about Abigail O’Connell.”
Abbey’s breath hitched, her eyes wide. A lone tear rolled down her cheek.
Ewart smiled at her. “I meant what I said out there. I care for you. Deeply! I admire you. And if it takes every last ounce of sense I’ve got, I’ll prove to you I’m not afraid of what comes next.” Then, without waiting for permission, without caring who might be watching, he took her in his arms and kissed her.
Ewart poured into that kiss every hope, truth, and longing he hadn’t known how to name until now. Abbey gasped against his mouth, stunned, but then, for one breathless heartbeat, she melted into it.
When he pulled back, her eyes were still wide. But not with fear.
A strangled sound escaped Rebecca, and she stomped her foot like a thwarted child.
Ewart looked over his shoulder. “You may want to find a booth to cry in, Miss Harrington. I believe yours is still available.”
Rebecca snarled, turned on her heel and stormed from the room, her skirts swishing violently.
He turned back to Abbey, gently pulling her close again. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She blinked up at him. “I think so.”
“Then perhaps I should escort you out of here. Where would you like to go?”
Her mouth curved into a small smile. “The library,” she said, voice trembling. “I need to read something boring to help me calm down.”
He grinned. “I know just the book. Russian history. Dry as dust.”
She let out a soft laugh and slipped her arm into his. And together, they left the room.