Chapter 32
Nell descended the circular stairs, a shawl around her shoulders and her tapestry workbag in hand.
The cold light of morning filtered through the high windows in the entry hall.
It was half past ten. Miles had gone shooting with the other gentlemen.
She hadn’t witnessed him leave. He’d departed their bed when she was still sleeping.
A deep, boneless slumber. Indeed, she couldn’t recall when she’d ever slept so peacefully.
It wasn’t entirely owing to pleasure. It was because she hadn’t been alone. Miles had remained with her through the night—a great, warm presence in her bed. She’d let her guard down with him. Had trusted him to take care of her. To watch over her. And he had.
But of course he had. He loved her.
He loved her.
The knowledge of it had not only lifted Nell’s spirits, it had lightened the weight of responsibility on her shoulders.
A weight she had carried from a very young age.
The Academy had taught her vigilance, but last night she’d set that vigilance aside.
She had been safe with him. It was that which had enabled her to sleep so deeply.
She’d awakened several hours later when a housemaid had brought in her breakfast tray. Married ladies were granted the privilege of taking their morning meal in bed. And since all four ladies at the party were of the married variety, it was trays all around.
As she advanced into the hall, Nell couldn’t be sure that the others weren’t still in their rooms. Since emerging from her own chamber, she’d seen no one but servants about. It gave her the perfect excuse to explore a little.
She’d start with the library. Lord Amstead may well keep a desk there that she could search. And if it should be locked—well. That’s what the butterfly hairpins securing her chignon were for.
According to the architectural plans, the library was located in the east wing of the house. Nell was just crossing the hall toward it when Innes stepped into her path.
She came to a startled halt.
“Good morning, Mrs. Quincey,” he said. “If I may be of assistance?”
Nell swiftly took his measure. Except for the dignity with which he held himself, he was unremarkable in appearance.
His suit was a dull black, his long face absent any obvious sign of malice.
Yet he was a big man—taller than her, and physically stronger, presumably, despite his thickening middle.
A man who might very well be capable of violence.
“I was on my way to his lordship’s library,” Nell answered. “It’s this way, isn’t it?”
“You might prefer the morning room,” Innes said. “A fire has been lit and there are writing implements available. If madam would permit me to show her there?”
Nell privately cursed her luck. If the morning room was where he wanted her, there could be nothing of interest there. She was tempted to tell him no. That she’d prefer the library. As for an escort, given her knowledge of the house plans, one was wholly unnecessary.
But it was early yet in her stay to be making trouble. For now, she would do better to play the biddable guest.
“That would be kind of you,” she said.
Innes gestured toward the east wing. “This way, if you please.”
Nell followed alongside him down the corridor. As they walked, she discreetly examined his profile. A frown knit her brow. Perhaps it was only her imagination, spurred on by the fact that Mr. Cowgill had mentioned Innes by name in his notebook, but…
A strange suspicion began to take hold of her. The vague idea that she’d seen him before. Either that, or someone very like him. To be sure, there was something oddly familiar in his face. Nell couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
“Is it true that you were formerly Lord Amstead’s valet?” she asked.
Innes’s mouth flattened. “That is correct, ma’am.”
“I congratulate you on your promotion. There aren’t many servants who could make such a leap. Not in a great country house such as this. A vast knowledge must be necessary to keep things running smoothly.”
Innes replied with cold formality. “I am honored by his lordship’s faith in me.” He motioned to an arched doorway. “The morning room, madam.”
Nell preceded him inside the prettily furnished room. It wasn’t empty. A lone figure in a green taffeta day dress sat in one of the tufted chairs by the cherrywood fireplace, her fair head bowed over a white square of embroidery.
It was Lady Belwood.
She looked up as Nell entered. Her needle stilled. “Mrs. Quincey.”
Nell suppressed a rogue surge of emotion. “Lady Belwood,” she said. “May I join you?”
Her ladyship straightened in her seat. Her face was peculiarly colorless. “By all means. You have brought your sewing, I see.”
Nell touched her workbag. “I’ve a sampler to finish.”
Innes silently withdrew. Nell cast a final glance after him.
She’d met several gentlemen during her time in London.
The villains in Whitechapel, the staff at Miles’s office, the men at the fashionable shops.
Even a police inspector. She ran over their faces in her mind, trying to find a match for Innes’s, with no success.
“Do sit down,” Lady Belwood said.
Nell crossed the thick carpet. With every limping step, she was conscious of Lady Belwood’s regard.
Her ladyship had looked at her in just such an anxious way yesterday evening during dinner and cards.
An odd look—as though she were struggling to place Nell’s face, just as Nell had been struggling to place Innes’s.
It was Nell’s own fault. During the journey from London, she’d admitted to not having a mother. Naturally, Lady Belwood was fearful that Nell might be the child she’d given away. It was the very reason Nell had made the ill-advised admission—to provoke the woman’s fear and guilt.
Not Nell’s finest moment. Nor her wisest, either. The last thing she and Miles needed while investigating Mr. Cowgill’s death was another complication.
Sitting down in the chair opposite her ladyship, Nell withdrew a half-finished sampler from her workbag.
Lady Belwood resumed sewing. “Sir Walter is very fond of my embroidery,” she said. “He insists I be the one to initial all of his handkerchiefs, and all of the household linens.” She tipped the scrap of white fabric in her hand so Nell might see her work.
Nell didn’t have to pretend to be impressed. The delicate pattern, with its swirling letters and subtle floral motif, was one of the finest examples of stitchery she had ever seen. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “You have an exceedingly elegant hand.”
“I’ve often been praised for it,” Lady Belwood acknowledged with no trace of humility. She craned her head to see Nell’s work. “May I?”
Nell held her sampler out for her ladyship’s perusal. It wasn’t her best effort, but it was still rather formidable, all things considered.
Lady Belwood’s eyes shone with frank appreciation. “You’re very talented.”
“Thank you,” Nell said. “I confess, I do enjoy needlework.”
“May I ask how you learned it?” her ladyship inquired. “Was it a governess who taught you? I recall you mentioning that you had no mother.”
Nell quietly threaded her needle. She hadn’t expected Lady Belwood to broach the subject. She hadn’t thought her bold enough.
Then again, they were alone. And for the first time, too. During their previous meetings, there had always been at least one other person present—Effie, Miles, the guests at the shooting party. Someone to distract, to mediate, to set a guard on Nell’s tongue.
But not now.
Nell could say anything.
She finished threading her needle. “Everyone has a mother.”
Lady Belwood’s gaze intensified. This time it wasn’t fixed on Nell’s needlework. It was fixed on her face. “Did I misunderstand you?” she asked. “What you said on the train—”
“I did have a mother,” Nell informed her.
Lady Belwood’s countenance betrayed a flicker of relief.
It didn’t last.
Nell stabbed her needle into the coarse cloth of her sampler. “She left me when I was very young.”
Lady Belwood lost what remained of her color. “I see.” Her gaze dropped back to her handkerchief. She smoothed the embroidered letters with her thumb. “May I ask…under what circumstances?”
“I was too young to know them,” Nell said. “The woman who bore me surrendered me to Miss Corvus’s Benevolent Academy when I was but five years of age. I was left there, with my meager belongings—a few scraps of clothing and a little toy loom.”
A moan escaped Lady Belwood’s lips.
Nell forced herself to look at her. Hurt and compassion warred within her breast. “Why did you do it?” she asked.
“Is it you?” Lady Belwood asked in return, her voice the veriest whisper. “Is it really you?”
Nell didn’t deny it. “I recognized your perfume when I called on you with Mrs. Royce,” she said. “I still remember it. And that isn’t all.”
Lady Belwood had gone white about the mouth. She was clenching hard to her embroidery.
“I remember that you stopped coming,” Nell said. “That the servants left me at the gates of the Academy without explanation. Without so much as a name. I deserved neither, I suppose. I was nothing to you.”
Lady Belwood’s unfocused gaze fell to the handkerchief in her clenched hand.
Blood was seeping into the white fabric.
She loosened her hold on it, revealing the distressing sight of her sewing needle sunk partway into her thumb.
She stared at it blankly. “Oh dear,” she said in a queer, hollow voice. “I seem to have pricked myself.”
Nell sprang up in alarm. Tearing a scrap of muslin from one of the squares of fabric in her workbag, she hastened to Lady Belwood’s side. She carefully removed the needle from her ladyship’s thumb and used the makeshift bandage to bind the wound.
All the while, Lady Belwood sat quiet, betraying no sign of pain. Nell wondered if the revelations about the past had sent the woman into shock.