“Your uniforms is here, caps and aprons there. Hair tucked all beneath your cap. You’ll be scolded if it’s not done to Mrs. Harper’s liking. Oh”—the girl turned—“and one more thing.”
She might as well have a blinking neon sign on her cute little forehead that read “I’m about to try to screw you over.” Leah crossed her arms and waited.
“Mrs. Harper said to tell you that supper has been delayed. You’re to remain here until quarter past the hour.”
Leah inwardly shook her head. Poor kid. She had talent but no control. Overplaying a part was worse than underplaying it. “Hold it right there.”
Henrietta had been about to turn the doorknob to make her escape, but Leah’s “freeze or you’re dead meat” voice had been fairly well honed over the years. The girl turned slowly, a wary look in her wide brown eyes.
“If supper is delayed, then you can help me settle in.” Leah plopped down on the bed and patted the faded covers beside her. “Sit down with me.”
Henrietta’s look of repugnance would have been funny if it wasn’t so damn depressing. Leah began wishing she’d stuck closer to Avery. Clearly the female staff wouldn’t be giving her as warm a welcome as he had.
Leah sighed and rubbed at the temple that was beginning a steady throb. What a damn depressing thought.
It had been easier than Avery had thought to convince Mrs. Dearborn, the cook, to pretend Leah was her relation from the colonies. An older woman with a softer heart than anyone else in the house, Cook had been Avery’s only confidante. Despite their cordial acquaintance, he’d expected much more of a fight from her when he suggested the plan. But once Avery had explained that Leah would be out on the street if she couldn’t provide a reference, Cook had agreed to the charade and bustled Leah away to meet Mrs. Harper and apply for Fannie’s recently vacated position.
As Leah waved a cheerful farewell from the kitchen doorway, an odd twinge took up residence in Avery’s chest. Turning, he’d thumped at his ribs, trying to dislodge the feeling as he’d exited the main house and walked out toward the stables. It hadn’t worked. The buoyant, almost excited sensation cast an unfamiliar lightness to his walk.
Her tale was difficult to believe, but she had appeared sincere. Was it possible that she had come from nearly two hundred years in the future? The gravel crunched beneath his feet as he considered the notion.
When he was just a boy in the village of Chelmsford, their neighbor, Mrs. Comstock, had dabbled in the Old Ways. Though his clergyman father forbade him to speak with the old woman, he knew from her that strange things were possible. He’d seen her making potions and curing folk in ways that no normal person could, so it stood to reason that this stranger’s outlandish claim could prove true.
His father was dead, and he was no longer a boy. Would he heed the warnings he’d been given as a child, or discover more about this beautiful stranger? Whether she’d come from the future or no, she stirred an interest within him that she should not. And he could not afford any distractions.
Once he’d reached the stables and tossed the hounds some scraps he’d gotten from Cook, he rounded to the back of the buildings into the lean-to shed he used for training. As he reached for the leather door strap, he could have sworn that his lips were stretched oddly, in what almost felt like a smile. Shaking his head, he tried to clear his thoughts of yellow hair and summer-sky eyes as he entered the shed. It was damn near impossible. She haunted him like a wraith.
The scents of dust, hay, and sweat hung heavy in the air, a reminder of the sole purpose of this room. Imagining the way she’d felt for that brief moment pressed against him, he methodically stripped to the waist. Streams of late-afternoon light reached through gaps in the slat wall, lying in wicked angles across the straw- dusted floor. Dust motes floated in the air as Avery carefully hung his valet’s waistcoat, shirt, and jacket on iron hooks by the door. A rip, another, and then he wrapped thin linen strips around his knuckles, knotting them securely. Stretching his rib cage with a heavy breath, Avery turned and faced his opponent—a canvas bag filled with sand, hung with thick ropes from a ceiling beam. Settling his weight squarely on the balls of his feet, Avery’s fists tingling and ready, he pulled back for his first swing.
The ghost of an impish smile with twinkling eyes winked at him, and he missed the bag completely. Overbalanced, he staggered forward, nearly plowing directly into his former employer’s tall form.
“Oy, Russell, you’ll never win another tourney with a pitiful showing like that.”
Avery righted himself quickly, bringing his fist upward in defense. “Prachett. What are you doing here?”
Thomas Prachett laughed, moving closer to Avery. His heavy boots thudded on the straw-strewn floor. “I’ve need of my best man, is all. I told you I hadn’t finished with you.”
Avery circled, maintaining the distance between them. His nerves fired with alarm as he stared down his past in the form of a tall, thin, and cruel man. Prachett had loaned him funds when he’d had nothing, but Avery had paid sorely for that loan. Only the duke’s mercy had rescued him from an early death in the boxing mills at the hands of one of Prachett’s victims—or the man himself. “I’ve repaid my debt to you. You can have nothing else from me.”
“Your debt is satisfied only when I say it is. That pittance you’ve returned to me, yes, but where is my interest? A man must have his pride.” With a swift move, Prachett lifted the crop he’d been holding and brought it down across Avery’s bicep.
A hiss of pain escaped Avery, but he ignored it. “Your damnable pride is naught to do with me.” He swung at Prachett’s face, but the stinging pain in his arm cost him focus. Prachett dodged the less-than-perfect blow as drops of blood rained onto the straw.
“Oh, but it is, lad. Without you, Emersen has moved up the ranks. He cannot be beaten. Except, perhaps…” Prachett trailed off as he moved closer. “By you. The Houndstooth tourney is soon, and you must enter. You’ll lose there, and the wagers will turn against you. By the time you face this new threat, I’ll have secured my fortune in the betting books.”
Avery snarled as his anger overtook him. “Never again. I have left that life behind.”
Prachett snapped his fingers, and three men burst into the room. Avery fought like a wounded bear, striking and kicking and struggling against his captors, but there were too many. When they’d restrained him, pressing his body into the straw beneath the bag, Prachett leaned down and blew his foul breath across Avery’s face.
“If you will not do this for me, you may consider your time on this earth over and done. I will not tolerate another failure. I will not be shamed again.”
In answer, Avery spat in Prachett’s face.
Prachett shoved himself upright, dashing the spittle away with a ragged and stained sleeve. “Lads, convince him.”
“And this is the conservatory.” Henrietta led Leah into a room full of potted plants. The evening light shone through the many windows, giving the greenery an almost-living glow. The scent of damp earth hung heavy in the air.
Leah looked around, nodding sagely. Sure, it was a nice room, but the charade was starting to grate on her nerves. Mrs. Harper would probably have a stroke if they were late to dinner, and Henrietta wasn’t showing any signs of backing down yet. It was getting tough to maintain her patience with the girl. They’d already traipsed through half the huge house without any sign of the duke. And while the number of valuable and interesting antiques was impressive, Leah was starving and completely done with the hike.
“It’s very nice. But shouldn’t we be heading to supper now?”
The girl crossed her arms over her middle, her mobcap slipping to one side. “I told you, it’s been delayed.” She pointed toward the back of the room. “The orchids are quite lovely. They’re by the windows, just there.”
With a long-suffering sigh, Leah turned in the direction Henrietta had indicated. A delicate white flower sat in a small pot on a narrow table. She’d just bent to sniff it when the sound of a door slamming brought her head around.
She was alone. That little brat.
