Then he crossed to the dressing table and pulled open the top drawer. There, beside a guest shaving kit, lay a bundle wrapped in cotton.
Last night, after his intriguing dancing partner had run away, and he’d chased after her, she’d lost a shoe. And he, naturally, had picked it up. But with nowhere to put it, and unwilling to hand it over to a servant, Max had returned to the room he’d been loaned and had hidden it in the drawer.
Now, he withdrew it and carefully unwrapped the bundle. The shoe gleamed against the white cotton as he turned it first this way, then that. The lady Roland had been dancing with—his pink angel, he’d called her—had been wearing unusual shoes as well. But this unusual?
This shoe was covered in red silk to match the lady’s hair, Max supposed. That, in itself, would’ve been unusual, but it was the heel which made it so intriguing. It had been made of metal and was engraved with intricate, perfect little gears.
Six months ago, Max had known nothing about engraving. But after being offered the position here in Scotland, he’d learned all he could. Andrew Prince had even taken him to New York in the spring to visit the Prince Armory, so Max could see the fruits of the Oliphant engravers. Their work on the custom firearms was exquisite, and so was this.
Of course, Oliphants were known through Scotland as master engravers, a tradition dating back to the middle ages. Was one of them engraving shoes now?
And if so, how could he meet this engraver? Because, judging from the fuss he’d heard made last night about the shoes Roland’s partner had worn, there was a market out there for wearable works of art such as these.
Humming thoughtfully, Max re-wrapped the shoe. He had a job to do, so he’d move the shoe to his office, but he’d keep his ears open for news about a lady missing a shoe. Of course, if she were anything like Roland, she likely had dozens and dozens of pairs of shoes and wouldn’t miss this one.
But then again, if she was like Roland—refined and haughty—why had she run off into the night?
He’d find her, return her shoe and ask if she needed help. And if she didn’t, he’d ask her where she’d gotten the shoe, because he wanted to meet the engraver. In the meantime, he’d ask Mrs. Oliphant’s daughter at the inn about her shoes…or not.
Nah, it would be best to leave that until Roland was back home and could woo the lady properly.
In the meantime, Max figured he’d better go put on some pants.
* * *
The afternoon sun beat down atop Ember’s bare head, and she relished the sensation. Here in the kitchen garden, there was little chance of a guest stumbling across her and her “scandalous” hair color, so she’d removed the cap the baroness insisted she wear.
It was freeing, but not as freeing as the memory of last night, and how it had felt to catch the eye of the guest of honor.
If someone did see her now, sleeves rolled up as she wrung the water from her stepmother’s unmentionables in preparation for hanging them to dry, they would never guess she was the same mysterious, white-garbed, be-geared lady from the previous night.
Ladies dinnae have to wash their own drawers, much less someone else’s. Does Machara eat chocolate in her undergarments? Ridiculous!
A whisp of hair fell in front of her forehead, and Ember blew upward. When that didn’t dislodge it, she swiped it with her forearm, then she tossed the last of the white cotton into the basket and bent backward with a groan, stretching her back.
“Are ye certain ye dinnae need any help?” Bonnie asked quietly from her place on the bench, where she’d been reading.
“Aye, now that the hot water part is done, ye can help me hang these things.”
Machara had long ago forbade her daughters from doing any manual labor, or anything which would risk their chances at attracting the worthiest—meaning wealthiest—suitors. Which meant wrangling their own drawers in and out of near-boiling water and scrubbing them with caustic soap was out of the question.
But she had no objections to Ember doing such work.
“Pass me those pins, and I’ll start on this end of the line,” Bonnie declared.
Gratefully, Ember did so. “Thank ye.”
They worked in silence for a while, until Bonnie suddenly asked, “Why do ye do this? The laundry, I mean.”
Ember shrugged. “Because it has to be done. Yer mother refused to hire another maid after Lisette married, and if I didnae do it—”
“Nay, I mean…” Bonnie shook her head, as if looking for the right words. “This is our laundry.” She flapped one of her sister’s chemises, getting the wrinkles out before hanging it. “Ye shouldnae have to do it.”
Ember snorted softly. “Oh, is Vanessa going to suddenly start doing laundry?” Both of them knew Vanessa had been grateful being forbidden from doing manual labor. “Besides, this load isnae all yer and Vanessa’s things. I had to wash all the tea towels, and I threw in one of my soiled petticoats as well.”
Not the ones she’d worn last night though. Those, and the gown, were hanging in the back of her wardrobe, while the mask and her one remaining shoe had been carefully wrapped and placed on the highest shelf in her little room.
Bonnie didn’t reply for a long moment, but when she did, she sounded almost disappointed. “I ken this isnae what ye want from life, Ember. And it isnae fair ye have to slave for Mother.”
“I do it to keep the inn going,” Ember declared stiffly. “But I’ll no’ do it much longer.”
Her sister brightened, pulling the clothesline down so she could smile at
