Secrets of Sloane House (13 page)

But Minerva had already turned her back. She was walking toward a trio of young gentlemen, her steps suggestive. “You handsome gentlemen be needin’ some flowers today?” she said, her voice thicker. Huskier.

When the men stopped and chatted a bit, Rosalind continued on her way, wondering if she’d just been taken in by something as blatantly fake as Minerva’s ploy to the men.

Perhaps the flower girl had seen she was an easy mark and had said whatever it took to get her sale. Because standing out on street corners, hawking flowers to strangers in all kinds of weather, was difficult.

Rosalind realized that everything was all a matter of perspective. She’d been feeling a bit sorry for herself working in the mansion because she’d become almost inanimate. Almost a nonentity. But she’d only thought that because she hadn’t imagined anything worse.

Minerva, or whatever her real name was, had certainly known worse, and was living it at the moment.

Yes, it was indeed time to stop dwelling on her problems and begin looking for answers. And, to an extent, looking for happiness in her situation. She had to do anything it took to find her answers. And then, with either her sister or her sister’s story in her heart, she would go home. Back to Wisconsin.

And before she knew it, Rosalind knew her experiences here would soon fade away into her past. Like a train’s departure, her time as a maid at Sloane House would be gone in a flash.

Almost forgotten.

CHAPTER 12

“W
here have you been?” Nanci demanded the minute Rosalind walked through the servants’ entrance.

Looking around the area, she noticed at least seven people all working frantically. Some were polishing silver, others ironing table linens. Even Jerome was pulling out handfuls of white tapers and examining them for flaws. Every person looked upset and more than a bit ill-tempered.

For a brief second, Rosalind worried that she had something to do with everyone’s attitude, but for the life of her, she couldn’t imagine what she could have done. “I went to the farmer’s market and posted a letter. Why?”

“Because things here are at sixes and sevens,” Mrs. Abrams said in a thoroughly exhausted tone. “Mrs. Sloane has decided to host a dinner this evening for twenty-two. Mrs. Pullman is even supposed to be here.”

“What?” Even she knew the Pullmans were one of the wealthiest and most influential families in the city. It was their name on the train cars, after all. If that was the case, then Mrs. Sloane was bound to be even more exacting than ever. Mrs. Abrams and Mr. Hodgeson too.

Rosalind could almost feel the sorry-looking carnations wilting in her hand, in company with her dismay. Nanci grabbed the flowers with one hand, tossed them carelessly on the top of the key cabinet, then pulled Rosalind forward with the other.

“Wait a moment,” she protested. “I wanted to put those in water.”

“Water isn’t going to help those blooms,” Nanci said with a disparaging glance. “All that matters is this dinner.”

She was put out enough to raise her eyebrows to that. “All that matters?”

Nanci deftly ignored her sarcasm. “To make matters worse, Mrs. Sloane wants six courses. And all the stops pulled out too.”

“Why?”

“Well, if Mr. Pullman’s presence isn’t enough, rumor has it that Mr. Eric Newhouse will be here too. Mr. Newhouse is Veronica’s best chance for making a match, you know. He just returned from the continent and is looking very dapper indeed.” Lowering her voice, she added, “It’s also been hinted that his parents want him to settle down soon. They’ve told him to pick a bride and set up a home as soon as possible.”

“My goodness. Does Veronica love him?”

Nanci grabbed a towel and handed it to Rosalind. “How should I know? I doubt anyone has been discussing love, anyway. That has nothing to do with it.”

“I suppose not.”

“Mrs. Sloane wants to make sure he sees Veronica at her very best before Mr. Newhouse begins to mix with the rest of society again.”
She lowered her voice. “And most especially before he sets his sights on Eloisa Carstairs.”

“Who is she?”

“The most sought-after girl this year. She’s beautiful, well mannered, and terribly rich. Her family even owns another home in Florida.”

Rosalind was amazed. “How do you know all this?”

Nanci sniffed. “I listen.”

Cook looked up from her dicing and glared. “All of these fancy people entering the home means that you’d best put on a fresh apron quick-like. I’m going to need you to help me clean the pheasant and the trout—well, as much as you can with your hand like it is.”

She could clean a bird, no problem. Growing up on a farm had given her plenty of experience with that. But fish were another story. Impulsively, she said, “Nanci, want to help me with the fish?”

“Of course not! I’m needed upstairs in ten minutes. Mrs. Sloane wants Veronica to try on several gowns. That means I’m going to have to help her get them all on, put away all the ones that won’t do, and then help her dress her hair.” With a grimace, she added, “Most likely, I’ll be mending a rip or tear too. Miss Veronica never has met a seam or a stay that she hasn’t tried to pull apart.”

Now thinking she got the better job, Rosalind hurried to Cook. “I’ll slip on a fresh apron quickly.”

Emma glanced at her from the pile of sterling spoons she was polishing. “You’d best redo your hair too. If Mrs. Abrams sees you like that, all windblown, she’ll have your hide.”

Cook made a motion with her hands. “Go, girl. Don’t tarry neither. We’ve got too much to do.”

Rosalind did as she was told. Running up the servants’ stairs, she stepped as quickly as she could up the dim corridor, turned down
a hall, and then the moment she got into her room, slipped on one of the two aprons she’d been given when she’d started at the home. Taking Emma’s advice, she smoothed back her curls, twisted them neatly, then finally pinned the coil at her nape. After she pinned on her cap, she flew back down the hall.

A few moments later, she was scampering down the stairs again, then almost tripped when she found Jerome standing at the landing. He was lazing against the wall, one of his elbows resting on the balustrade, just as if he were a man about town instead of a footman.

Even more disconcerting was the fact that he was smoking a cigarette. A wispy line of smoke snaked up around him like a sheer length of fabric. But what caught her off guard was the fresh look of interest in his eyes.

“Where were you this afternoon, really?”

“I went to the farmer’s market. As you know. You were sorting candles when I arrived, after all.”

He waved her comment off impatiently. “What else?”

She didn’t know what he meant. More importantly, she didn’t want to know. Hoping she was only imagining trouble where there was none, she took another step down, moving to the side as she did. “Please let me by.”

But instead of moving to the side, the footman stood straighter, looking as immovable as one of the city’s tall skyscrapers. “In a minute.” His smile was a bit cooler than it had been a few days before, his eyes a bit more calculating. “Perhaps I need a favor before I move.”

Watching as he inhaled, then blew out another whiff of smoke, she blinked, suddenly nervous. “I’m sure I don’t know what sort of favor I could possibly grant you.”

A flash of humor appeared in his eyes. “I can think of all sorts of things.”

Her pulse quickened. “I don’t know what you mean.” Suddenly worried about being alone with him, at his mercy, she cleared her throat. “I must go. Cook is looking for me. She’ll give me the worst jobs if I’m late.”

A hand stretched out. Wrapped itself around her forearm. “Don’t worry,” he murmured. “I’ll let you go. In just a moment.” He leaned forward, bringing with him the aura of tobacco and a deep masculine scent tinged with a faint hint of lime. “You’ve been a busy girl, haven’t you?” he whispered. “First, I seen you talking in the hall with Mr. Douglass himself. Then, just a few days ago, all sorts of people watched you sit on the bench in the park with none other than Mr. Armstrong. The two of you looked so cozy too.”

Yet again, Rosalind wished she had been more circumspect. And though she ached to remove her arm from his grasp and retreat, she began to wonder if he was the one who had done something to her sister. Perhaps this was a pattern of his? “Why have you been watching me?”

“It’s hard not to watch you and wonder. After all, very few women in your situation take so many chances.” He exhaled a last bit of smoke before snuffing the end of the cigarette under the toe of a well-polished shoe.

Then his eyes narrowed. “So . . . what I want to know, what I am so very curious about, is why you are meeting with all these men. Why are they seeking you out? What are they offering you, Rosalind?” Then his lips curved upward. “And what does it take to make you say yes?”

She was shocked. And frightened. And . . . and late! “They are offering me nothing. And furthermore, my conversations are certainly none of your business.”

“They could be. Or do I have it all wrong?”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Of course you do. You must. All I am saying is that there’s no need to set your sights up to men so high above your station. You know you mean nothing to them, after all.” He leaned closer. “If you’re a lonely girl, you only have to look right here.”

“You shouldn’t be speaking of such things.”

“Why? No matter what you might tell yourself in the dark, or in those gentlemen’s company, you’re no lady, Rosalind.”

“Let me pass.”

“In a moment,” he said again. “You still haven’t told me why you were talking to Mr. Armstrong. Or did he just happen to see a maid and decide to pass time talking about the weather?” Jerome’s eyebrows waggled. “Does he do this a lot now?”

She hated the leer. Hated that they’d been seen and now were being talked about.

Hated that she knew without a doubt that she was going to have to see Mr. Armstrong again. Even if it compromised her reputation, she couldn’t dare to not use all of his influence and contacts to uncover what had happened to her sister.

That reminder made her voice harder. “Let me pass.”

“Not yet. I still have no answers,” he said softly. “Everyone is wondering what he did to break down some of those chilly walls of yours and actually give a man the time of day. What did he do? Or is it that he is wealthy?”

“It was nothing.” She was frightened now. Jerome was not backing off, which meant that she was at his mercy for however long he wished to speak.

Frantically, she prayed for the sound of another pair of footsteps on the stairwell or the echo of voices from the servants’ hall. But only silence surrounded them. No one would hear her if she cried out. No one would know how terrified she’d become.

Using the last of her willpower, she said, “Cook is going to be wondering what happened to me. I really must be on my way. Now.”

But he ignored her pleas yet again. “You mustn’t act so shocked. It’s not like things like this don’t happen all the time.”

“They do?”

“Of course they do. You should know that from Nanci.”

Rosalind didn’t want to hear another word about her roommate. “What happens to other people is certainly none of my concern.”

He reached out and ran one finger down the crease in her sleeve. “You know, there was once another girl here who acted a bit like you. She was quiet. Kept to herself.” He shook his head. “Acted so shocked about most everything.” He paused. “But one day that changed.”

“Of whom are you speaking?”

“Miranda.” He grinned.

The mention of her sister’s name created a new sense of urgency inside her. At another time, on another day, she would have tried to figure out what Jerome meant. But now all she wanted to do was get away.

“If you do not step aside, I will report you to Mrs. Abrams. I will tell her and anyone else who would care to listen that you made terrible, lewd suggestions.”

“Is that all?”

“Oh no. I’ll be sure they know that you accosted me on the stairway.”

He drew back as if burned. “Hold now.”

She continued, eager to make a jab of her own. After all, she had so little to lose where he was concerned. If he did his worst, he could very well ruin her or ruin her reputation. Neither was acceptable. “I assure you, I will. I have nothing to lose.”

“What makes you say that?”

Now that the tables had been turned and he was the nervous
one, she went on the offensive. “Did you have something to do with Miranda’s disappearance? Is that why she left in such a hurry? Jerome, did you compromise her? Ruin her? What did you do to her? Where is she?”

“I had nothing to do with her going off.” His eyes were wild now. Worried and doubtful.

“So she just left?”

The stillness between the two of them continued for seconds. The air felt thicker, the tension heightened. For the first time, she felt that everything she was going through was going to be worth it. After all.

Then they heard the faint pounding of soles upon steps. Someone else was in the passage. He stepped to the side with a sarcastic bow. “As you said, you are late. Please, don’t let me keep you further.”

And as the footsteps grew louder, Rosalind knew she had no choice but to hurry back to the kitchens. And hope that she didn’t get in trouble for once again taking too long to do her job.

CHAPTER 13

S
itting in his mother’s elegantly appointed private receiving room, Reid watched her quietly go through the steps of pouring him tea.

He had no desire to drink any. All he really wanted to do was sit in the shade outside, sip a cool glass of lemonade, and remember every word of his latest conversation with Rosalind. Even a day later, the desire to remember each word, each expressive movement of her face, pulled him like little else had in recent memory.

The pragmatic part of him said that it made sense. After all, much of his day was made up of meaningless exchanges about little of importance.

His chat with Rosalind had been anything but that.

“Reid?” his mother prompted.