The Deceptive Lady Darby (Lost Ladies of London 2)

This time when he looked at her lips, the corners of his mouth twitched. “You have ash on your chin.”

Heat rose to her cheeks. And all the while she’d imagined him looking at her for an entirely different reason.

“I’d rather have ash on my chin than on your rug.” She used the clean edge of her apron to wipe it away. “Has it gone?”

“No. It’s right there.”

Rose rubbed a little harder this time. “Surely that’s it.”

“Here.” He removed a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his coat. “Allow me to assist you.”

The viscount moved closer and brushed the silk softly across her chin.

Heavens above. Every nerve in her body sparked to life. She couldn’t look at his face and instead focused on the picture behind him of a ship sailing across the sea in the moonlight. The lump in her throat grew larger by the second. The heady scent of his cologne made her dizzy. Her breathing grew so shallow he must have noticed.

She cleared her throat.

Lord Farleigh stilled and then jumped to his feet as though the tails of his coat were on fire. “There. One cannot walk about the house with dirt on their chin.” His sharp tone was so opposed to the care he’d shown but a moment earlier.

“I thank you for your assistance, my lord.” Oh, her voice sounded fractured, so affected by these bizarre sensations rippling through her.

Still kneeling in front of the fire, Rose turned back to the hearth and brushed the grate once

more. She heard him retreat, knew the moment he sat back in his chair and dipped the nib of his pen into the glass ink pot.

Channelling the strength of two men, she carried in the coal scuttle and set about preparing the fire. Lord Farleigh never spoke again, but the harsh scratching of the nib on paper conveyed either annoyance or frustration.

With the task completed, she adopted the manner of all good parlour maids and slipped out without a word or glance. Only when safely out of the room did she breathe freely again.

Why did the viscount affect her so?

She had kissed Lord Cunningham and not experienced the same fluttering in her belly. Although, in all fairness, it had been a swift brush of the lips. A chaste kiss that held a hint of promise. Or at least it had until her father spirited her away from London in the dead of night and kept her locked in a rural prison.

“There you are.” Mrs Hibbet descended the stairs. “Have you forgotten you were to come and tidy the nursery?”

“I’m just on my way up.” She suppressed a groan. Her back ached, and she’d love nothing more than to sit down with a cup of tea.

“It will be a good time to meet the children.”

Rose knew nothing of Jacob and Alice other than they were twins aged seven, almost eight, and that they loved to tease and taunt their governess.

“Should I come armed with my pan and brush?”

Mrs Hibbet gave a weak chuckle. “As the maid, you’ve nothing to fear.”

The sound of carriage wheels crunching on the gravel drive brought Foster, the butler, out from his secret hiding place somewhere beyond the stairs.

“Happen it’s Dr Taylor and the Reverend Wilmslow,” Mrs Hibbet whispered. “They call once a week to tend to those who are sick. The reverend likes a tipple and comes to sample his lordship’s best port amongst other things.”

“How many servants are ill?” Rose said. It was common to find two maids with a cold, more so to find a footman and a maid suffering from the same symptoms. But their recovery usually lasted no more than a day or two.

So why did Dr Taylor need to visit weekly?

“It varies.” Mrs Hibbet sighed. They lingered in the background waiting to catch sight of the visitors. “This week it’s two maids and a groom.”

“This week?”

“They've not found the source of the infection. Those who are ill recover in a week or so. But next month another member of staff will take to his bed with a fever.”