The Deceptive Lady Darby (Lost Ladies of London 2)

Before Rose could question Mrs Hibbet further, Foster greeted the new arrivals.

“The gentleman on the left is Dr Taylor.” Mrs Hibbet spoke as though the man were a saint sent down from heaven to ease their burden. “The fellow on the right is the Reverend Wilmslow, clergyman of the Abberton parsonage. But don’t let that fool you.”

There wasn’t time to ask the housekeeper what she meant. Foster announced the gentlemen and Lord Farleigh stepped out into the hall to greet them.

Upon seeing the viscount, the little flutter in Rose’s belly flew up to her chest and then her throat. His discreet glance in her direction caused the whole process to begin again.

Dr Taylor was of a similar age to Lord Farleigh. With golden hair and a kind smile, it was clear why the man had chosen such a caring profession. The Reverend Wilmslow was a little older, with wisps of white littering the dark hair at his temples. Evidently noting Lord Farleigh’s covert gaze, the reverend turned, perused her from head to toe and then smiled.

“A man of God knows it’s rude to look away when someone’s speaking,” Mrs Hibbet whispered.

The transgression was mild compared to most sins, and yet the mischievous glint in the reverend’s eye suggested a fondness for his female parishioners. One that went beyond the need to nurture the soul.

Lord Farleigh led the men into his study and Foster closed the door.

Mrs Hibbet exhaled. “Come, I’d best take you up to meet the children. The doctor will want to examine the patients before he leaves and I insist on being present.” There was a grave edge to the woman’s tone.

“Don’t you trust the doctor?”

“Oh, it’s not the doctor you need to fear. The reverend likes to say a few words to bring comfort, or relate a biblical story about healing if there’s time.” The words dripped with cynicism. “Healing’s best done with the hands, if you take my meaning.”

Rose wanted to pretend that she didn’t, for the thought of any man taking advantage of a woman in such a vulnerable state made her feel cold to her bones.

“Then I pray I’m not struck down with the mystery illness.”

“No doubt Dr Taylor will give you a restorative. It’s helped me keep the devil at bay.”

Rose lacked faith in the ability of tonics and tinctures. Once, Mrs Gripes had put an odd herb in her tea to make her docile. Nicole tasted it immediately and refused to take any refreshment unless she’d made the drink herself.

The sudden chime of the grandfather clock in the hall drew her back to the present. The eleventh clang was a mocking reminder of her failure to wake in time to warn her friend. The last five hours had passed by in a blur. If she didn’t finish the morning chores, she had no hope of venturing over to the manor.

“You’d best wash your hands and meet me upstairs,” Mrs Hibbet said. “We’ll be working until midnight if we stand here gossiping.”

Ten minutes later, Rose climbed the stairs to the second floor. Although Mrs Hibbet referred to the room as a nursery, it was more a large playroom than a place for children to sleep.

A single wooden desk sat in front of a window too high for a child to look out. A dapple rocking horse with a silver mane and red leather saddle took pride of place in one corner. A doll’s house with a facade identical to Everleigh stood on a stand in the other. Scattered about the floor were puppets with tangled strings, wooden soldiers, sticks and odd stockings.

How was such a cold, dull room supposed to inspire a child?

Mrs Hibbet crouched until eye level with the boy and girl with sad eyes and down-turned lips. She held the children's hands, and Rose wasn’t sure if the housekeeper was offering comfort or chastising them for a misdeed.

“There now,” Mrs Hibbet said as she patted both children on the arm. “Come and meet Rose. She’ll help me care for you now Mrs Booth has left.”

With a groan and a hand on her lower back, Mrs Hibbet stood and waved the children forward. They came to a stop a few feet away. Rose waited for the boy to bow, the girl to curtsy. It wasn’t until Mrs Hibbet cleared her throat that Rose remembered she was the subordinate.

“I’m Rose.” She smiled and offered a graceful curtsy. “The new maid.”

“Introduce yourself,” Mrs Hibbet prompted when the children failed to reply.

“I’m Jacob,” the boy said. He held his chin high, his shoulders straight. With thick dark hair and piercing green eyes, Jacob was the image of his father. “And this is Alice. We’ll be eight next month and don’t need your help.”

Alice hung her head. She had the same dark hair as her brother, but her eyes were blue. No one could accuse these children of being the offspring of anyone other than Lord Farleigh.

After hearing Mrs Booth’s gripes and grumbles, Rose knew to expect a certain amount of hostility. “Then I pray you take care when working in the kitchen. The plates are hot, and Cook is so busy she forgets to tell you.”

Alice chuckled, and Jacob nudged her to be quiet.

“And remember to lay a sheet on the floor when you’re cleaning out the fire,” Rose continued. “I would have made a terrible mess had your father not reminded me.”