Inside, the house seemed even more luxurious, with a vast entrance hall filled with glistening chandeliers and gleaming marble. The domestic staff resembled an army and was lined up in the hall according to rank-first the butler and housekeeper, then upper servants such as the chef and chief gardener, and finally the liveried footmen and uniformed serving maids.
The head servants were obviously proper to the point of stiffness. Brynn didn’t catch their names at first, but she couldn’t miss their studied coolness. Nor did she miss the housekeeper’s disapproving frown when the butler relieved their new mistress of her bonnet.
Brynn resisted the urge to reach up and smooth her chignon, which no doubt was disheveled after the long journey. Her unruly hair was such an untamed color that it took very little to make her look wild and brazen. She had to forgive the elderly woman her reaction. And perhaps her stiffness and lack of warmth as well. Her master’s sudden marriage must have come as a complete shock. Moreover, longtime servants would be protective of their status and would not welcome a new mistress with open arms.
Brynn allowed the butler to take her gloves and pelisse, then hesitated, uncertain of the etiquette for this situation. Had her husband been present, the task of introducing her to her new home would likely have fallen to him.
Fortunately Mr. Davies intervened in the awkward silence. “Would you care to tour the house, Lady Wycliff? Or perhaps you would prefer to rest first?”
She gave him a grateful smile. “I am not tired, but I would like to change out of my traveling dress before I see the house.”
“Did your maid not accompany you, my lady?” the housekeeper asked, her tone holding a hint of reproach.
“I am afraid not,” Brynn answered just as coolly, not wanting to admit that she hadn’t been able to afford the service of a lady’s maid for years.
At the servant’s frosty look, Brynn squared her shoulders and returned an unrepentant gaze, reminding herself that she needn’t endure such unspoken censure. She was the Countess of Wycliff now, even if she had been abandoned by her husband. Her rank was one of the few advantages to this unwanted marriage.
The housekeeper was the first to waver. Dropping her gaze, she asked Mr. Davies which rooms her ladyship was to be given.
“Lord Wycliff wishes her to have the gold suite.”
“Very well,” the housekeeper said, pressing her lips together as if she had swallowed a bitter prune. “If you will come with me, my lady…”
As she was led upstairs, Brynn caught glimpses of elegant furnishings everywhere she looked, all superbly tasteful, never ostentatious. When she followed the housekeeper into a magnificent bedchamber, decorated in shades of ivory and gold, she found it hard not to gasp at the exquisite appointments.
“There is a sitting room as well as a dressing room,” the housekeeper informed her. “These rooms belonged to the late Lady Wycliff. His lordship’s mother, whom I served for many years.”
“They are very beautiful,” Brynn murmured, “Mrs…? I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”
“Poole,” the housekeeper said stiffly. “I am Mrs. Poole.”
Her lapse, Brynn realized, was no doubt an unforgivable mistake that only added to the housekeeper’s resentment. She would have to do better in future.
She offered an apologetic smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Poole. I can manage from here.”
The servant returned a cool stare, but she evidently thought better of outright defiance because she sketched a brief curtsy before withdrawing.
Alone, Brynn took a deep breath. It would require an enormous amount of work if she hoped to win over such stalwart opposition as the housekeeper’s- and she wasn’t yet certain she even wanted to make the attempt.
Her awed gaze returned to the beautiful bedchamber. Crossing the room to one of the tall windows, Brynn looked down at the elegant square. She had known Lucian was wealthy, but this was beyond wealth; this room was fit for a queen.
She winced at the realization that this would be her new throne. She wasn’t cut out for such an exalted position. Nor was she even certain she preferred such formal riches as these. Her former home suffered greatly in comparison, but even with its threadbare furnishings, Caldwell House was more comforting, for it was filled with laughter and affection…
Brynn’s despondency returned in full measure as she remembered all she had left behind. How would she manage to cope? She already missed home dreadfully, missed her family, the warmth.
Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself. It was cold here in London, even in August. Far colder than the south of Cornwall.
After a moment, however, Brynn tightened her jaw and berated herself for falling prey to self-pity. Turning, she was about to shrug out of her gown when a whisper-soft rap sounded on the door.
“Yes?” Brynn said, inviting entrance.
The door opened slowly, and a young, blond-haired woman in servants’ attire inched into the room, her gaze focused meekly on the Aubusson carpet.
“I am Meg, milady,” she murmured in a thin voice that quivered with nerves. “Mrs. Poole sent me to assist you.”
“Thank you, Meg, but you may tell Mrs. Poole that I don’t require assistance.”
To Brynn’s startlement, the maid’s lower lip began to tremble. “Is something wrong, Meg?” she asked in concern.
“Please, milady,” Meg pleaded, giving her an almost desperate look. “Don’t send me away, I beg you. Mrs. Poole will think I have displeased you.”
Seeing that the girl’s distress was genuine, Brynn felt her heart warm immediately. “You haven’t displeased me in the least, Meg,” she said gently. “It is only that I have been accustomed to caring for myself. My family has been in rather straitened circumstances lately, so I have had to forgo the luxury of a personal maid. I confess, though, that I would appreciate your assistance.”
“Oh, thank you, milady!” Meg breathed, bobbing up and down numerous times as if Brynn were indeed a queen. “I usually serve as a parlormaid and I haven’t much experience, but I am a quick study, I promise you, even Mrs. Poole says so, and I will do anything you ask, anything-” She stopped abruptly, having run out of breath, and gazed wide-eyed at her mistress. “Where do I begin?”
Brynn managed a smile. “Perhaps with the buttons on the back of my gown.”
She offered her back, willing herself to patience as the girl attempted the task with fumbling fingers. She had to make allowances for the cold reception of longtime employees like Mrs. Poole and for inexperienced, terrified ones like Meg.
But still, Brynn reflected, adjusting to her lordly husband’s household would be more difficult than even she had imagined.
Dover
The prison cell was dank and stank of vermin, both the animal and the human sort-the condemned souls who had been caged there over the past centuries. Lucian had to stifle the urge to cover his nose with a handkerchief.
He’d sailed directly from Cornwall to Dover after learning that a government courier had been ambushed and murdered. The courier’s pouch contained dispatches meant for General Lord Wellington in Spain, most important a schedule of impending gold shipments, detailing dates and locations of delivery to Britain’s European allies. Then, before the schedule could be changed, a wagonload of bullion worth nearly two hundred thousand pounds was stolen, all its guards killed, shot without mercy.
An urgent investigation had ensued, with agents combing every tavern and posting inn and dock, searching for possible leads. The man in custody had had the poor judgment to boast about knowledge of the theft, although he claimed to have no responsibility in the courier’s murder.
Lucian had come today with one of his best agents to continue interrogating the prisoner.
“You there,” the jailer said gruffly, “get to yer feet. You ‘ave visitors.”