Page 6 of Mistress of Sins

“My name is Charlotte Fletcher.” She bobbed quickly. “We should not have laughed when Rose spoke so rudely to you. I did not know that you had once been engaged to the baron.” She ducked her head. “It was very wrong of me.”

Despite her contriteness, she seemed on the verge of laughing again.

“Rose sent you to discover if I was crying, I take it?” Jennet asked. As the girl gave her an astonished look, she added, “She also wished you to learn if I had renewed my acquaintance with Baron Greystone, I imagine. I will make your task simple: do assure her I was not, I have not, and I will not.”

Charlotte followed her out of the bakery. “How could you know those things?”

Jennet turned on her. “Do you imagine this is the first time I have been ridiculed for what that gentleman did to me? Or no one else has found amusement at my expense? Try, for a moment, to imagine it happened to you. How would you wish to be treated? As cruelly as I have been just now?”

Charlotte looked genuinely ashamed now. “We are not malicious, Miss Reed.”

“No, for that would require some effort on your part,” she told her. “You are indifferent to the feelings of others. Just as Baron Greystone is. Perhaps you should dance with him.”

Jennet left her standing and gaping at her, and took her parcels to the rig, stowing them before she climbed up to drive home. She could feel the heat of her anger flushing her face, and willed herself to calm. It served no purpose to become agitated over the things she could never change, like her reputation.

That night after dinner she made up a tray to take the lemon cake to Margaret’s room, where she found her mother standing by the window and frowning at something outside.

“Mama, you should be in bed,” she reproved lightly as she set down the tray. “What are you looking at?”

“I heard voices,” her mother said, and pointed down. “I came over and saw men walking across the property, as bold as you please. The gardeners have already gone home for the day.”

“I will tell Barton, and ask him to check the grounds.” Jennet helped her mother back to bed before she placed the tray beside her. “Perhaps they were travelers.”

“The Romany have gone south, where it is warmer,” Margaret told her, and then saw the cake. “What is this? Lemon cake?” She scowled. “Cook did not make this, for we have no lemons, and we ate the last of the berries yesterday. You went to the village.”

“I did.” Jennet sat down on the edge of the bed. “I needed some thread, and Mrs. Holloway’s order came in. I thought you would enjoy a little treat.”

“You cannot distract me with cake,” Margaret told her before popping a raspberry into her mouth. “You should have stayed at home, with me. We are about to be cursed.”

“I have arranged to avoid any curses.” Jennet brushed some of her curls back from her face. “Catherine and I are going to the masquerade at Dredthorne Hall together. She promises not to leave my side for a moment.”

Her mother sighed. “That is why you brought the cake, to ease the blow.”

“Mama, you leave me little choice. If I go, we will not be cursed,” she pointed out. “Catherine will see to it that no one harms me, and I return home safely.”

Margaret’s bottom lip trembled as she met her gaze. “You think I am a foolish old woman, but I know these things are true. There has been shadow on this family ever since your father died. You should be married now, and a mother, and happy, and you are not.”

Jennet took hold of her hands. “I will go to the ball, and try very hard to meet a fine young gentleman. Perhaps he will offer for me, and give me children, and that will make you happy.”

“You have never been the same, you know,” her mother said softly. “Ever since he left, you have kept your heart locked up against any other. I daresay Wellington himself could offer for you, and you would refuse him.”

“His Grace is already married, and rather busy at the moment.” She leaned close to whisper, “I have heard that he possesses a hooked nose.”

She was finally able to make Margaret laugh, and stayed with her until she finished her cake and was growing drowsy. After she kissed her goodnight, she carried the tray downstairs and mentioned to Mrs. Holloway what Margaret had said about the men wandering on the property.

“They may be poachers, or hands that have lost their positions,” the housekeeper said. “I’ll ask Barton to have a look tonight, and check the stables and wood shed.”

Chapter 4

On a hill overlooking the Dredthorne Hall estate, Ruban waited alone beneath an old horse-chestnut tree. The overgrowth that had concealed much of the old house had been cut back, and the rear grounds prepared for a spring garden. In England everything was about appearances, and someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to make the decrepit hall look almost inviting.

While the English danced to music here, others dear to Ruban languished in prisons, or starved in their camps.

A crackle of heavy footsteps through the leaves drew his attention to the large, broad figure approaching him. He wore the heavy, practical garb of a woodsman, but the axe he carried on his shoulder was merely for show. The villagers paid no attention to any common laborers they might see.

Jean-Pierre stopped as soon as he saw the gleam of the pistol and held up his empty hands. “Bonsoir.”

“Speak only in English.” How many times would he and the other men have to be told that? Ruban felt impatient. “Where are the others?”