Page 23 of Lord of Loyalty

She glanced at the woman before her, then lowered her gaze. For good measure, she executed a curtsey. If Will had, indeed, informed his housekeeper she was a seamstress, the woman was a cut above her, and she must remember her place.

But how did one pretend to be Portuguese? She had no idea what the language even sounded like. Best to mutter and mumble, and signal with her hands. Mercy—could Will not have come up with a better disguise for her?

“I am Goodwife Cooper.” The housekeeper, neatly dressed in a tan bodice and skirt, with a generous rouleau to accentuate the width of her hips, spoke each word with exaggerated clarity. “Follow me.”

When Isobel pretended not to understand, she beckoned. Smiling and nodding, Isobel followed her through another doorway into a narrow passageway. She was taken into a small paneled parlor with a decorated plaster ceiling and invited, with exaggerated hand gestures, to sit down, wash her hands, and help herself from a charger bearing bread, cheese, a brace of cold chicken legs, and a slice of sweet onion tart.

This was good fare for a servant. Did all Will’s people dine so well, or only the higher ones? She was grateful for the vittles—her stomach had misbehaved ever since she’d been deprived of her poppy juice, and the only way to quiet it was to fill it.

She was given no instructions, no duties, but left to her own devices as the housekeeper vanished into the depths of the building.

Looking around, she surmised she must be in the preserving room. A carved dresser bore various pots and ceramic bottles either corked or covered with pigs’ bladders. A sugarloaf stood on a high shelf, partly covered with a muslin cloth, and a spice chest had its own shelf further down. Salt and candle boxes hung from hooks in the paneling, and a large bunch of dried lavender was suspended from the ceiling, along with other flowers and herbs she didn’t immediately recognize. A chafing dish stood near the fireplace, on the hearthstone.

This would be a pleasant place in which to work. She could make simples, sweetmeats and conserves, tussie-mussies, and bowls of dried, scented petals—such as roses, stocks and lavender—to set about the house.

What was she thinking? This was a mere island in the storm, a temporary refuge while her perilous situation was resolved. She needed security, coin, and her own house back. She had to assume it was her house, and that Hubert hadn’t already found some way to deprive her of it. Her sojourn with Will would be but brief. It had to be, for who would marry her if they knew she’d dwelled in another man’s house, especially a gentleman as handsome and eligible as Will?

She took a swig of small beer to cool herself. Since when had she thought of him as available? She’d banished all thought of marriage—but then, he hadn’t suggested it for the right reasons. A marriage of convenience to Will Cavendish would be a misery—unless she could tempt him into making it something more. Merciful heavens, she was confused!

The door into the housekeeper’s room slammed back against the wall, making the paneling reverberate, and Will stalked into the room.

Desperate to hide the flush on her cheeks, Isobel stood and backed away from the light.

Will’s fist hit the table with a thump. She had never seen him look so furious before—rage boiled in his pale eyes, and a muscle worked in his jaw.

She came forward and laid her hand over his. “Whatever is the matter?”

He rolled his wrist and clutched at her, his grip strong enough to hurt.

“That accursed scoundrel Mathieson is blackmailing me into marrying his daughter, Paulina.”