Page 20 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

Nore glanced between Celestine and Edith, waiting for someone to tell her what was going on.

“Excellent,” Celestine said, clapping her hands together. She rose in a swirl of skirts. “Elinore, I’m delighted to introduce you to your new auntie. This is Edith Gordon, the owner of Miller & Sons Trading. She is happy to train you as her apprentice in the hopes that you will be able to take on the business when you are older. As long as you fulfill your duties, I will act as your sponsor and benefactor.”

Nore blinked at them, waiting for the catch. “I… What about the sons?”

Edith frowned, but to her surprise, Celestine laughed merrily. “Oh, she is astute,” she said. “There are no sons, darling. Only you. And you will take this role, will you not?”

Nore looked at Edith, her stern mouth and no-fuss black dinner dress. Then to Celestine, with her layers of lace and her strawberry blonde curls, pinned in place with violets and pearls. “If you wish it of me?”

“What do you wish, Elinore?”

Nore opened her mouth. Closed it. She looked to Celestine with a type of hopeless desperation, as if she could solve this.

Celestine sighed. “Ms. Gordon, will you excuse us for a moment?”

“Of course,” Edith said. She passed through one of the doors, into what Nore knew was another parlor.

Celestine approached Nore and led her to the couch. When Nore was seated, Celestine sat in front of her, her skirts pooled around her. Her gaze was sincere and eager as she studied Nore’s face, her hands folded over Nore’s in her lap.

“Elinore,” she said finally. “I imagine you know that I spent nearly three years arranging a union between my dear niece and the Earl of Tyning.”

Nore had a hard time looking at Celestine for too long. She had Anina’s crystal blue eyes, just a shade darker, nearly violet. “Yes,” Nore said.

“And you know it was nearly ruined by my niece’s… indiscretions.”

“Perhaps.”

“Then you know, too, that a certain servant of this house said there was a misunderstanding—that in low light, her own red hair could be mistaken for my niece’s. That a certain stable boy could be convinced into fantasizing he was pledging his troth to the young lady, and that incongruities could arise from such a fantasy.”

Nore hesitated. “Hypothetically, perhaps.”

Celestine’s smile spread. She lifted her hand, running her fingers over the edge of Nore’s jaw. She touched Nore’s face like Golda did when she was very proud of her.

“You made a scheme. You took responsibility for what my niece could not, to save her marriage, to benefit this house, though there was no direct benefit to you—though, in fact, there was harm to you, if you ever tried to pursue a noble marriage.”

Nore only shrugged. She did not know why she’d done it, not really; she only knew her reputation mattered less, in the moment, than Lady Anina’s.

“You should be rewarded for your selflessness.”

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected—perhaps some foolish notion of her heart had desired that she’d be recognized as a part of this house, but of course that was not to be.

“So you want to reward me by sending me to Nettlepool?” Nore asked.

Celestine held her gaze. “I want to reward you,” she said, “by making something magnificent of you, Elinore.”

They arrived in Nettlepool a fortnight later, after Nore had enough time to say a proper goodbye to her mother and have a new wardrobe made, compliments of the duchess.

She was sent to Nettlepool alone, escorted only by a driver in one of Celestine’s fine, nondescript coaches. When she arrived at the great house in the merchant quarter, Edith was waiting in the drawing room. The maid led her inside—it was an odd feeling; Nore had never been waited on before. The maid shut the door behind Nore’s back, leaving her alone with Edith.

“Welcome, Elinore—”

“Nore,” she corrected softly. “Everyone calls me Nore.”

Edith raised her brow, taking this in, but she only said, “You will go by Elinore in my house, and Miss Elinore Gordon outside of it.”

Nore had already learned of this new name—this new identity—but hearing it aloud made something thrill in her veins. She felt a pang for her mother, but Arlowe had never really been her name. It had always been a substitution for an absence.

“Did her grace tell you my rules?”