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M rs. Morgan’s eyes were wide—with fear? Of whom? Lady Babcock? Or Mrs. Bywater, who could be trying on the best of days?

Whatever the cause, I could not in good conscience leave her here alone. “I will need to feed her the broth,” I said to the two women who obviously waited for me to go.

Mrs. Morgan regarded me gratefully as I sat down on the edge of her bed and took up the spoon.

Lady Babcock stared at me as though she had no idea how to respond, while Mrs. Bywater frowned, used to my impertinence.

As I appeared to have planted myself firmly at Mrs. Morgan’s side, Lady Babcock set the cup of tea on top of the bureau and retreated to the open doorway. “You’ll be better in no time,” she told Mrs. Morgan with the optimism of those in a sickroom. “And back in your kitchen soon. Won’t you?”

Mrs. Morgan concentrated on the spoon I lifted to her lips and didn’t answer. Mrs. Bywater sent her a disapproving gaze, as though she expected Mrs. Morgan to leap from her bed, curtsey, and promise to hurry down and cook the Easter meal.

The two ladies at last withdrew, but I noted they left the door ajar. I could not rise to close it, as Mrs. Morgan was hungrily drinking broth from my spoon. I wondered if anyone in this house had offered the woman anything more substantial than tea.

When at last Mrs. Morgan breathed a little easier, I set aside the broth, rose and closed the door, fetching the tea on my way back to the bed.

“You’re a good woman,” Mrs. Morgan croaked at me in a half whisper. “Even if ya is too young.”

“I assure you, I can provide his lordship a decent meal for Easter,” I said. “You worry about nothing. I suppose you’ve put plenty by for the task?”

I didn’t like to trouble her about the food when she was so wretched, but I needed to begin somewhere.

“Have a care while you’re in this house,” was her answer.

Curiosity plucked at me. “Why do you say that?” Mrs. Seabrook was unfriendly and the butler a drunkard, but I’d dealt with such things before.

Mrs. Morgan snaked her fingers around my wrist once again and pulled me closer.

“Her ladyship ain’t wanted,” she whispered, her breath unpleasant. “No one can stick her.”

“We can’t always love those we work for,” I said, trying to soothe her. “Else none of us would find a position.”

“Seabrook bows and scrapes to her, but she don’t like her. Nor do the rest of the ’ouse. Used to be nobody, did her ladyship. A tart by all accounts. Watch out for her.”

I stared at Mrs. Morgan in perplexity.

I’d met aging courtesans before, who used powder and other artifices to hide their wrinkles, but there wasn’t a trace of any of this on Lady Babcock’s face.

Also, those women had maintained their regal arrogance, confident in their ability to entice princes and foreign kings, even if those days had passed.

Lady Babcock wore fashionable clothing, and her hair was a la mode, but in no way did she resemble a former courtesan. More a woman fading into middle age, trying to hold on to her youth by dressing smartly.

“Do you mean she is dangerous?” I asked, though I could not see how Lady Babcock could be.

Mrs. Morgan didn’t answer. Her grip on me slackened, her head sank into the pillow, and in another moment, a snore issued from her mouth.

Stifling a sigh, I gathered up the bowl of broth. I could leave the tea for her, but by the time she woke, it would be stone cold. I’d have Tess or Mary check on her later and bring her a fresh cup.

The tea shouldn’t go to waste, however. I was thirsty from my trek from Mount Street and my frustration with the kitchen staff, and the tea, which Mrs. Morgan hadn’t touched and wasn’t likely to, enticed me.

I lifted the cup and took a long swallow, then grimaced. The tea was far too bitter and strong. Either Lady Babcock had no idea how to brew up, or those in this household liked it muddy.

I poured the rest of the tea into the slop pail by the washstand, piled the soiled crockery on the tray, and carried it out of the room, closing the door firmly behind me.

As I descended, I wondered if Mrs. Morgan’s admonition for me to stay with her had been for fear of Lady Babcock or out of annoyance at both ladies’ intrusion.

In any case, Lady Babcock did not strike me as a woman who could engender terror in her servants.

Her manner had been hesitant and lacking steel, but Mrs. Morgan’s words had been adamant.

Watch out for her.

I’d once briefly worked for a frail, elderly, weak-voiced woman who couldn’t rise from her bed and yet had kept the entire household firmly under her thumb.

None dared make a move without approval from the lady’s chamber.

When the lady had finally died, her entire family had immediately scattered, as though in relief, and I’d returned to my agency to seek another post.

Perhaps Lady Babcock was of similar dominance, never raising her voice but controlling all aspects of those around her.

I returned to the kitchen, reasoning that I would not be in this house long enough to determine whether Lady Babcock was a quiet martinet or not.

Knowing I’d have to go to the markets myself, I deposited the used crockery at the sink, put away the tray, and took up my things, ready to hunt for produce and other necessities in Oxford Street.

“I won’t be long,” I promised, lifting my now-empty basket. Tess at least had been diligent about unpacking. “Start the mushrooms brewing, so we’ll have a good, strong stock from them, and continue preparing the onions and leeks we brought.”

“Don’t you worry none, Mrs. Holloway,” Tess assured me. “We’ll manage until you’re back.”

“Why can’t you go?” Jane demanded of Tess. “She’s the cook. Shouldn’t you be out drudging for the vittals while she lords it over us in the kitchen?”

Tess’s scowl instantly returned.

“I can more quickly find the choicest greens and best fish,” I said before Tess could speak.

“My experience is better put to choosing the vegetables than chopping onions. Which I expect to be done by the time I return, Jane. If ensuring you do the job you are paid to is lording it over you, well then, so be it. We’ll have a nice repast in the end for all our hard work. You’ll see.”

I wrenched open the door and scurried out under Jane’s glare. She was a hard one, and resentful, but hopefully I could soften her a bit before I went home.

As I trudged along to Oxford Street, a wave of near despair washed over me.

Why was I bothering to put together an Easter feast for a family who knew nothing of me, among kitchen staff who didn’t want me there?

I’d agreed under duress because of Mrs. Bywater, a woman who, after all, did not actually pay my salary. Lord Rankin did.

Why should I not turn around, fetch Tess, return home, and dare Mrs. Bywater to do anything about it? I doubted Mr. Bywater would let her sack me, and their niece, Lady Cynthia, would do everything in her power to keep me at the house, I was certain.

I halted near the door of my favorite greengrocers and leaned against the brick wall, suddenly needing a rest. I concluded I was exhausted from all the work I’d done preparing the supper for the Bywaters and their few guests—which had included Mr. Thanos—and now I had to do this extra shopping and cooking for a mob. I had no stamina for it.

I took a moment of self-pity, which was unusual for me. But really, I had been much put upon, even for one of the servant classes.

I straightened up, drew a long breath, and entered the greengrocers.

As I’d suspected, he had little left, but as I was one of the man’s best customers, he always kept something back in case I needed it. Thus, I was able to at least procure some decent greens and better potatoes than what waited for me in the Portman Square kitchen.

I thanked him profusely, directed him to charge the purchases to Lord Babcock, and departed to visit the fishmonger and butcher.

Though my tiredness jumbled my thoughts a bit, I arranged for fresh sole to be delivered to the house as well as another ham, along with some oxtail and beef bones so I could make soup and aspic.

A deeper wave of lethargy swept over me as I finished the shopping and began the short walk back to Portman Square.

I halted in the middle of Portman Street amid people scurrying home to prepare for their own Easter celebration and fought a sudden need to lie down and sleep.

I forced my eyes to remain open, wondering what on earth was wrong with me. This was more than me feeling sorry for myself because I’d been suddenly overwhelmed with work. Was I ill? Had Mrs. Morgan been contagious after all?

Propping myself against the iron railings that surrounded the park in Portman Square, I went over my symptoms. I was seldom ill, but my ailments usually manifested in a scratchy throat and stuffy nose, with the occasional fever. I had none of these, my skin cool and damp rather than hot and dry.

Though tired, I seemed to be as robust as ever. I reasoned that even if Mrs. Morgan did carry an infectious illness, it wouldn’t have gripped me so quickly.

However, there was no question about my sudden fatigue. It was most odd. The only time I’d felt like this was long ago, when I’d strained my wrist and a doctor had given me a bit of laudanum to ease the pain. I’d not liked the medicine and refused to take the rest of the dose he’d left with me.

Laudanum. The realization made me suck in a breath of cool air, which woke me a bit.

Where on earth had I taken laudanum?

The answer came to me at once. The tea. I’d had a swallow of Mrs. Morgan’s tea after she’d fallen asleep, finding the taste strangely bitter.

Good heavens. Lady Babcock had dosed Mrs. Morgan’s tea with laudanum.

Had she thought this might help the cook get well more swiftly? Possibly. Some believed that laudanum and opium were the best cure for any ailment. Perhaps this was Lady Babcock’s usual remedy, and Mrs. Morgan had known full well what was in the tea Lady Babcock had carried into the room.

But then, Mrs. Morgan had eyed Lady Babcock in trepidation and begged me not to leave her.

Watch out for her .

Daniel had given me a sharp look when I’d mentioned Portman Square. He’d assured me he hadn’t been on the trail of a criminal there, but he hadn’t explained what had made him uneasy.

Was Lady Babcock a mad poisoner, with the police poised to arrest her the moment anyone in her household died?

I pushed myself from the railings with a laugh. What nonsense. If Lady Babcock were a poisoner, Daniel would have warned me outright.

Lady Babcock might simply have been trying to nurse her cook. The amount of laudanum I’d swallowed in the tea hadn’t been enough to send me unconscious before I made it down the stairs. Even now, I could still walk and think, the drink slowing me only somewhat.

Still, I longed for a good nap, and cursed Lady Babcock for not bothering to mention that she’d laced the tea with an opiate. My own foolishness for drinking it.

Keeping close to the railings, in case I had to hold myself up again, I continued along the street and around the corner to Lord Babcock’s townhome. I took the stairs down to the kitchen carefully, balancing myself against the rather slimy brick wall.

The kitchen bustled with activity, I was pleased to see. Both Tess and Jane were chopping things, and Mary busily washed pots and crockery in the scullery.

“I managed to get some vegetables.” I set my basket on the table with exaggerated care then fumbled with the buttons of my coat, which fell to the floor before I could catch it.

“Tess, please start on these onions. Jane, you will clean and chop the carrots. I need them in tiny bits, to make the sauce more robust.”

Jane studied me with her usual scowl, but she didn’t argue.

I tried to hang my coat on a hook, missed, and tried again, my fingers trembling.

“Whatever is the matter with you, Cook?” Mrs. Seabrook had swept into the kitchen and now stared hard at me.

“Nothing.” I concentrated again on getting my coat onto the hook. Almost there.

“Good Lord.” Mrs. Seabrook’s glare seared me. “You’re tipsy. Of all the things I’ve been saddled with in the last week, now the mistress’s silly friend brought in a drunk cook. Her ladyship will hear of this.”

So saying, Mrs. Seabrook marched from the kitchen, heels clattering on the slate floor as she made for the backstairs.