Page 13 of Most Ardently (Return to Culloden Moor #5)

13

MERCY FROM MERCY

* * *

“M y lady?” Violet set her knife aside and brushed hair from her face with the back of a raw hand.

“Come along.”

The housekeeper materialized from nowhere, face pinched. “Lady Grey, there is still much to be done?—”

“I am certain you can manage with one maid fewer.” The lady’s tone brooked no argument. “Come.”

Heart racing, Violet followed the woman out of the kitchens, but instead of seeing Violet to the door, she led her through the manor's grand corridors, past surprised servants and curious guests. All the while, horrible possibilities ran through her mind. Had they found the key missing? Had they known about the puzzle box? Or had someone witnessed her jumping on the Ashmoore’s pillows?

Worse yet, had Louis confessed everything to the most dangerous man in Britain?

They climbed the wide staircase and on to the family wing where they suddenly stopped before and unfamiliar door.

Lady Grey pushed it open.

“In here,” she commanded.

The chamber was opulent—a four-poster bed draped in rich brown brocade, elegant furniture, thick carpets underfoot. The woman closed the door and turned to face her.

“The time for pretense is over,” she said. “Tonight, you shall attend the ball as yourself, Miss Violet Cottsweather of Durrafair.”

Violet's composure cracked. “I do not understand. How did you?—”

“Know?” Lady Grey smiled. “Blair recognized you. And Connor has been teasing Louis relentlessly. They told me nothing directly, but I have eyes. There is nothing humble about your bearing. Too bold. Too well spoken…I could go on.” Her expression softened. “You might not know this, but by giving me the honor of planning and playing hostess, it is Ash and Blair’s way of helping me make my mark. This party was too important to me not to notice every detail.”

Heat climbed Violet's cheeks. “I meant no deception toward you, Lady Grey. My reasons for coming to Brigadunn were?—”

She waved dismissively. “Your reasons are your own. But tonight, at least, you shall take your proper place among us.”

The door burst open. Maids entered carrying armfuls of fabric, a lady's maid bearing combs and ribbons was followed by a footman who deposited a copper bath. A dozen others came with buckets of steaming water.

“First, a proper bath,” Lady Grey said, eyes twinkling. “Then we shall transform you from servant to sensation.”

Footsteps thundered in the corridor. Mrs. Finch, face flushed with indignation, halted in the doorway.

“My lady, forgive me, but I've just been informed—” She stopped abruptly, gaze fixing on Violet. Then she noted the tub. “May I ask?—”

“I am preparing Miss Violet Cottsweather for the ball,” Mercy replied calmly. “She was sent an invitation, after all.”

Mrs. Finch's mouth opened and closed. “Miss...Cottsweather?” Her eyes narrowed as she scrutinized Violet more carefully. “A daughter of Durrafair?”

“The very same,” Mercy confirmed. “I trust you will forget her foray belowstairs.”

Violet braced for unpleasantness. Instead, the housekeeper's stern countenance transformed. The tight line of her mouth relaxed, and an unexpected glint appeared in her eyes.

“Auch, well.” She chuckled. “That explains a great deal.”

“You are not offended?” Violet ventured.

“Certainly not.” Mrs. Finch smiled—a sight so rare that one of the maids nearly dropped a towel. “I knew somethin’ was amiss. Now I can rest at ease.”

She moved closer, suddenly horrified. “I had ye scrubbing floors! Yer poor hands. Lucy, fetch my lavender salve.” She chuckled again. “If I may be bold, Miss Cottsweather,” she said, “Baron Astley won't know what hit him when he sees ye tonight.”

* * *

For the next several hours, Violet submitted to a process that felt dreamlike in its luxury. The warm bath scented with lavender and rose petals, the careful dressing of her hair, the selection of a gown from several that Mercy provided—all reminded her of a life she had once taken for granted, before necessity had stripped away such comforts.

Throughout the preparations, Violet's thoughts returned to Louis and their quest. What could turn your face up to the bridge possibly mean? Stand beneath it and look up? Then the treasure is hidden beneath it. Had her father tried that?

She sat up straight, brought up short by her next thought—had her father found the treasure and gambled it all away, and never confessed it?

Surely not. His immediate reaction would have brought the entire village to investigate.

“You seem troubled,” Mercy observed from the doorway, as a maid arranged Violet's hair. “If you would like a different style?—”

“No,” Violet assured her. “Everything is perfect. I simply...” She hesitated, uncertain how much to reveal. “I have much on my mind.”

Mercy came closer and met her gaze in the mirror. “Including my cousin?”

Violet felt heat rise to her cheeks. “Louis has been most kind,” she said carefully.

“Kind?” Mercy laughed softly. “Is that what you call the way he watches you when he thinks no one is looking? The way his eyes follow you across a room?”

Violet remained silent, unwilling to acknowledge the flutter in her chest and the hope hiding in her bashful heart.

“Louis is a good man,” Mercy continued more seriously. “Both humble and proud, but with a heart as true as any I have known.” She met Violet's eyes in the mirror. “And desperately in need of someone who sees him for himself, not for his title or what he might someday become.”

A knock at the door saved Violet from responding. A maid entered, carrying a gown of deep violet silk that caught the light as she moved. “The final alterations are complete, my lady.”

“Perfect,” Mercy declared. “It suits her name as well as her coloring.”

The gown was more exquisite than anything Violet had worn in her life, and when it was lowered over her head, the bodice fitted precisely to her form. The skirt fell in graceful folds, the sleeves ended just below her elbows edged with long, delicate lace. Violet marveled at how perfectly it fit, as if made for her rather than hastily altered.

When the final touches were complete—pearl earrings at her lobes, long ivory gloves on her arms and satin slippers on her feet—Violet turned to the mirror and barely recognized herself. The woman who looked back was both familiar and strange, her features the same but framed in elegance.

“There,” Mercy said with satisfaction. “As near perfection as can be, I say.”

Violet turned away from the mirror as she choked on emotion. “I do not know how to thank you for this kindness.” If only her mother could see her now…

“There is no need,” Mercy said. “Simply enjoy the evening. And perhaps,” she added with a subtle smile, “consider being honest with my cousin about your feelings. It is the only thing that matters in the end.”

Before Violet could respond, a clock chimed somewhere in the house, signaling the approaching hour of the ball.

She turned back to the mirror and tried to convince herself that it hurt nothing to enjoy one magical evening. She could do nothing for her sister before the sun rose again. But tonight? Tonight could be just for her.