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

5

MAID-STALKING

* * *

T he library at Brigadunn held the accumulated wisdom of generations. Ancient tomes with cracked bindings sat beside slim volumes of modern verse. Framed maps of Scotland—some yellowed with age, others pristine and unmarked—watched over the room alongside portraits of stern-faced ancestors who seemed to disapprove of every visitor.

Louis stood by the fireplace, nursing a glass of sherry and observing the gathering. Mercy glided among the small group of close friends, her laughter a bright string of notes in contrast to the deeper rumble of male voices. A smiling Connor watched her every movement like a lovesick puppy.

It was then that Louis spotted her again—a maid who had caught his attention earlier in the day. She collected empty glasses on a silver tray, moving along the periphery of the room. Unlike the other servants who glided about with downcast eyes, this one carried herself with unmistakable poise. Her movements were smooth, economical, and graceful in a way that seemed…curious.

When she reached to take a glass from Lady Northwick, Louis noticed her profile. A delicate nose balanced by a determined set to her chin—elegant proportions one rarely noticed in a housemaid. Her dark lashes cast shadows on cheeks that carried the healthy tan of someone raised in country air rather than below stairs.

“Admiring the staff, Astley?”

Louis turned. Harcourt stood beside him bearing his usual grin.

“Merely observing the room.”

Harcourt followed his line of sight. “Mercy hired several additional servants for the gathering. That particular girl arrived only this morning, I believe.”

“You seem remarkably well-informed about the household arrangements.”

“My Henley notices everything.” Harcourt shrugged. “And tells me only the interesting parts.”

Louis tracked the maid as she slipped from the room, her tray now laden with empty glasses. Something about her manner—a watchfulness, a precision—drew his attention.

“If you will excuse me.” Louis set down his glass. “I find I need some air.”

Harcourt raised an eyebrow but made no comment as Louis headed toward the door.

In the corridor, Louis paused. The grand staircase rose before him, and to his left stretched a long hallway lined with paintings. A flash of movement caught his eye—a black skirt disappearing around a corner at the far end of the hall.

He strolled in that direction, pretending interest in the artwork adorning the walls. Rounding the corner, he found a narrower passage leading toward the east wing. The maid was nowhere in sight, but a door stood slightly ajar at the end of the corridor.

Louis approached quietly and peered through the gap. The room beyond was a small study, its walls lined with bookshelves. The maid stood with her back to the door, examining a portrait above the desk—not dusting or tidying, but studying it intently.

He pushed the door wider. The hinges creaked. She spun around, alarm flashing across her face before she controlled her expression.

“Forgive me.” Louis kept his voice even. “My intention was not to startle you.”

She dropped into a quick curtsy, her face composed. “Dinna fash, sir. I was just finishing here. I shall leave you in peace.”

Her voice surprised him—cultured, articulate, and the Scottish words were as out of place as she was. If she were Scottish, he was a lady’s hat.

She paused and frowned. “Are you lost by chance? You will find some of the guests gathered in the formal library. This is Lord Ashmoore’s private study.”

“I was exploring,” Louis admitted. “One finds such interesting things in the less traveled parts of a house.”

Something flickered in her eyes. Amusement?

“Indeed, sir,” she replied. “Though some might consider it impolite to wander uninvited through a host's private spaces.”

Louis raised an eyebrow, thinking to himself that such an observation seemed remarkably bold from a servant.

“I spoke out of turn,” she said, lowering her gaze in what also seemed an unnatural gesture, at least for her. “I beg your pardon.”

“Not at all.”

She waved her feather duster as if to prod him out of the way. “If you will excuse me,” she said, nodding toward the door.

“Of course.” Louis stepped aside, but not quite far enough to allow her to pass without brushing against him. A sudden idea struck him. “I should inform your supervisor of your diligence. Which of the house staff oversees your work?”

She hesitated, the slightest pause. “Mrs. Finch, sir. I am Violet.”

“Violet,” he repeated, noting the momentary uncertainty. Mrs. Finch was indeed the housekeeper, a detail a true servant would know readily. “I am Baron Astley.”

“A pleasure…” She stopped herself. “Yes, sir. Good evening, sir.” She slipped past him smoothly without so much as a brush of her skirts touching him.

Louis watched her retreat down the corridor, her straight back and measured steps oddly formal. He glanced back at the portrait she had been studying—a smirking gentleman in eighteenth-century attire, one hand resting on a small cask.

A housemaid with an interest in ancestral portraits? Peculiar indeed.

“Lurking in corners?” Harcourt popped through the doorway, a glass in each hand. “I brought you a whisky.” He offered Louis one of the glasses. “Though I see you found something more entertaining than mere libations.”

“I was merely stretching my legs,” Louis replied, accepting the drink. “The library was becoming rather warm.”

“Indeed. And the maid who just hurried past me had nothing to do with your sudden need for exercise?”

Louis sipped instead of responding.

“This is an interesting portrait,” he said instead. “Do you know who the subject might be?”

Harcourt glanced at the painting. “Some Scottish ancestor. Not Ashmoore’s, since he purchased the place, though the fellow looks dark enough to qualify.” He turned back to Louis, his expression more serious. “Take care, Astley. Dallying with the servants rarely ends well.”

“I assure you, I have no such intentions,” Louis said stiffly.

“Good,” Harcourt clapped him on the shoulder. “Because Mercy would have your head if you caused a scandal before she could truss you up like a holiday goose and march you down the aisle with some heiress.”

Louis allowed himself to be guided back toward the library, but his thoughts remained with Violet. Her name had been offered with hesitation. Her movements and speech patterns were refined, her manner watchful. She was clearly not what she appeared to be.

The evening progressed predictably—dinner in the formal dining room with the full contingent of forty guests, followed by cards and music in the drawing room. Louis played his part, conversing politely with the young ladies Mercy had strategically seated near him, applauding the amateur performances, and losing a modest sum at whist.

Throughout it all, he found himself watching the servants, particularly the doorways through which they entered and exited. Violet appeared only once, bringing in a tray of refreshments during a lull in the music. She kept her eyes downcast as she moved around the room, offering delicacies with murmured deference.

When she approached his corner of the room, Louis deliberately allowed his hand to hover over her offerings, forcing her to pause.

Finally, she looked up.

“I wonder,” he said quietly, ensuring only she could hear. “What element of that portrait merited such careful study?”

Her composure slipped for just a moment, an involuntary widening of her eyes before she recovered. “I know not what you mean, sir.”

“I think you do, Violet.” He emphasized her name slightly. “Your attention seemed most particular.”

She glanced around, evidently concerned about being overheard. “The artistry, sir. I admire a talented hand.”

“Do you indeed?” Louis smiled. “And what other fine artistry might you admire in this house?”

Before she could answer, the Duke of Rochester approached, forcing Violet to move on with her tray.

“Condiff,” His Grace said, dropping into the chair opposite him. “You look positively engrossed. Has Mercy's matchmaking finally driven you to distraction?”

“Not at all. I was merely contemplating my next move in the game.”

“The game of whist, or the game of avoiding matrimony?” The man laughed. “Because I fear you are losing the latter. Lady Northwick just informed me that her cousin finds you most agreeable.”

“How flattering.”

“Indeed.” Stanley glanced over his shoulder. “Though I notice your interest appears focused elsewhere.”

“You are imagining things, Your Grace.”

“Am I?” He leaned closer. “What were you whispering about with that maid?”

Louis had not realized his interest was so transparent. “I was merely making conversation.”

“Making conversation?” The duke's skepticism was evident. “With a maid you've never met?”

“She has an interest in artwork.”

Harcourt appeared behind Stanley, clearly unable to contain himself any longer. “Perhaps the prospect of marriage frightens Lord Astley as much as it once did us, Your Grace. So, he looks in any direction but the advantageous one.”

Louis rolled his eyes.

Stanley studied him for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, whatever your purpose, you might want to turn your attention to the more fancifully dressed ladies in the room. To ease Mercy’s mind. She watches your every move.”

Louis glanced to where Mercy stood with Lady Blair, both women eyeing him like farmers assessing a prized bull for breeding potential.

He sighed. “Duly noted.”

The remainder of the evening passed without further sightings of Violet. Louis made a point of engaging more actively with the assembled guests, particularly the eligible young ladies Mercy had invited. Yet his mind continued to circle back to the mysterious maid and the secret she was surely hiding.

The party began to disperse for the night. Louis paused near the main staircase, bidding a goodnight to Lord and Lady Northwick.

“A splendid start,” Lord Northwick said, stifling a yawn. “Though I find these country gatherings more exhausting than they were in my youth.”

“Age comes to us all,” Louis agreed with a smile. “Though you bear it better than most, my lord.”

As the Northwicks ascended the stairs, Louis caught a glimpse of movement in a side corridor—a flash of a black dress perhaps. Without conscious thought, he moved in that direction.

The corridor led to a small servants' staircase, tucked discreetly behind a paneled door. Louis hesitated, then pushed the door open and peered up the narrow stairs. Though he saw no one, the faint scent of lavender lingered in the air.

He placed his foot on the first step, then paused as a voice called his name.

“Astley! There you are.”

Louis turned to find Harcourt approaching.

“Found some architectural feature of interest?” Harcourt asked, nodding toward the open door.

“I thought I heard something,” Louis said, closing the door. “A servant, perhaps.”

“A servant in a black dress with a rather fetching profile?” Harcourt suggested, his eyes twinkling. “Come, admit it. You are intrigued by that maid.”

Louis considered denying it, but Harcourt's expression made the lie pointless. “There is something about her that seems...unusual.”

“Unusual? In what way?”

Louis hesitated. He had no intention of sharing his true observations. To voice his suspicions might place the girl in an awkward position if he were wrong—or expose her if he were right. Neither outcome seemed desirable.

“I cannot say precisely,” he admitted. “Perhaps it is nothing.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Harcourt warned, though his tone remained light. “And misplaced interest in servants has been the downfall of many a gentleman. Take care, Astley.”

“Your concern is noted,” Louis said stiffly.

Harcourt clapped him on the shoulder. “Come, let us return to more appropriate entertainment. I believe North mentioned a late game of billiards for those still awake.”

As they walked toward the billiard room, Louis almost hoped he would never see the mysterious Violet again.

Almost.