Page 7 of The Lord Meets His Lady

Two

Three days later…

Genevieve punched bread dough, the lumpy mass squishing between her fingers. These rustics didn’t know how good they had it. Peace and quiet came at a price in London, an indulgence she could never afford. Squabbles wafted through walls. Bed ropes creaked from partners racing to a lusty finish. A girl grew up fast living above the Golden Goose.

The price of her new venture stretched across the table: her housekeeper’s apron.

She picked up the plain white piece and pinned it to her russet bodice. It was time she got in the habit of donning the apron upon rising. It’s what a proper housekeeper would do.

Despite growing up among actresses, she’d never once taken a turn on the stage. For her new life to succeed, she’d have to play a housekeeper’s role exceedingly well. That meant putting on her apronbeforecooking. Men were another kettle of fish too. Flirtation with a man above her station no longer fit. Even that harmless bit three nights ago on the empty road with Lord Marcus Bowles had been unwise.

Rules were different here. She’d best abide by them.

She plopped in a chair and rubbed her forehead. With the Beckworths gone for the next few hours, the cottage was hers—

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Except for the bothersome person pounding on the cottage door.

Her eyes opened. That someone banged again, hard enough to jangle the iron latch. She wound her way through the small dining room to the entry hall and cracked open the front door. Peter Dutton held out the post, his blue eyes filled with cheer.

Her hand slid through the opening to accept the delivery. “Good morning, Mr. Dutton.”

“Miss Abbott. Good morning.” He doffed his hat. “And how are you finding your new position?”

She fished for coins from the entry table and gave him a cursory smile. “The same as yesterday, thank you.”

As the newest unmarried female in Cornhill-on-Tweed, she was fodder for the curious. Yesterday, she’d made the mistake of inviting Mr. Dutton inside, where he dawdled overlong.

She absently dropped payment into his outstretched palm. As she fanned the letters, one missive caught her eye, the elegant lines looping just so. Elise Sauveterre had written to her? Genevieve’s thumb pinched a new crease on the foolscap.

For Elise to write this soon…

A brown leather shoe scraped the front step. “Miss Abbott, I wonder if…”

She pressed the letters to her chest and peered at Peter Dutton through the slivered opening. “Good day to you, sir. Godspeed with your deliveries.”

Head bent, she nudged the door shut with her hip. She dropped the other letters on the table and tore open Elise’s missive. Words swarmed like insects scattered over fallen fruit. Her brows knit together. She needed to say the words aloud…to hear them. A glance at the quiet cottage assured her of what she already knew. No one was here to witness her private struggle. She could stumble over the syllables, and none would be the wiser.

Her mouth opened for a deep breath, and slowly she sounded out the words.

Dear Genevieve,

Our shop had a visitor the day you left—Herr Avo Thade.

An icy shiver touched her spine. “Avo.”

His soulless black eyes haunted her. Why was the Frisian looking for her? Of all men, he should be glad to see her gone.

Unless…

Sifting through the words, another name leaped off the page. Reinhard Wolf. She swallowed hard, her back flattening against the door. The walls closed in as though he’d cornered her again, his broad-shouldered presence overpowering her. Besieging her. Until she said yes. Eyes squeezed shut, she couldn’t block him out. Reinhard loomed large, steely in his determination.

She crumpled the letter, coaxing herself to calmness. England was a big place to search for one woman. Surely he’d give up. To know his plans, she’d have to soldier on through Elise’s letter.

He asked many questions regarding your whereabouts. I must warn you—

Thump! Thump! Thump!