Page 37 of The Truth Serum (My Lady’s Potions #2)

R ebecca had to face Fletcher at some point. Though she dreaded it, she knew it was inevitable. So she packed up Dorothy and accepted the burly footman that Ras insisted on sending with them “to help carry Dorothy’s valise.”

Dorothy had a small carpetbag, easily carried by any of them, but Rebecca accepted the help anyway. It soothed the duke and reassured Kynthea. It was an illusion. If Fletcher wanted to hurt her, he would find a way that no footman or maid could help her.

So she pressed a kiss to Kynthea’s cheeks, swore she looked forward to their afternoon at the modiste (which was very true), and looked long and hard at Nate.

She believed him now. Everything, without reservation.

Their night’s conversation filled her mind with all the wonderful and scary things he had told her.

Months and months of hardship, scary midnight rendezvous, and the occasional stretches of safety.

All through it, he’d written his stories as a way to keep sane.

And she marveled at all he had accomplished when all she’d done was wait on her family and serve her village.

His world was huge compared to hers.

And yet underneath it all, she sensed a growing weariness in him. Or perhaps she sensed her own. They were both due for a change. But what that might look like was anybody’s guess.

They’d fallen asleep on that question. And this morning had offered no time for further examination.

And now she was headed home to face Fletcher with no clarity and no way to sort through the knot of her feelings.

Did she love Nate? Did she want to marry him?

Or did she want to wash her hands of the whole thing and go back to the life she’d built in Cornwall?

Not that. Of course, not that! But something similar. Money of her own. A home where she could do what she wanted without worrying about anyone else. But why did that life seem so small compared to what Nate’s had been?

She had no answer as the carriage pulled up in front of their London home. She disembarked, watching as the footman carried Dorothy’s carpetbag and a small valise that held her ballgown from the night before. As she walked, she tried not to tremble as she approached the front door.

It was opened by their butler, a man who had a disapproving look for everyone, herself included. When she entered the house, her mother cast her an imperious sniff before turning her back on her.

Oh dear.

“Mama,” she called. “I have some wonderful news. I spent the evening with the duke’s fiancée, and she has asked me to be one of her bridesmaids! That means you shall have a prime seat at the duke’s wedding. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Her mother paused on the stairsteps, turning around slowly as she appeared to consider the news. Mama was making a show of it, but Rebecca knew that the prospect of a ducal wedding was enough to occupy the woman for weeks to come.

“We’ll need to discuss your dress—” Rebecca began, but she was forestalled by Fletcher’s interruption. He stood to her left, having just stepped out of the library which was his exclusive domain.

“A bridesmaid,” he drawled slowly. “You were supposed to become friends with Ras, not that woman.” He sneered that last word.

Rebecca sighed. “I do not know what you hoped to accomplish with that. The duke is deeply enamored of Miss Petrelli. It does no good to disdain her if you want to maintain a relationship with him.”

He took a hard step forward, his manner calm, but his eyes glittering with fury. “Do not seek to school me on relationships.”

She lifted her chin. “I wouldn’t dare,” she drawled. “You obviously know everything about everyone.”

Never before had she used such sarcasm with him or anyone.

But her night with Nate had emboldened her.

She knew Fletcher’s “guidance” was nothing more than his pride dressed up as social machinations.

He might be better at it than their mother, but they were machinations nonetheless and she was weary of it.

“Now if you’ll excuse me—” she said.

“Who are these people?” he interrupted.

Ah yes. She needed to make the introductions. “This is Miss Dorothy Shaw, my new maid. I thought Missy could use a holiday. She’s been working so hard.”

“Missy has been dismissed.”

She blinked. “What?”

“She was impertinent. She has been sacked.”

“Without discussing it with me? She’s my maid!”

Fletcher’s brows rose. “She is my servant. I pay her salary. I decide whether she stays or goes.”

“Henry pays her wages!”

“Then she can apply to him if she wants to return, but I will not have her in my house.”

Rebecca stared at her brother. She didn’t bother arguing that Henry paid him an allowance for everything in their London home as well.

Fortunately, she knew that Missy was indeed missing Cornwall and had enough money to pay for passage home.

Rebecca would write to Henry to make sure he made good on her wages.

And she would write a reference as well, trusting to Henry to see it delivered.

“Well then,” Rebecca finally said. “I am pleased that I found a replacement so quickly.”

“And this man?” Fletcher asked.

The footman bowed. “I’m here to help move their things, sir. Then I’ll be on my way.”

Fletcher snorted. “Have you hired a woman so frail that she can’t carry her own valise?”

“No sir,” Dorothy said as she took hold of the carpetbag. “If you’ll just show me to your room, milady, I’ll start my duties right away. Your gown needs airing, and maybe you could do with a lie-down while I refresh—”

“My sister is occupied,” Fletcher snapped. “Rebecca, join me in the library.” It was a command, not a request. “I should love to hear everything that transpired last night. It seems you had quite the adventure.”

A shiver of fear slid down her spine. One on one chats—behind closed doors—were her father’s favorite method of discipline. He didn’t even have to hit them. Just the moments of terror in his library were often enough of a deterrent. Unless, of course, he did hit her. That was always worse.

Tactic one—delay. “I should be happy to, Fletcher, but I’m afraid I need to bathe before this afternoon’s visit to the modiste.”

“It will take a while for the water to be prepared,” Fletcher countered. “In the meantime—”

“Honestly, I cannot—”

“You can and you will. Now.”

Tactic one failed. Very well. Next step: partial compliance.

“Very well, but do have tea brought in. I’m parched.”

This might keep the doors open and the servants coming in and out.

“Of course.” He looked at their butler. “See the new woman installed and the other,” he waved at the footman, “may go.”

“Right away, my lord.”

So much for the dubious protection of her burly footman. But she’d already known that he wouldn’t be much help. She handed off her hat and gloves and then proceeded into the library.

To her surprise, tea was already prepared. “Go ahead,” Fletcher said as he shut the doors behind him. “I knew you’d need refreshment. You should drink it while it’s still hot.”

Oh. She sat down in front of the teatray. “But there’s only one cup. Let me send for—”

“I’m awash in tea this morning. That pot is for you.”

She could have refused it. Indeed, it was her instinct to do so, merely because Fletcher wanted her to drink. But that was childish. Besides, she’d already claimed to be parched, so she had to stick to her story.

With a bland smile, she poured herself a cup, sniffing at the strange odor. It wasn’t their usual blend.

“What—”

“I’m experimenting,” he said. “You often tout the benefits of new draughts and medicines. I thought to try a new blend of tea. This is called gunpowder green tea.”

“What an ominous name,” she said.

“I like it.”

“Very well,” she said as she poured then sipped. The taste was strange. Bitter, even, but a dash of sugar helped.

“Good?” he asked as he stretched out next to her.

“Not so bad with the sugar.”

“Then by all means, have some more.”

He refilled her cup, but she did not drink it. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap. “Fletcher, perhaps you could tell me about your friend. Why did he propose so impetuously?”

Her brother stretched back in his seat, letting his legs extend before him. “Mitchell has never minded his tongue as he ought.” He arched a brow at her. “Do you say you have no interest in him at all?”

“I didn’t even remember his name!”

Fletcher nodded. “Well, let me tell you about him. About both of them.”

“But—”

“Listen!”

She bit her lip. Clearly he was in the mood to expound. Her best strategy was to let him. Perhaps lecturing her would put him in a better frame of mind.

“Very well, tell me about them. I shall endeavor to listen with an open mind.”

And so he did. He spoke at length about the dubious virtues of both men, where they had first met Fletcher, and the extent of their impressive tailoring.

After twenty minutes of this, she began to believe the only reason Fletcher liked them was because of the condition of their boots and the cut of their clothing.

They had other attributes as well. Their ancestry was blue, their pockets full, and both seemed to be especially malleable to Fletcher’s ideas. And if that didn’t put her off them, nothing else could.

Eventually she got tired of the discourse. “Fletcher,” she interrupted, “what is all this about? And why did you really fire Missy? She wasn’t impertinent.” Indeed, the woman was fawning to the extreme.

“She was to me,” he countered. “Now tell me what happened last night.”

She arched her brows, taking a drink of tea to delay her answer.

“Well,” she finally said, “there isn’t much to say.

I was having such an excellent time with Miss Petrelli that when she offered to continue our evening, I happily agreed.

Honestly, Fletcher, I’ve needed some female companionship.

It was nothing more than two girls getting to know one another. ”

“And yet you left early from the comedy. The one you expressly said you wanted to see.”