“You did.”
“I’m a fool.”
“You can always explain that you were blind from pain and laudanum.”
“I’m not sure how much more she will allow me to hurt her.”
“Never underestimate the love of a woman, Thomas. It is more powerful and resilient than you can possibly imagine.”
Chapter Seventeen
“My lady?”
Rose looked up from the household ledger and removed her spectacles. “Yes, Davis?”
Davis stepped into her office, glanced behind him, then closed the door.
“Are you hiding from someone, sir?”
“Yes. Your father specifically. I do not think you want him to hear this.”
“My curiosity is growing by leaps and bounds.”
“You have a visitor.”
Rose glanced at the clock on the office fireplace mantel. “It’s not even nine in the morning. Are they in the drawing room?”
“Absolutely not!”
Rose stilled. “Then where are they?”
“I have two footmen watching him at the servant’s entrance.”
She stood. “The servant’s entrance? Who in the world is it?”
“He will not give his name to us, my lady. He just says that you owe him twenty pounds.”
“Twenty—” She stopped, remembering why she had offered that sum in missives she had sent out only the day before. She opened a drawer and took out a two ten-pound notes, slipped them into her skirt pocket, and came from behind her desk. “Lead on, Davis, and we definitely do not want my father to hear about this. Not yet, anyway.”
She followed the butler down the back staircase, fighting to control her excitement. If this was what she thought—
At the bottom, she turned toward the kitchen, which cause Davis to pause. “My lady?”
“Just a moment.”
She scurried into the kitchen, looking around frantically.
Cook stared at her, hands on hips. “Do you need something, my lady?”
Rose spotted the rack near the stove. “Found it, Cook.” She reached and pulled one of the larger carving knives from the set.
“My lady, whatever—”
Rose brandished the knife. “The fear of God, Cook. The fear of God.”
She returned to the hallway and followed Davis to the servant’s door, her hand beside her leg, letting her skirt fold around the knife.
Near the door, two of their strongest footmen faced a man wearing a flat cap and an oversized coat that dwarfed his medium-sized build. In his mid-fifties, the man had a look more that of a merchant than a tradesman or factory worker. His gaze darted between the men nervously, then widened as he saw her approach with a resolute stride. Instead of keeping a proper distance, Rose marched up to the man, stopping less than a yard away. The man jerked back a step. Even the footmen moved.
