Oh, but Aunt Charlotte didn’t know Bishop. Daisy couldn’t help but believe that he would prove an exception to her aunt’s conviction. That whatever pain he caused would be worth the price of enjoying his company as well as pleasure at his hands.
“Are you done with being a servant now?” her aunt asked.
She nodded. “I’ll give my notice tonight and take Annie back tomorrow.”
“I like the girl, was hoping she’d stay on.”
“She has a friend she misses.”
Her aunt waved a hand like a queen signaling a head was to be chopped off. “I’ll hire her as well. Serve the rogue right if we steal his servants after he made my darling niece wretchedly sad.”
She chuckled lightly, grateful that her aunt had a way of always lifting her spirits. “I’ll talk with Sarah.”
“You’ll stay for dinner.”
“I have a chore I have to see to at nine.” As it was Tuesday, Mrs. Mallard was on the schedule.
“We have a few hours yet. We’ll have an early meal. I’ll fill you in on all the latest gossip that is bound to cheer you up. Besides, what are they going to do if you don’t rush back? Let you go?”
“Well, you are ill, so I suppose Mr. Perkins will understand my lingering. But I do need to get back in time, so another servant isn’t called upon to do my chore.” Even if it meant possibly seeing Bishop kissing someone else. Only tonight she would act as though she absolutely did not care.
“If your father had only had your responsible ways. It’s a position you’re pretending at, and you give it consideration as though it was real.”
“You taught me well.”
“If I’d done that, you’d be married by now.”
Rolling her eyes, Daisy finished off her brandy, wondering if she might be able to get her aunt to give her the specifics regarding how she knew about scoundrels and heartbreak.
But a few hours later, sitting in her aunt’s carriage on her way back to Bishop’s, she was none the wiser regarding her aunt’s youth. She was also going to be late.
When she finally arrived, she didn’t bother dashing up to her room to change into her uniform but instead headed straight for the kitchen. Her simple frock of gray wool and black trim adequately covered her arms and shoulders. The bustle was small enough, the train short enough so as not to be a hindrance. Reaching up, she removed the pins securing her hat, with its assortment of silk daisies and peacock feathers, and had the chapeau in hand as she strode through the doorway and into the cook’s domain.
“You’re tardy,” Perkins immediately barked.
Mrs. Karson looked as though she’d been equally chastised, her brow deeply furrowed and her lips pressed together tightly, dipping down at each corner in worry.
“My apologies, but there was an accident—”
He quickly cut off her lie. “I don’t need your excuses. I need you upstairs.”
“Right.” She tossed her hat onto the table and reached for the tray.
“Leave it. He doesn’t want the food. He wants only you.”
Daisy’s heart slammed against her ribs. That didn’t bode well. Had someone followed her? Did Bishop know her purpose in being here? Was he going to vent his anger, take her to task? What did it matter? She wasn’t beholden to him, wasn’t truly his servant—at least she wouldn’t be beginning tomorrow. If he thought to rebuke or chastise her, well, she’d rebuke and chastise right back, and storm out with the parting shot that she’d see him in court. “Right.”
Still, her nerves coiled more tightly with each step that brought her nearer to her destination. She wasn’t looking forward to the confrontation, felt a spark of guilt for having betrayed him. But he’d brought it all upon himself with his unconscionable behavior.
When she reached the end of the hallway, she was surprised to see his door was open in invitation. She supposed he knew she’d show up at some point, but if he was going to take her to task, why not do it inhis library? Did he think he’d have better success at intimidating her in his bedchamber? Or was he considering reestablishing the rapport they’d shared at the Fair and Spare? Was it seduction he intended?
Bracing herself to resist the lure of him, she marched over the threshold and into the room.
Mrs. Mallard was sitting on the settee, quietly weeping. Bishop was positioned beside her, leaning over her, gently pressing a cloth to her face, murmuring. He glanced over his shoulder. “Thank God, you’re here. Will you see to her?”
Even as he spoke, he unfolded his body and stepped away, giving Daisy a clearer view of the woman. Blood trickled from her split lower lip and a red welt on her cheek would no doubt be bruised by morning. “My word, what happened?”
“Her husband.” His voice was rife with disgust, and he was holding the linen toward Daisy. After taking it, she settled herself close to the woman’s side, dipped the cloth in the porcelain bowl on the table he’d moved nearer to the settee, wrung it out, and tenderly patted it against the woman’s lower lip.
