Page 68 of One Night with an Earl

If she’d been alarmed before, she was truly panicked now. Beneath the table, she wiped sweaty palms on her skirts. She composed her features into a calm facade she’d had plenty of practice perfecting over the years.

“Lord Drake noticed my interest in the estate’s flowers and politely showed me the conservatory.”

“I see. Penelope, please give me a moment alone with Miss Gardner.”

“Mother, I— ”

“It’s not a request,” her ladyship snapped.

Penelope’s gaze darted to her. Ana nodded to let her know it was fine. Penelope pushed back her chair, her steps measured, and shut the door behind her.

“Cease with the excuses,” Lady Malvern said, then planted her palms flat on the table and leaned forward. Her brown eyes were hard and cold. “I do not care for your reasons. I care only for my daughter’s future.”

“As do I, my lady.”

“I had asked you to determine the identity of the man whom Penelope admires.”

Ana’s mouth was dry, and she eyed a water glass within reach. She snatched her fingers back. Instinct told her that her livelihood depended on her answer. She’d been homeless, cold, and hungry before, and she swore she’d do what it took to keep this position. Her salary, no matter how small, was a necessity.

But since she’d accepted this position, she and Penelope had grown close, and Ana was protective of her charge. She envisioned the young woman’s expression when she’d read the letter advising of Lieutenant Smithfield’s injury. Penelope’s sobs and tearstained face would be hard to forget.

Could Ana betray her trust?

Deep down, Ana knew the Malverns would never give their blessing for their only child to marry Lieutenant Smithfield, a sixth son who would never inherit his father’s title or any wealth. Lady Malvern had ambitions, and a member of the lower aristocracy was not sufficient for her only daughter. And if Lieutenant Smithfield returned home from Spain injured and lame, it would be even worse. Perhaps Ana should try to convince the girl to burn the lieutenant’s letters.

“Well?” Lady Malvern’s voice was sharp.

Ana swallowed as myriad conflicting thoughts assailed her. Her stomach churned. “I need more time.”

She couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t.

Ana knew what it felt like to be betrayed, and she cared too much for Penelope to cause her despair.

Her ladyship’s gaze narrowed. “More time?”

Ana held her head high and met her employer’s eyes. “Penelope was ill. She was not in a condition either to confess anything to me or to properly engage the Earl of Drake.”

“Fine. It’s good the Season is not yet over. I’ve managed to obtain an invitation to the earl’s private theater box upon his return to town.”

How had she managed that? The Earl of Drake remained at Rosedown to conduct his business affairs. Had Lady Malvern been in contact with Lord Drake’s grandmother already? She wouldn’t put it past the marchioness.

It had only been a day since Ana had left Rosedown, and she already longed to see the earl. She could still smell the table of fragrant, exotic blooms between them in the conservatory when she’d agreed to meet his midnight coach. Her cheeks heated from the memory, as if the humid warmth of the conservatory had brushed her skin.

“As for the rest of the ton’s upcoming events, we have choices.” Lady Malvern tossed the pile of invitations across the table, and they scattered before Ana like confetti. “Congratulations, Miss Gardner. You may keep your position. But by the end of the month, I expect success and my daughter’s engagement.”

…

The days since their country visit passed slowly. The Earl of Drake had not returned to town; likely his duties had kept him away. Ana was honest enough with her herself to acknowledge she missed him.

Not true.

She missed him terribly.

She found herself gazing at the night sky, hoping to see the seven stars of the plough, Princess Ariadne’s crown, the harp instrument, lyre, or the Chinese story of two star-crossed lovers. She could only make out the North Star. The rest were as far away as Oliver.

Her emotions were turbulent, and she needed to speak with a long-time acquaintance. Only one person came to mind.

Ana descended from a hackney and walked the familiar path past Threadneedle Street to a smaller part of the city. She could hear the cacophony of voices as she rounded the corner. Market day. Once a month, foreign traders arrived to sell their goods. Arabic, Greek, and Mediterranean merchants haggled with buyers over bronze lamps, rare carpets, spices, artwork, and trinkets. The fragrant aroma of roasted meat and vegetables on skewers and fish seasoned with spices of cumin, anise seed, cardamon, sumac, and turmeric filled the marketplace. It was a delight for the eyes and senses. Ana wandered the stalls until she spotted a wool shawl with an intricate design of peacocks and vines and paid the traveling merchant. Soon after, she was at Queenie’s door.