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Minerva studied the women below and then glanced down at her bright yellow silk gown. Ugh. She would never blend in dressed like this. She tugged off her white gloves and marched to her trunk, which Jack had kindly brought up for her. Jack. It had taken her a good ten minutes to convince the footman to leave and not return for seventy-two hours. Three days of freedom to determine if becoming Madame Rose for a Season was truly the adventure she wished for before succumbing to the life of a spinster.
Minerva fell to her knees and opened the trunk. She threw blanket after blanket that she would later arrange into a makeshift bed next to her on the floor. It would be a far cry from her goose-down mattress that she had lain upon each night at Malbury Townhouse, but it would have to suffice for next two nights. She grabbed the subdued gray gown she’d managed to procure for such occasions and held it up to her chest. Giddy with excitement to join the crowd below, Minerva stood and brushed her skirts.
“Achoo.” Dust tickled her nose.
She waited a moment, and when another sneeze failed to come, she let the gown fall back into the chest and reached behind her, ready to strip out of her dirty gown. She fumbled at the row of faux buttons, unable to release the clasps sewn into the material. Blast. She hadn’t planned on being without her maid when she dressed this morn, and in her haste to leave, she had failed to change.
She slammed the trunk lid shut, irritated at her own lack of attention. She plonked down to sit upon the trunk and pressed her fingertips to her temples to think.
Minerva jumped at the scratch at the door. She wasn’t expecting anyone.
No one was to know her whereabouts.
She tiptoed to the door and called out. “Who’s there?”
“Tibby, me lady.”
Lady. How did the stranger know she was a lady? Minerva stepped back from the door. Who in the blazes was Tibby, and what did she want?
“Me brother is Jack…yer footman. He sent me.”
Minerva released the breath she had trapped in her lungs and opened the door with a whoosh. She came face to face with a fresh-faced woman who glared back at her. It was obvious Tibby was not at all pleased with her brother’s orders.
Minerva grinned—she too disliked it when Benedict thought to order her about, even though the instances were few and far between.
Tibby’s brow arched, and Minerva stepped back let the woman in. “You’re Jack’s sister?” She shut the door and leaned back against it. Jack had portrayed his little sister as a girl.
Tibby walked with determined steps to the window, muttering and inserting the occasional “tsk” now and then. Minerva wasn’t dealing with a girl—no, Tibby was a young woman who carried herself with the maturity and confidence that came with years of experience at taking charge.
Tibby swiveled back around and marched with efficient steps to stand directly in front of Minerva. It was a good thing she blocked the door, for if Minerva had to guess, Tibby was not impressed with what she saw, including Minerva, and was ready to take her leave.
Hands on her hips, Tibby said, “Jack says I’m to assist ye. So…wot ye need ’elp with?”
“At present, getting out of this horrid gown.”
If Minerva left her post at the door, would Tibby walk out? There was only one way to find out. Minerva pushed off the door and walked over to her trunk. She opened the lid and slid a sideways glance at Tibby, who was watching her every move with a critical eye. She withdrew the drab gown she wanted to wear and shook it out. “I think this might be more slightly more appropriate.”
Tibby snorted. “Maybe if yer wantin’ a job as a scullery maid or such.” The young woman jutted her chin out toward the pile of blankets. “Ye plannin’ to sleep upon those?”
Minerva nodded.
Tibby rolled her eyes to the ceiling, shook her head, and sighed. “I don’t know wot me bleedin’ brother is thinkin’ leaving ye ’ere with naught.”
Minerva bristled at Tibby’s words. “I have the funds to secure what I need. I simply want to—”
“Wot ye be needin’ to do is return to Mayfair. That is what ye need.” Tibby’s brows knitted into a fierce scowl. “Ye ’ave no bloomin’ clue wot’s wot in this ’ere ’bouts.” The brash woman reached out, turned Minerva by the shoulders, and made quick work of releasing the clasps. Then she stepped toward the door. “Is there anythin’ else ye think ye need?”
Minerva gripped her gown to her chest and answered, “No.” She willed her chin not to quiver. No one had ever spoken to her so directly before, or with so little care.
Tibby took one more glance about the room. “Grand, cuz I’ve not got time to be pandering to a lady who is unappreciative of wot ye got.”
In a blink, the girl was gone.
Tears welled in Minerva’s eyes and spilled over her cheeks. She caught her pitiful reflection in the window. Bah. She was no watering pot. And she certainly wasn’t one to wallow in self-pity.
She let her silk gown drop to the ground and grabbed the cotton dress she intended to venture out in. Minerva tugged the material over her head and tied the sash behind her back with brisk efficiency. Tibby was wrong. She may be a daughter of an earl, but her life wasn’t all pleasure and leisure.
Minerva returned to the chest, fished out her coin purse and retrieved two crowns, and tucked them into the sewn-in pockets. She wasn’t about to let Tibby’s comments spoil her plans.
