The maids jumped, splashing water onto the floor. They turned, eyes wide, to see the Lady of the house standing in the kitchen doorway in her nightclothes, her hair wild, her chest heaving.
Edith spun around. She was startled, her hand flying to her throat.
"My... My Lady?" Edith stammered. "Is there a problem? Is your illness..."
Ines didn’t explain. She walked forward, grabbed Edith’s hand, and pulled.
"Come with me," Ines said.
She dragged the confused maid out of the kitchen, ignoring the shocked stares of the scullery girls. She pulled Edith into the cool, quiet pantry hallway, away from the prying ears.
Ines stopped. She leaned against the wall, placing her hands on her knees, trying to take in air. She was panting, not just from the run, but from the sheer, terrifying audacity of what she was about to do.
"Ahh... ahh..." she gasped.
Edith looked at her mistress. She saw the flush on Ines’s cheeks. She saw the wild light in her eyes. It wasn’t illness. It was something else.
"My Lady," Edith said, her voice low and worried. She reached out to steady Ines. "What’s the matter? You should be in bed. Did you have a nightmare?"
Ines shook her head violently. She stood up straight, catching her breath. She gripped Edith’s hands tightly in her own. Her fingers were cold.
"I know it’s late," Ines whispered, her eyes searching Edith’s face. "I know you are tired. I know this is... crazy."
"What is it?" Edith asked.
"But I need a favor from you," Ines said.
She looked at Edith. Edith, who had dressed her since she was a girl. Edith, who had been her only companion in this big house. Edith, who knew her better than anyone else .
"Please," Ines begged, squeezing the maid’s hands. "Just once. Help me. It’s... it’s a bit of a hassle, though. It is a big hassle. But please."
Edith looked at Ines. She saw the desperation. She saw the love. She knew, without being told, who this was about.
"Is it about the Duke?" Edith whispered.
Ines nodded. "I need to find a way to see him. Now."
Edith’s eyes widened. "My Lady! It is the middle of the night! If His Grace, your brother, finds out..."
"He won’t," Ines promised. "He is at the club. I need... I need you to help me. Please, Edith."
Edith hesitated. It was against every rule. It was grounds for dismissal.
But then she looked at Ines’s face. She had never seen her mistress look so alive.
Edith sighed. "What do I need to do?"
~ ••••• ~
A few miles away, the new manor of the Duke of Carleton was silent.
It was smaller than the Hamilton estate, but it was sturdy and elegant. It was a bachelor’s house, devoid of the soft touches of a woman’s hand. There were no flowers in the vases. The curtains were heavy and dark.
Carcel was in his study.
The room was dim, lit only by a single, large oil lamp on the desk and the dying embers of the fire. The desk was a battlefield of paper. Stacks of shipping manifests, tenant agreements, and architectural plans covered every inch of the mahogany surface.
Carcel sat in a high-backed leather chair. He was still wearing his shirt and trousers, though he had discarded his cravat hours ago. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing his forearms.
He dipped his quill into the inkwell.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
The sound of the pen on the rough paper filled the air. It was the only sound in the house.
He was signing a contract for the renovation of the west wing of the main estate at Carleton. He wanted to expand the library. He wanted to make it brighter. He wanted it to be a place where a writer could work.
He finished the signature with a flourish and set the paper aside on the "finished" pile.
He proceeded to the next paper. An invoice for new furniture.
"There’s a lot piled up," he thought to himself, staring at the stack that still remained.
He had been working like a madman for a week. He hadn’t gone out. He hadn’t slept much. He had poured all his energy, all his longing, all his frustration into the renovation of his house.
He paused. He dropped the quill into the holder.
He lifted his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. A wave of exhaustion washed over him. His eyes burned. His back ached.
"I want everything to be perfect," he murmured to the empty room.
He wasn’t doing this for himself. He was content with a bed and a roof. He was doing this for her.
He wanted the house to be ready. When they married, when he brought her to Carleton... he wanted it to be perfect. He wanted her to walk in and feel that she was home. He wanted her to see that he had thought of everything.
He opened his eyes and looked at the empty chair opposite his desk. He imagined her sitting in his study. Writing. Smiling at him.
"Soon," he whispered. "Just two months."
It felt like two centuries.
Knock, knock.
The sound broke his reverie. It was a soft, hesitant rap on the heavy study door.
Carcel frowned. He checked the clock on the mantelpiece. It was past one in the morning. The servants should be asleep.
"Come in," he said, his voice rough with fatigue.
The door opened.
Lloyd, his aide, stepped into the room. He was dressed, but he looked as if he had dressed in a hurry. His hair was ruffled. He held a candle in his hand.
Lloyd looked nervous. He looked confused.
"I apologize for disturbing you this late hour, Your Grace," Lloyd said, bowing low.
Carcel sat up straighter. Lloyd knew better than to disturb him unless it was an emergency. A fire. A problem at the docks.
"What is it, Lloyd?" Carcel asked, his hand instinctively reaching for the letter opener, as if it were a weapon.
Lloyd stepped further into the light. He looked at his master.
"There is a visitor, Your Grace," Lloyd said.
"A visitor?" Carcel repeated. "At this hour? Who?"
Lloyd hesitated. He looked toward the hallway, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was about to say.
"A maid," Lloyd said slowly. "From the Hamilton house."
Carcel froze.
The Hamilton house.
His heart gave a violent, painful lurch.
Ines.
Was she ill? Had she collapsed again? Was it her heart? Or was it Rowan? Had Rowan found out something else? Had he found out about her novel?
Carcel stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floorboards.
"A maid?" he demanded, his voice sharp. "Is it Edith? What does she want? Is Lady Ines alright?"
Lloyd shook his head. "I... I do not know, Your Grace. She is at the service entrance."
Carcel stared at him.
"She says..." Lloyd paused, looking uncomfortable. "She says she has brought a... a letter. For you. That cannot wait until morning."
Carcel didn’t wait to hear more. He didn’t ask what kind of letter . He didn’t ask why a maid was delivering it in the middle of the night.
He rounded the desk.
"Bring her in," Carcel ordered, striding toward the door. "Now."