London: Friday, 1 April 1814
Bloodred and splayed wide as if in panic, the dried handprint stood out clearly against the white, freshly painted inside panel of the town house’s front door.
Jenny Crutcher was crossing his lordship’s grand black-and-white marble-tiled entrance hall, humming to herself, when she saw it. She drew up, one fist clenching around the handle of her broom as she glanced in dismay at the golden glow of the rising sun filtering in through the fanlight above the door. A housemaid in any normal gentleman’s establishment would have been shocked by such a discovery. But Jenny had worked in Viscount Ashworth’s Curzon Street residence for six years now. Little shocked her anymore.
She was a slight, underfed woman with a pinched face and dull, straight fair hair that combined to make her look older than her twenty-six years. Once not so long ago, folks had called her a pretty little thing. But Jenny didn’t mind her fading looks too much. Fresh-faced young housemaids had a tendency to catch his lordship’s eye, and Jenny had more than enough trouble in her life already. Frowning at the blood, she hurried off to fetch a bucket of water and a rag. She didn’t have time for this; she’d been working since before dawn, and there was still so much to do before the master came down.
“Blast,” she muttered when water splashed over the rim of the bucket as she set it down on the marble tiles. More work. It wasn’t until she was on her hands and knees, wiping up the spilled water, that she noticed the blood on the door’s handle. She cleaned that too, surprised to realize the door was unbarred. His lordship’s aged butler, Mr. Fullerton, always made a big show of ceremoniously lowering the bar on the front door every morning. But the old man wasn’t up yet.
In a normal household, it would also be the butler’s responsibility to bar the door at night before retiring. But that task was often delegated to his lordship’s valet for reasons Jenny understood only too well. Forgot something, did we, Digby? Jenny thought, allowing herself a faintly malicious smile. She was not fond of the nasty little valet.
Leaving the bucket of bloody water for later, she scurried off to work her way through the rooms of the first two floors, throwing open curtains, collecting dirty wine and brandy glasses, and straightening the disorder left from the night before. She worked in concert with the second housemaid, Alice, the two women dividing the tasks between them in a familiar routine they’d developed over the years. By the time they climbed the stairs to the floor where the Viscount kept his bedchamber, it was already past ten o’clock. Fortunately, his lordship was never up before noon, so they should still have plenty of time to sneak into his room, quietly make up the fire, leave fresh water, and be away before he stirred.
They’d almost reached the master’s door before they realized it was standing ajar. The room beyond gaped dark and quiet.
“Reckon he’s up already?” whispered Alice, hesitating.
Jenny shook her head. “Can’t be. He didn’t ring for Digby.”
Alice shifted her grip on the heavy coal scuttle she carried. “So why’s the door open?”
“A draft coulda pushed it.” Yet even as she suggested it, Jenny was remembering the bloody handprint on the unbarred front door. Something tingled up her spine, and she clutched the water pitcher she carried more tightly to her chest. “Maybe we shouldn’t go in there.”
“We have to,” said Alice. Nudging the door open wider, she took one step into the room.
And screamed.