11The rules don’t change in a game of chance. Until they do.
The knock on the door was a surprise.
Ned hadn’t known what to do after he left the dining room. He thought about wandering outside, sitting by the pond, and watching the stars come out, but the chances that he would run into the rest of the party upon reentry were too high. He didn’t want to see anyone. He didn’t want to be around anyone. He wanted to be left alone with his thoughts.
So he went up to the third floor, and back to his cramped room without a fire. Alone with his ruminations.
In many ways, he supposed he should thank God for the knock on his door.
“Who is it?”
“Danson, sir,” came the forlorn voice of his valet.
Ned opened the door to find that, yes indeed, it was Danson. Bearing, of all things, a blackberry tart.
“I am told you left the dining room abruptly this evening?” Danson said as he stepped into the room. His tone was distinctly disapproving . . . more so than usual.
“I didn’t feel . . .” Ned sighed, “like playing along.”
Danson’s harrumph was familiar and comforting. He put the tart down on the small table next to the papers from Mr. Fennick that outlined the proposal for the bathing retreat and Ned’s mother’s property. Ned had glanced at it yesterday when he returned to the room after the evening and then had promptly fallen asleep. He’d actively avoided looking at it tonight, fearful that it would make that hollow feeling in his gut grow wider.
“Lady Widcoate was particularly distressed that you left before you even tasted her blackberry tarts, which were made as a specialty of the cook’s. She directed that this one be delivered to you, in the hope that your, er, willingness to play along is restored.”
Danson turned and stood directly in front of him. His withering gaze took in Ned’s appearance, from the tops of his boots to the self-tied neckcloth.
His expression said it all.
“Come, now, Danson, do I really look that bad?” Ned sighed, giving in to the impulse to run his hand through his hair.
“You look as if you have fleas. Sir.”
Ned immediately pulled his hand out of his hair, putting it back at his side.
“Brilliant. Marvelous. And here I thought you had had my suit of clothes cleaned!”
Danson didn’t bother to deny it. “And apparently, it did little good.” But then his expression relented, and he met his master’s eye. “It is not so much in your attire—however untailored and unappealing—as it is in your expression.”
“My expression?”
“You may have a talent for reading people,” Danson allowed. “But you do not realize how easily read you are yourself. In this game, you need to learn not to let your countenance betray the workings of your mind.”
Ned didn’t know what to say. First the hollow feeling began in town, and then at dinner, listening to Turner give his account of a story that Ned told so often, he could hardly recognize the truth of another man’s version. Now Danson was telling him his disappointment was on display for all to see.
“How do you think he does it?” he asked suddenly.
“Sir?”
“Turner. How does he hide his true feelings?”
Danson gave the question some consideration.
“Some men are not made for service. They do not appreciate the precision and glory of tradition.” He sniffed derisively. “Some are made to be their own masters, as unruly as they may be. And to place the latter type of man in the role of the former . . . it would take a great deal of fortitude to last, say five years, with one’s ambitions intact. Personally, I believe he bites the inside of his cheek.”
“Bites the inside of . . . ?”
“If nothing else, it would keep your mind off other things. Perhaps it will help you not seem so flea-ridden.” He let his eyes flick over his employer’s appearance again. “Although I will take your suit for tomorrow and make certain it gets laundered tonight, if you please, sir.”
“Need I remind you that you are under direct orders to do nothing to give our wager away? And if you do, I lose?” Ned crossed his arms over his chest.
“You will have no chance of winning if you are not presentable,” Danson replied coolly. “And I will be damned if any wardrobe I am in charge of is less than perfect. Sir.”
As much as he wanted to protest, to demand that his orders be respected and insist that he could do for himself . . . right now, he was grateful for this small bit of caretaking.
“Brilliant, Danson. Marvelous. Take whatever clothes you see fit.” He waved his hand over to the rickety wardrobe, where he had placed Turner’s bag.
Danson opened the wardrobe and made a sound akin to a Pekingese being strangled. “You didn’t even hang anything!” he wailed. Then, with a quick, bracing inhale, Danson gathered a pile of offensive clothing, then straightened and turned, heading for the door to the small room. “Sir, if I may,” he said, his hand on the doorknob.
“Why stop now?” Ned said under his breath, but with a bit of a smile.
“I think it would be in everyone’s best interest if you were to hurry up and win this wager. Then we can all go home.”
Ned nodded, and Danson took that as the dismissal it was. But, as he opened the door and and turned toward the spindly stairs, Ned caught sight of something interesting.
At the other end of the corridor, a door was shutting. The governess’s door. He caught a glimpse of warm candlelight falling on the stiff gray wool of skirts. A braid of hair, coming out of a tight coil.
Of course—he and the governess were on the same floor! Here he’d been worried about finding the time for wooing her, sneaking in a moment here and there between her lessons and his duties as the earl’s secretary . . . but luck had given him all the nights.
“Yes, Danson,” he said under his breath to the long-departed valet. “I think it is high time I started winning this wager.”
THE KNOCK ON the door was a surprise.
Phoebe had just finally allowed herself the luxury of the rest of the evening to herself. The children had long since retired to bed, but she had stayed in the schoolroom preparing her lessons for tomorrow.
Making an excuse to get out of the Questioning had been risky, and she had to be certain that Henry and Rose were prepared when they faced their parents tomorrow. Not a single answer or fact could be wrong. She had a feeling her employment counted on it.
She had never seen Lady Widcoate this fractious. Not even the countess soothed her entirely. Sir Nathan, too, was trying overly hard to impress their guests at this strangest of house parties, and their nerves were contagious.
Phoebe just couldn’t face the earl, or his secretary. Not with what she had given away this afternoon in the stables. She was scared to death that she would see recognition on their faces. They would remember the name from her letter and tie it to the girl who had been left behind in the scandal.
A scandal the earl himself had caused, no matter what anyone else thought.
So, she had been late coming up to her rooms, and late relaxing into herself. If it was either of the Widcoates or Nanny at the door, she would likely not get the opportunity to be herself tonight at all.
“Who is it?” she asked, threading the narrow field between wary and deferential.
“It’s Mr. Turner, Miss Baker,” came the mellifluous tenor.
Oh, heavens! Why on earth was he at her door?
She hesitated, uncertain if she should open the door or send him off without a word.
He sounded more cheerful than he had that afternoon—did that mean that he had found something out? Or perhaps that he had found nothing out and just had a good dinner?
Her stomach grumbled at the thought. She herself had not had dinner at all.
“Er . . . Miss Baker?” Mr. Turner’s voice was tentative now. She could almost hear his smile faltering, causing her to have to squash her own. “I know this might be considered inappropriate, but I was . . . I was given this blackberry tart and thought you might enjoy it.”
There was a pause.
“Miss Baker?”
Another pause.
“All right, then. Have a good night, Miss Baker.”
Her stomach gave a protesting gurgle. What harm could there be in facing him now? After all, there was no way for her to get out of facing him or his employer tomorrow. And she was hungry enough to ignore any qualms that might be roiling in her gut.
“Just a moment!” she called out. Phoebe took the few seconds to hastily straighten her bedcovers and the books and papers on her little desk and to light her second candle, providing more—if not decent—illumination.
She ran a hand over her hair, the braid no longer pinned up in its bun at the nape of her neck, but falling over her shoulder. Oh, well, it would have to do. She did not have the time or the patience for pins.
One last hand running over her skirts, straightening the shawl on her shoulders, and she opened the door.
Just a crack. Just enough to peer out. There she saw Mr. Turner straightening his dark locks with one hand, holding a plate in the other.
Bearing the blackberry tart.
Her stomach gurgled again.
“Mr. Turner.” She forced herself to meet his eyes.
“Miss Baker,” he replied in kind, with a short bow.
And they stood there. Neither one knowing what to do or say next.
“Er . . . how was your day?” Mr. Turner began, standing in the hall, oddly formal with that plate in his hand.
“Fine,” she replied, unable to think of any other reply.
“I heard that young Henry had taken ill,” he continued.
“Oh, yes!” she replied, remembering the story she had given Lady Widcoate. “He was feeling better by the time he went to sleep. I have every expectation he will be right as rain in the morning.”
“Let us hope so,” Mr. Turner replied.
“And how was your day, Mr. Turner?” she tried, hoping at least to keep the scales of awkward conversation balanced. “Or, ah . . . your dinner?”
“Fine, as well.” He coughed. “I was not feeling very well myself, so I left before eating dessert.”
He indicated the tart in his hand.
“I do hope it is nothing serious.”
“No. Likely the same affliction as poor Henry. I will no doubt be fine in the morning.”
She eyed the tart, willing her stomach not to betray her audibly.
“I thought you might like it,” he continued.
“I should hate to take your whole dessert . . .” Although she was thinking the exact opposite.
“Well, perhaps we can split it,” he replied. “Do you have a knife, or . . . ?”
She nodded. “I think I have a penknife. Just a moment.”
She turned and took the few short steps to her small writing desk. The piece was a relic from a different Widcoate of Puffington Arms, and had been in the attic since the present Lady Widcoate’s interior renovations began. It was sturdy and useful—two aspects Lady Widcoate had apparently despised—and had deep drawers, in which Phoebe now rifled through for her old penknife. When she finally located it, she spun around to move back toward the door—
Only to bang—for the second time in two days—directly into the chest of Mr. Turner.
The broad chest, it must be said. One she had very nearly accidentally stabbed. Granted, the room was small, and he had taken barely more than a step inside it, but still—
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Mr. Turner! You . . . you should not be—”
But she was rendered silent by the look of wonder on his face.
“These are wonderful,” he breathed, his eyes fixed on the walls.
The two candles only gave the dimmest impression of what she had transformed her rooms into but, combined with the moonlight from the small window, it was enough to see the framed pictures she had hung in a precise line on the wall.
There were rivers and waterfalls cutting through mountains. A city at night in another. The one that Mr. Turner was staring at placed the viewer deep in a forest, looking up through the trees, the branches forming a circle, its own frame of a swirling, beautiful night sky. A comforting canopy, a place of imagination and welcome.
Everything blended together. Each picture in the line took the occupants of the ordinary third-floor room and transported them to somewhere new, different, and amazing.
She could be herself here.
But . . . now he was here. In her private sanctuary.
She wanted to curl in on herself. It was as if he had tripped his way into this inner sanctum with no thought to how vulnerable it made her—and she was not speaking of her reputation. No . . . it exposed her. The inside of this room was like the inside of her mind. And he was an intruder.
“Did you do this?” His eyes still on the picture of the night sky through trees.
“Yes,” she replied defensively.
“The Widcoates have a painting master under their roof.”
“They don’t know. No one does,” Phoebe admitted. “No one comes up here.”
“Not even servants?”
She tried to think of a judicious way to explain. “Lady Widcoate—can be short with the maids. The staff often changes from one month to the next. To make their lives easier, I carry up firewood and wash water myself. I would wager half of them think I live in the nursery.”
“I am amazed you have survived the Widcoates this long,” he mumbled, likely not thinking that he could be heard.
“Luckily, my purview is the children’s education. Indeed, I can go days, sometimes weeks, without seeing my employers.” To his unasked question, she supplied, “The Questionings are more frequent when there are visitors to be impressed.”
He nodded in understanding and, drawn like a moth to the proverbial flame, went back to examining the paintings.
And she had little to do but examine him.
He had barged his way in here—although, at the moment, she could not feel that was the right word. Followed where he should not have? As inappropriate as it was to have him in her rooms, he was not acting as if he was going to ravage her.
Indeed, the way he crouched in the small space, peering close at the wall, was almost comical.
He was a man of height. He made the painted forest and town and rivers recede into the background, an imposing figure that took up all the space in the little room. For a hundred different reasons, Phoebe knew she should be feeling wary of him.
And yet . . . she didn’t.
“You are remarkably talented.”
“Thank you,” she replied.
“No modesty?” he asked, his head coming up.
“None false,” Phoebe remarked dryly.
His mouth quirked up into that half smile—which sent a flutter through her insides to match the flickering candlelight.
Oh, dear. Perhaps she did have cause to be wary.
“I, ah . . . I studied art in my youth, and had a talent for it.”
“I would imagine it is a good skill for a governess to have,” he remarked, now letting his attention rove over the rest of the room. “What is this one?”
“Oh. That.” She blushed. “It’s a ship.”
“I can tell,” he observed. “It is rendered quite fine. But I know of very few lady painters interested in nautical art. Especially those landlocked in Leicestershire.”
“Well . . .” she offered, feeling bolder than she should. “It is a special ship.”
“The—” He peered at the name on the transom. “Blooming Daisy? How so?”
“It is the ship that is going to take me to America. I will not be landlocked forever.”
His head and eyebrow came up in swift succession.
“I have some cousins there—on my father’s side. In Connecticut. In two years’ time, Rose will be sent off to school and Henry will be given over to tutors. And I will have saved up enough money to travel.”
She looked at him for some reaction to her revelation that the governess had aspirations for a life beyond her charges. It was not in her nature to simply tell people about her dreams, her goals. After all, they had been dashed before, and she’d felt people’s pity and disdain in equal measure. She had closed herself off, long ago. But there was something about Mr. Turner, standing in the middle of her room, of her world, that made her feel like talking.
But he simply nodded and said, “I see.” Then, “May I?” He gestured to her desk chair. She waved a hand, allowing him to seat himself.
“Er, your penknife, Miss Baker?” He held out his hand. Oh, right. The tart.
She handed him the knife and took a seat in her other chair, the soft one that she had also rescued from the attic—where she did most of her reading.
“You have a very comfortable room here,” he said as he cut into the tart, releasing a delicious tangy aroma of blackberries and summer. “More comfortable, I daresay, than the rest of the house.”
She could not help but smile at that. “Oh, I can forgive Lady Widcoate her enthusiasm for ornate decoration. Why, without it, I would not have any of the furniture in this room.”
“How do you mean?” He finished cutting the tart and gestured for her to join him at the small desk. She did, scooting her soft chair forward to be within arm’s reach.
“Nothing,” she replied. It was one thing to commiserate and share a tart with a man, but she should not speak ill of her employers. “Lady Widcoate is not all bad.”
“You are the one who warned me to watch out for her today.” He handed the penknife back to her. “There are no forks, so, by all means, you go first.”
She moved the plate closer to her and picked up her half of the tart, taking the smallest of bites.
It was delicious.
She made a small, throaty sound, a sigh of appreciation. Her eyes closed, and she let the blackberry juices fill the inside of her mouth, savoring.
When she opened her eyes, Mr. Turner was giving her the most curious look, his own mouth hanging open.
And he didn’t stop staring.
A self-conscious hand flew to her mouth. “I’m sorry, did I . . . am I a mess?” she asked.
“No!” he cried. “Not at all,” he remarked with a smile, one so wide it reminded Phoebe of a few short hours ago, when he had thought he had something stuck in his teeth. “I am pleased to see you enjoying the tart. It really must be exceptional.”
She dropped her hand, relieved. “I missed my supper. And I am not often given treats.”
“Given treats?” He blinked several times. “They don’t feed you?”
“Of course they feed me,” she replied hastily. Not as much as the family, of course, but she was fed sufficiently. Over the past five years of being a governess, she had become used to making do with less. Although her previous family in Portsmouth had been much more generous than Lady Widcoate.
Still, when she was young, she used to have weight to her body. Substance. Now she was reedy—like everyone expected a governess to be.
“I simply do not often have sweets,” she elaborated. “Only on special occasions.”
“Then by all means, have more.” He nudged the plate toward her and watched as she took another bite, more full this time, more of the sweetness and the crust and the ripe fullness of the summer blackberries bursting in her mouth.
She could feel her cheeks pinking under his gaze. Which, in the light of two candles, was warm and intense.
It sent another strange thrill down her spine.
Perhaps too intense.
“There is a dictum that states that two people sharing a blackberry tart should be at least able to hold a conversation,” she said, after swallowing. Having him in here would be a great deal more comfortable if he was talking. Instead of just . . . staring.
“I suppose that’s a fair—if overly specific—rule of tart consumption,” he agreed. “So, why don’t you tell me about yourself?”
“Me?” she replied, a flight of panic going through her breast. “Why . . . why would you want to know anything about me?”
After all, he already knew more about her than she would wish.
“You told me you went to Mrs. Beveridge’s School. What was that like?”
Was he fishing for something? Oh, dear—was he here under orders from the earl?
No—no, she squashed that fear down. No one thought of her. Least of all the Earl of Ashby. While at one time in her life she would have raged against him, and written scathing letters, now she only wanted to remain anonymous, unnoticed. Her anger had been so useless.
But the fact that the earl’s existence still irked her, that his presence here could upset her to the point of paranoia . . . that was what was truly upsetting her.
Ned must have seen something in her reaction to his inquiry, in the space she took to answer, because before she could, he waved a hand, dismissing it entirely. “You’re right, who wants to talk about school?”
“No,” she offered, trying to sound unconcerned. “It was fine.” She took another bite.
“Were you . . . forgive me, were you a charity student? You must have been exceptionally clever, if that’s the case. Mrs. Beveridge’s is a very competitive environment. Er . . . so I hear.”
“You are familiar with girls’ schools?” she asked him warily.
“Not through any diligence.” He smiled at her, but offered no more explanation.
“I was not a charity student. My circumstances changed when my father died, and I left Beveridge’s shortly thereafter.”
“I am sorry,” he said automatically. “For the loss of your father, I mean. Not that you had to leave school. Although I expect that wasn’t a good day either.”
“No.” She took another mouthful of tart. “It wasn’t. But Mrs. Beveridge’s was never very keen on charity. Or cleverness, for that matter.” No, the school thrived on status.
“What happened to your father?” he asked suddenly.
Maybe he was fishing for something.
“He drowned,” was all she was willing to offer.
“Ah.” Silence reigned for a few moments.
He looked away from her then, his voice someplace very far away. “My father died when I was very young. I don’t even remember him.”
Her heart, practical as it was, could not help but go out to him. After all, at least she had the memories of her father. His lessons. The good times. There was a bright side—macabre as it may seem.
But Mr. Turner was not sad for long. He shook his head, as if to rid himself of droplets of sorrow, letting them fly off and dry up. Then he looked up at her with that full smile that she had at first thought might be overly toothy but was beginning to grow on her.
“But a night with a blackberry tart is not one for pitiful ruminations! Let’s talk about something more jolly!”
“All right,” she allowed. “What do you have?”
“What do I have?”
“In your boundless reserves of jollity? I find it very useful to call upon something fun or fanciful to make yourself smile when you need to.” She hesitated a moment. “It’s my own form of rebellion.”
He shook his head, still not understanding. Thus, she explained, “I have found that people expect a governess to be stern and miserable. So, secretly, I refuse.”
It had been that philosophy that had ultimately saved her sanity five years ago. And given her the temerity to plan for America. Her old teacher Miss Earhart had been right about that. She would find joy again, if not in the same places as before. She had managed to piece herself back together.
But Mr. Turner was looking at her queerly, so she cleared her throat.
“So—I always remember to enjoy the little things. Like . . . what was the silliest thing that happened to you yesterday?”
He put his chin in his hand, rubbing thoughtfully.
“I took a bath in water so dirty, it might as well have been piss.”
She nearly choked on a bite of tart.
“No, it was!” he continued. “I was the last one to use it—after your charges, mind—and I have no doubt that the scampering fleas and ticks that survived their drowning from the other bodies they came off of have now found a new house somewhere on my person.” He gave a little shiver. “I want to bathe again just thinking about it.”
She shook her head, trying to ward off the bark of laughter that threatened to escape. “I take it you are not used to such practices? You are a well-pampered secretary, then.”
He shrugged, and she could tell he blushed a little in the light. “My time in the army was different, but since then I have lived alone. And enjoyed my bathwater to be mine. But I have discovered that the pond is suitable for my bathing needs from here on out.”
You could join me.
Her eyes shot to his. The words were not said, she was sure of it. But somehow, they snaked their way into her brain. As if his tone and his throaty tenor, the candlelight and the delicious tart had made the suggestion for him.
She closed her shawl more tightly about her. Took another bite of tart. And replied.
“There are eels in that pond.”
He threw his hands up in the air. “Then I’m doomed to a rather smelly existence. I think I will manage, but what about my poor dinner companions? Or dessert companions, as the case may be. No—I shall simply have to brave the eels—for their sake. And yours.”
“We appreciate your sacrifice.” She nodded sagely.
“What about you?” he then asked. “What is your little silliness of yesterday?” Then an idea sparked to him, lighting his eyes with mischief. “Or, better yet—what is your little silliness of tomorrow?”
“Of tomorrow?” she asked, her interest piqued.
“Yes—what little silliness will go into your boundless reserve of jollity tomorrow?” he asked. “Perhaps teaching Henry and Rose to ride?”
She rolled her eyes. “If only Lady Widcoate would allow it.
“I don’t know,” she mused. “Maybe it will be a swordfight over my honor on the lawn between Napoleon Bonaparte and Julius Caesar.” She smirked at his upturned brow. “Rose enjoys swordfighting over my honor. Or over Nanny’s.”
“It could be seeing the children’s faces when they are in the stables.”
“A tart shared with a relative stranger,” she countered.
“A kiss?”
“A what?”
Before she could protest any further, her head was in his hands, and his lips were upon hers.
It happened so suddenly, Phoebe didn’t know what to do. One second, he had been sitting over there, leaning his arm on her little desk and watching her eat, and then he . . . he got closer. Then he got closer again, as they were talking. And then, he just . . . dove.
Being kissed was alarming in almost any situation, she decided. But this was not just any situation.
His lips were warm, the pressure against hers a startling persuasion. His hands held her by her jaw—more gently than she had supposed—his fingers sinking into her hair. He likely had no idea he was loosening her braid. The sensation that thrilled down her spine before came back with a vengeance.
And he kept his eyes closed.
Did people kiss with their eyes closed?
Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended. He pulled away from her, just an inch or two, his hands still molded against her face, caressing her neck, her ears.
“Brilliant,” he murmured to himself, the half-cocked smile in place. “Marvelous.”
Then he leaned in, closing the gap between them, and . . .
And it was at about that time, Phoebe decided she’d had enough.
Before his mouth could claim hers again, before she could be kissed more with eyes closed, she remembered that she had limbs of her own that worked, and hauled back and slapped him.
“Ow!” he cried. “You boxed my ear!” His hands came off her face and flew to his own.
“It was the closest thing available,” she replied hotly, rising so quickly to her feet that she almost knocked her chair over.
“What was that for?”
“What was that for?” she nearly screeched. Instead, she managed to keep her voice to a harsh, angry whisper. “What do you think it was for? You think you can just barge into my room and ply me with tarts and take advantage?”
“I . . . I wasn’t . . .”
“Oh yes you were, and you well know it!” She called upon the righteous indignation of her profession, shaming him with lack of empathy the way one had to with children.
“We were just talking . . .”
“Precisely. We were just talking. As people who are acquaintances might. What gave you such presumption?” She let herself rant in the most scathing tones, and kept her chair between them. “You have no right! No right at all to force yourself upon a female in the employ of this house, Mr. Turner. You should leave. And think about the consequences of such actions. Now.”
He stood, pulling himself up to his full (and inimitable) height. Phoebe held her stance, her shoulders hard and tense, ready to spring if she had to, her face a steely resolve. Her knuckles going white around the penknife she kept in her hand.
Her eyes, however, were not quite able to meet his.
Then . . . he gave a short bow.
“I apologize,” he said, gravity sinking in. “I misunderstood.”
She could have let him go then. He turned and walked away. But something inside Phoebe snapped. And she did not want him letting himself off easily.
“No, you did not.”
He turned again to face her.
“You did not misunderstand. You took advantage.”
On that, she did meet his eye. And what he saw there was enough to make his shoulders fall imperceptibly.
But he said nothing. Instead, he let himself out and closed the door behind him.
And Phoebe let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.
Good God, she was lucky that worked. Her shaking hands came up to her head. She was completely vulnerable up here with him. Her blackberry-covered penknife would have been of no help. He could have attacked her. Who would have come to her rescue? He could have had no gentlemanly instincts, and instead sought to please himself, and punish her for thwarting him.
She’d heard stories, of course. Of “gentlemen” attacking women of reduced circumstances, thinking they could get away with it. Governesses occupied that in-between space, making them invisible to almost everyone, and therefore vulnerable. But Phoebe had been lucky in her employment—the first family, in Portsmouth, had been fatherless, and Sir Nathan had never given her a second glance, let alone cause to fear for her virtue. Still, she should not have been so careless!
She took two steadying breaths and moved swiftly to her door and turned the lock. Then, for good measure, she placed her chair under the handle, securing it in place.
What other option did she have? she thought to herself. If she moved into the nursery for the duration, Nanny would ask questions, and she would be exposed as a trollop.
If she asked that he be moved to a different floor, it would expose her again, and she would take the brunt of it. There was no question.
How dare he! How dare he! She had been right to be wary of him, but she had gone against her common sense when her instincts failed her. He’s not so bad, they told her. He’s not his employer, they told her. Maybe it would be nice to talk to someone.
The promise of company and a blackberry tart had lured her into a false sense of security.
Well, she would not fall for it again. If he tried anything else, she would move rooms, no matter what anyone had to say about it.
That settled that. Although she doubted very much she would sleep at all tonight.
Her eyes fell on the remainder of the tart on the table.
At least she wouldn’t have to be tortured by an empty stomach too, she thought, as she lifted up the remaining half and bit into it with a fury.
There always was a bright side, no matter how macabre.