fifteen minutes to take you upstairs.”
They went out and shut the heavy door again. Pushing upright, Eliza swung her legs over the side of the bed, listened, and heard the key turn in the lock. Sitting on the bed’s edge, she tried to imagine what ulterior motives might lie behind the unexpected dinner invitation, then decided that whatever they were, she didn’t truly care. Getting out of the tiny basement room even for a few hours wasn’t a boon she was in any mood to refuse.
After her days in the coach, she’d welcomed their brisk walk through the town, but being incarcerated again in such a small room had made her long for wide and open spaces. Which felt strange given she wasn’t overly fond of such places.
Rising, she paused for an instant, confirmed, to her very real relief, that the last vestigial traces of the laudanum had worn off. Her mind was her own, and so was her body.
Going to the washstand, she lifted the pitcher and poured the warm water into the basin.
Stripping off her much-abused ball gown, pushing the rose quartz pendant around so it hung down her back, out of her way, she quickly washed.
Briskly shaking out the golden gown, she donned it again, then turned to the mirror to do what she could to tidy her hair. The elegant style of honey-gold curls artfully arranged to tumble from a knot on the top of her head to form a shining crown was now a disarranged disaster. Swiftly plucking pins, she released the long tresses, used her fingers to comb the mass out, then plaited it into two braids, finally winding both around her head to form a coronet, and anchoring the ends with the pins.
Finally, she pulled the pendant back to hang between her breasts; she debated about leaving it on show, but the rose quartz clashed with the gold of her gown. “Better not to flaunt it, anyway.” She tucked the pendant beneath her bodice, straightened the necklace from which it hung, rearranged her fichu and collar as best she could, then dipped and weaved before the mirror, checking the result.
It was better than she’d hoped, which made her feel more confident. More like the Cynster female she was, less like a bedraggled kidnap victim.
She was, she realized, looking forward to the dinner, to seeing what more she might tease from Scrope and his minions. As long as she didn’t dwell on the vexing questions of whether Jeremy knew where she was, and how he might rescue her, assuming that he did, she would manage.
Hearing footsteps beyond the door, she swung to face it. Taylor pulled the door wide; he grinned when he saw her. Standing in the corridor, Genevieve looked irritated. She beckoned. “Come on. Scrope’s waiting.”
They conducted her up the steps into the kitchen, then along the short corridor to the dining room.
A rectangular table had been set for four. Scrope was standing before a tantalus by the wall, a glass of red wine in his hand. He turned as she walked in. His gaze took in her appearance, then he half bowed, playing the gentleman. “Miss Cynster. May I offer you a glass of wine?”
Although his expression remained uninformative, Eliza sensed he was in a distinctly good, if not mellow, mood. “No, thank you, but I would like some water.”
“In that case.” Scrope waved to the table and came forward. Setting down his glass beside the place at its head, he came around and held the chair to his right for her.
Playing along — she saw no reason not to — Eliza sat, graciously inclining her head in response to his gallantry.
Taylor, mimicking Scrope, held the chair opposite Eliza for Genevieve. With both ladies seated, the men took their seats, and the meal began.
There were no footmen to offer the dishes, but everything had already been set on the table, large enough to accommodate six. The first course was a pea and ham soup, rather heavy for a dinner, but Eliza was starving. She made short work of emptying her bowl.
A fish course followed, supplanted by guinea fowl and partridges
They went out and shut the heavy door again. Pushing upright, Eliza swung her legs over the side of the bed, listened, and heard the key turn in the lock. Sitting on the bed’s edge, she tried to imagine what ulterior motives might lie behind the unexpected dinner invitation, then decided that whatever they were, she didn’t truly care. Getting out of the tiny basement room even for a few hours wasn’t a boon she was in any mood to refuse.
After her days in the coach, she’d welcomed their brisk walk through the town, but being incarcerated again in such a small room had made her long for wide and open spaces. Which felt strange given she wasn’t overly fond of such places.
Rising, she paused for an instant, confirmed, to her very real relief, that the last vestigial traces of the laudanum had worn off. Her mind was her own, and so was her body.
Going to the washstand, she lifted the pitcher and poured the warm water into the basin.
Stripping off her much-abused ball gown, pushing the rose quartz pendant around so it hung down her back, out of her way, she quickly washed.
Briskly shaking out the golden gown, she donned it again, then turned to the mirror to do what she could to tidy her hair. The elegant style of honey-gold curls artfully arranged to tumble from a knot on the top of her head to form a shining crown was now a disarranged disaster. Swiftly plucking pins, she released the long tresses, used her fingers to comb the mass out, then plaited it into two braids, finally winding both around her head to form a coronet, and anchoring the ends with the pins.
Finally, she pulled the pendant back to hang between her breasts; she debated about leaving it on show, but the rose quartz clashed with the gold of her gown. “Better not to flaunt it, anyway.” She tucked the pendant beneath her bodice, straightened the necklace from which it hung, rearranged her fichu and collar as best she could, then dipped and weaved before the mirror, checking the result.
It was better than she’d hoped, which made her feel more confident. More like the Cynster female she was, less like a bedraggled kidnap victim.
She was, she realized, looking forward to the dinner, to seeing what more she might tease from Scrope and his minions. As long as she didn’t dwell on the vexing questions of whether Jeremy knew where she was, and how he might rescue her, assuming that he did, she would manage.
Hearing footsteps beyond the door, she swung to face it. Taylor pulled the door wide; he grinned when he saw her. Standing in the corridor, Genevieve looked irritated. She beckoned. “Come on. Scrope’s waiting.”
They conducted her up the steps into the kitchen, then along the short corridor to the dining room.
A rectangular table had been set for four. Scrope was standing before a tantalus by the wall, a glass of red wine in his hand. He turned as she walked in. His gaze took in her appearance, then he half bowed, playing the gentleman. “Miss Cynster. May I offer you a glass of wine?”
Although his expression remained uninformative, Eliza sensed he was in a distinctly good, if not mellow, mood. “No, thank you, but I would like some water.”
“In that case.” Scrope waved to the table and came forward. Setting down his glass beside the place at its head, he came around and held the chair to his right for her.
Playing along — she saw no reason not to — Eliza sat, graciously inclining her head in response to his gallantry.
Taylor, mimicking Scrope, held the chair opposite Eliza for Genevieve. With both ladies seated, the men took their seats, and the meal began.
There were no footmen to offer the dishes, but everything had already been set on the table, large enough to accommodate six. The first course was a pea and ham soup, rather heavy for a dinner, but Eliza was starving. She made short work of emptying her bowl.
A fish course followed, supplanted by guinea fowl and partridges
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