just covered her bare ass!
“I doubt you’re aware of the whispering tubes.”
Whispering tubes? Many large homes had been constructed with a system for communicating with the help, wherever they happened to be. But in her room, she’d never noticed…
Quentin cleared his throat, smiling. “Knowing you were to occupy that chamber, Jemma and Lady Darington cleverly concealed those holes in the walls with a decorative piece that hangs beside your door. Therefore, anyone who cares to can—theoretically—eavesdrop on the activities in your room.”
“Which means the holes have been open since I moved in?” she demanded. The nerve of those meddling women! “And Dora and Jemma informed Mrs. Booth of this?”
“Of course. Because they cannot always be present themselves. Jason was most insistent that his mother and sister not intrude upon his newlywed state.”
She exhaled slowly, considering her options. “But if I cover those holes, Mrs. Booth will know I’ve discovered their little ploy to—”
He grinned engagingly. “Miss Crimson is resourceful enough to use such knowledge when it’s in her best interest.”
Maria snickered. Wasn’t it fine to be privy to a Darington secret, thanks to this confederate? He’d done her a huge favor—and oddly enough, she trusted him. She slipped her arm through Quentin’s again and they walked toward the house that was their home, yet wasn’t, really. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“My pleasure, milady. Nothing I want more than to see Jason return for you. And to see more of Jemma, of course. Much, much more.”
Ah, puppy love. She had to smile at his eagerness. “Miss Crimson can be very resourceful. I won’t guarantee Miss Darington’s devotion, but I can certainly…arrange things.”
10
A few days later, Maria stepped inside the door and listened, as she always did. Except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the vestibule, the town house seemed unusually quiet for the middle of the afternoon.
Perfect. She hurried up the stairs as the clock began the sonorous chiming that announced the hour, letting the stately bong … bong … bong mask her arrival. The muslin pockets hidden beneath her skirt bulged with Miss Crimson’s mail, and she hoped to spend the afternoon answering correspondence—composing future columns. Closing the door to her room, she smirked at the biblical needlepoint sampler hanging beside it: A GOOD WIFE WHO CAN FIND? SHE IS FAR MORE PRECIOUS THAN JEWELS , it declared in pink satin stitches. Maria lifted its bottom edge and stuck out her tongue at the three holes: whispering tubes that would carry any messages to the kitchen, the laundry area, or to Mrs. Booth’s quarters on the third floor.
“Oh, Quentin, you mustn’t lick me there! You mustn’t! What if His Grace returns and catches us in the throes of our passion?”
Maria blinked. Quentin? His Grace?
“Ah, but you know how I cannot resist you, sweetling! Your nectar drives me wild for more! His Grace be damned!”
She covered her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. That was indeed Quentin’s voice, although he sounded like a bit player reading from a badly written script. Where might he and Ruthie be playing out their little melodrama? And why had she never heard their voices before?
Maria considered this while impassioned moans drifted into her room. Had Quentin turned the tables on Mrs. Booth? Had he opened the speaking tubes on their end, so Maria could eavesdrop? While the idea of the housekeeper seducing the young butler still seemed ludicrous, something about their game intrigued her. And who knew how useful such information might be in the future?
She slipped out of the cumbersome inner skirt containing her mail, removed her shoes, and then crept noiselessly up the service stairway. She paused to study the third-floor hallway, where she’d never ventured: Mrs. Booth could not catch her spying! Maria crept carefully past the two closed doors of the
“I doubt you’re aware of the whispering tubes.”
Whispering tubes? Many large homes had been constructed with a system for communicating with the help, wherever they happened to be. But in her room, she’d never noticed…
Quentin cleared his throat, smiling. “Knowing you were to occupy that chamber, Jemma and Lady Darington cleverly concealed those holes in the walls with a decorative piece that hangs beside your door. Therefore, anyone who cares to can—theoretically—eavesdrop on the activities in your room.”
“Which means the holes have been open since I moved in?” she demanded. The nerve of those meddling women! “And Dora and Jemma informed Mrs. Booth of this?”
“Of course. Because they cannot always be present themselves. Jason was most insistent that his mother and sister not intrude upon his newlywed state.”
She exhaled slowly, considering her options. “But if I cover those holes, Mrs. Booth will know I’ve discovered their little ploy to—”
He grinned engagingly. “Miss Crimson is resourceful enough to use such knowledge when it’s in her best interest.”
Maria snickered. Wasn’t it fine to be privy to a Darington secret, thanks to this confederate? He’d done her a huge favor—and oddly enough, she trusted him. She slipped her arm through Quentin’s again and they walked toward the house that was their home, yet wasn’t, really. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“My pleasure, milady. Nothing I want more than to see Jason return for you. And to see more of Jemma, of course. Much, much more.”
Ah, puppy love. She had to smile at his eagerness. “Miss Crimson can be very resourceful. I won’t guarantee Miss Darington’s devotion, but I can certainly…arrange things.”
10
A few days later, Maria stepped inside the door and listened, as she always did. Except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the vestibule, the town house seemed unusually quiet for the middle of the afternoon.
Perfect. She hurried up the stairs as the clock began the sonorous chiming that announced the hour, letting the stately bong … bong … bong mask her arrival. The muslin pockets hidden beneath her skirt bulged with Miss Crimson’s mail, and she hoped to spend the afternoon answering correspondence—composing future columns. Closing the door to her room, she smirked at the biblical needlepoint sampler hanging beside it: A GOOD WIFE WHO CAN FIND? SHE IS FAR MORE PRECIOUS THAN JEWELS , it declared in pink satin stitches. Maria lifted its bottom edge and stuck out her tongue at the three holes: whispering tubes that would carry any messages to the kitchen, the laundry area, or to Mrs. Booth’s quarters on the third floor.
“Oh, Quentin, you mustn’t lick me there! You mustn’t! What if His Grace returns and catches us in the throes of our passion?”
Maria blinked. Quentin? His Grace?
“Ah, but you know how I cannot resist you, sweetling! Your nectar drives me wild for more! His Grace be damned!”
She covered her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. That was indeed Quentin’s voice, although he sounded like a bit player reading from a badly written script. Where might he and Ruthie be playing out their little melodrama? And why had she never heard their voices before?
Maria considered this while impassioned moans drifted into her room. Had Quentin turned the tables on Mrs. Booth? Had he opened the speaking tubes on their end, so Maria could eavesdrop? While the idea of the housekeeper seducing the young butler still seemed ludicrous, something about their game intrigued her. And who knew how useful such information might be in the future?
She slipped out of the cumbersome inner skirt containing her mail, removed her shoes, and then crept noiselessly up the service stairway. She paused to study the third-floor hallway, where she’d never ventured: Mrs. Booth could not catch her spying! Maria crept carefully past the two closed doors of the
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