housekeeping budget, the cook who sold half the food she bought and served little but gruel belowstairs, and Rose, the desperate, who had nowhere else to go.
Until she'd been plucked from the mire of her desperation and sent to the Liar's Club.
Until she'd found a home.
Louis Wadsworth could not hurt her now. She was not the lonely, desperate maid of the past. And she was on a mission, directed by the spymaster himself to—
No. His lordship had said the family was named "Wentworth." He had sent her to fetch the file from his study. "
The Wentworth file. On top of the pile on my desk
."
Wentworth.
Wadsworth
. Oh, God
. Rose covered her face with her hands. She'd bungled it when she'd stubbed her toe on the leg of the desk and sent the files slithering out of their pile.
She'd sent herself to the wrong house.
She turned and hurried back down the long gallery. She had to get away—away from that portrait, away from this house. Away from Louis. Crikey, it was as if she could feel his breath on the back of her neck!
"I am not afraid of Louis Wadsworth," she muttered to herself. "Not anymore."
Oh? Then why are you fleeing?
She wasn't fleeing. She was staging a sensible retreat after realizing that she was in the wrong house.
Then why are your hands shaking?
She looked down. It was true. Her stomach was shaking as well. That was beside the point, however. The point was that she was in the wrong house and ought to skip right back to the club to report her mistake.
Leaving Louis in peace.
That thought stopped her in her tracks. Why was Louis Wadsworth living in peace? Why had he not been swept up in the circumstances that had finally disbanded his father's traitorous Knights of the Lily? Why was he living unworriedly in
Mayfair
, wealthier than ever, and dining with the Prime Minister?
The Liars didn't know. They couldn't know, or they would never suffer it.
She knew. She knew things about Louis Wadsworth that likely no one else on earth knew.
Memories swirled in her mind. The day Louis had left the house was not the last time he'd visited, simply the last time he'd lived there.
No, he'd been back many times over the intervening years.
There had been many secret meetings, those she had been present for when no one else wanted to serve the late-night gatherings. Meetings between her own master, Mr. Wadsworth, and his group of anti-Crown French collaborators, the Knights of the Lily. And in the midst had been the scion of the industrialist's empire, his son, Louis—every bit as guilty as his father.
Mr. Edward Wadsworth had died for his crimes. For reasons of their own—probably to keep their own part secret—the Liars had allowed him to be publicly lauded as the hero of the piece. Harmless enough, she supposed, since the man was far too dead to get up to more treachery. Louis, however, was all too alive and apparently not under suspicion.
Louis was very wily. Rose had no doubt that he'd been clever enough to emerge clean from the debacle of the Knights of the Lily.
"The master of this house is no ordinary bloke. Not him what dines with the Prime Minister himself!"
Louis had indeed become a powerful man if he was associating with the likes of the Prime Minister of England.
Lord Liverpool was not a man Rose wanted to cross. He'd objected to her entry into the Liars on the grounds that she was too common and too female. He would not want to hear anything she would have to say about one of his friends. After all, it would be her word against Louis's.
Louis would win that battle, as always, unless she came armed with more than memories and accusations. She knew what would happen if the Liars heard Louis's version of events. She'd been shunned before and had barely survived it with her soul intact. No, she could only go to the Liars with something so damning, so concrete, that no one would ever take Louis's word again.
Hot excitement began to tingle through old chilly memories, burning them away in the flame of
Until she'd been plucked from the mire of her desperation and sent to the Liar's Club.
Until she'd found a home.
Louis Wadsworth could not hurt her now. She was not the lonely, desperate maid of the past. And she was on a mission, directed by the spymaster himself to—
No. His lordship had said the family was named "Wentworth." He had sent her to fetch the file from his study. "
The Wentworth file. On top of the pile on my desk
."
Wentworth.
Wadsworth
. Oh, God
. Rose covered her face with her hands. She'd bungled it when she'd stubbed her toe on the leg of the desk and sent the files slithering out of their pile.
She'd sent herself to the wrong house.
She turned and hurried back down the long gallery. She had to get away—away from that portrait, away from this house. Away from Louis. Crikey, it was as if she could feel his breath on the back of her neck!
"I am not afraid of Louis Wadsworth," she muttered to herself. "Not anymore."
Oh? Then why are you fleeing?
She wasn't fleeing. She was staging a sensible retreat after realizing that she was in the wrong house.
Then why are your hands shaking?
She looked down. It was true. Her stomach was shaking as well. That was beside the point, however. The point was that she was in the wrong house and ought to skip right back to the club to report her mistake.
Leaving Louis in peace.
That thought stopped her in her tracks. Why was Louis Wadsworth living in peace? Why had he not been swept up in the circumstances that had finally disbanded his father's traitorous Knights of the Lily? Why was he living unworriedly in
Mayfair
, wealthier than ever, and dining with the Prime Minister?
The Liars didn't know. They couldn't know, or they would never suffer it.
She knew. She knew things about Louis Wadsworth that likely no one else on earth knew.
Memories swirled in her mind. The day Louis had left the house was not the last time he'd visited, simply the last time he'd lived there.
No, he'd been back many times over the intervening years.
There had been many secret meetings, those she had been present for when no one else wanted to serve the late-night gatherings. Meetings between her own master, Mr. Wadsworth, and his group of anti-Crown French collaborators, the Knights of the Lily. And in the midst had been the scion of the industrialist's empire, his son, Louis—every bit as guilty as his father.
Mr. Edward Wadsworth had died for his crimes. For reasons of their own—probably to keep their own part secret—the Liars had allowed him to be publicly lauded as the hero of the piece. Harmless enough, she supposed, since the man was far too dead to get up to more treachery. Louis, however, was all too alive and apparently not under suspicion.
Louis was very wily. Rose had no doubt that he'd been clever enough to emerge clean from the debacle of the Knights of the Lily.
"The master of this house is no ordinary bloke. Not him what dines with the Prime Minister himself!"
Louis had indeed become a powerful man if he was associating with the likes of the Prime Minister of England.
Lord Liverpool was not a man Rose wanted to cross. He'd objected to her entry into the Liars on the grounds that she was too common and too female. He would not want to hear anything she would have to say about one of his friends. After all, it would be her word against Louis's.
Louis would win that battle, as always, unless she came armed with more than memories and accusations. She knew what would happen if the Liars heard Louis's version of events. She'd been shunned before and had barely survived it with her soul intact. No, she could only go to the Liars with something so damning, so concrete, that no one would ever take Louis's word again.
Hot excitement began to tingle through old chilly memories, burning them away in the flame of
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