Beguiled by a Baron (The Heart of a Duke Book 14)(10)

Fueled by that, she set her shoulders and shifted her thoughts to something safer—her upcoming meeting.

My name is Bridget Hamlet.

Given that she’d spent her childhood days in one of her family’s far-flung country estates and then chose self-exile so she might raise Virgil, none either knew or remembered a third Hamilton child.

Bridget silently mouthed all the details she’d worked out for her fictional existence. …I’m a widow. My late husband was a bookseller. My family landed gentry…

Having read every book inside her family’s once well-stocked Yorkshire estate, she’d read enough gothic tales of ladies sneaking inside a powerful nobleman’s household. Every last one included surprise that the employer should ask probing questions and so commenced the stammering. Bridget, however, was too logical to make that mistake.

The carriage rolled to a stop and a peculiar still gripped her. Where were the lurching stomach and the panicky thoughts? But then, mayhap this calm was just further testament that her blood was as evil as that of Archibald and Marianne.

“Here we are, miss,” the driver called, yanking the door open.

Gathering her valise by the worn leather handle, she held on to it with one hand. With the other, she accepted the hackney driver’s offer of help. Bridget reached inside her cloak and withdrew coin for the fare, and the young man grabbed it with quick fingers. He tucked the coin inside his jacket, scrambled back atop his box, and drove off.

Alone, she remained planted on the pavement and directed her attention up the brick finish of the townhouse. The structure and windows facing the streets and lanes marked it one of the first-rate houses, and stood as a sign of Lord Chilton’s wealth. But then, a man in possession of one of the most coveted tomes, no doubt, had fortunes to rival the king’s.

He’ll not miss that one book, then. He’ll survive and thrive even with it gone, whereas I have no hope of existence without it.

That reminder ricocheted around her mind. Even as it propelled her forward and up the steps of Lord Chilton’s residence, guilt stung her throat like vinegar and made it hard to swallow. Bridget set her valise at her feet and knocked once.

When no one rushed to open the door, she shifted back and forth on her feet. Her skin pricked with the feel of stares trained on her. Unbidden, she looked out. Several ladies strolling arm in arm gawked. The same hideous fascination that accompanied any other stranger upon first spying the crescent-shaped mark upon her cheek. Their lips rapidly moved but Bridget had always been rot at gathering a jot of what another person said after they’d moved their lips away from her line of focus.

Drawing her bonnet up higher, she faced the arched entranceway, and frowned. Where in blazes was the butler? Or any household servant, for that matter?

As a girl, her earliest remembrances of her dictatorial father had been a man who’d railed at servants and sacked them if they failed to answer a door in a single rap. What manner of man was the baron who’d serve as her employer? Was he an absentee nobleman, whose servants carried on as they wished because of it? She knocked again.

The panel was drawn open with such alacrity, she gasped. A young servant in dark garments and an easy grin on his lips stared back. He passed his gaze over her, lingering on her valise. “Mrs. Hamlet,” he greeted with the warmth of a lifelong friend who’d been reunited as he motioned her forward. “You’ve arrived. Early. I am Mr. Lodge—” She opened her mouth to return the salutation—but he spoke hurriedly. “That is, I take it you are Mrs. Hamlet?”

Grateful to have that wood panel as a barrier between the gaping passersby and herself, she rushed inside. “I am.”

A dark-clad footman came forward to collect her valise and she turned it over to his hands.

“Mr. Winterly will meet with you and go through your responsibilities. When His Lordship returns, it is Winterly who’ll perform the necessary introductions,” the butler prattled.

Bridget furrowed her brow. Who?

“Forgive me. Mr. Winterly is Lord Chilton’s man-of-affairs. A business partner and,” the servant dropped his voice to a low whisper, and she carefully watched his mouth, “brother.” He stole a secretive glance about. “Given you’ll be responsible for the female staff, I daresay it isn’t gossip, mentioning Mr. Winterly is also a bastard child of the Duke of Ravenscourt like Lord Chilton.”

Her mind spun under the flurry of gossip flying from this man’s lips.

“Shall we?” Not waiting to see if she followed, Mr. Lodge started forward.

Fiddling with her clasp, Bridget hurriedly shed her cloak and dropped it into the hands of the patiently waiting footman, and rushed after the head servant.

“You’ll find His Lordship exceedingly…” His words pulling in and out of focus, she cursed her partial deafness and quickened her steps until she walked alongside the loquacious servant. “…fair, generous, and kind to his staff,” the butler directed that assurance forward.

Fair, generous, and kind. In short, all things her father, brother, mother, and sister hadn’t ever been. She bit the inside of her cheek. Why couldn’t Lord Chilton be spoken of with loathing and disdain by his staff? It wouldn’t erase the wrongs of her actions here, but it would ease some of the guilt.

“…extremely successful and… Ah, here we are,” Mr. Lodge stopped abruptly at the end of the corridor. He pushed the door open and motioned her forward.