Once Upon a Maiden Lane (Maiden Lane #12.5)(3)

Her pretty rose-red lips parted for a moment as she stared at him.

Then she blinked, and her eyes narrowed with what looked like suspicion. “You cannot expect me to believe this ridiculous tale, my lord.”

“It’s actually rather well known,” Seymour said, sounding apologetic. “Was a scandal at the time. I know this sounds like the veriest balderdash, miss, but you do look quite a lot like Lady Joanna. I wonder if you might tell us your name?”

She pursed those luscious lips but finally said, “My name is Mary Whitsun. I’m a nursemaid. And now, if you will excuse me, I would like to enjoy the rest of my day off in peace.”

Henry bowed and stepped back. “Certainly. But won’t you tell me where you reside? If you don’t mind, I would like to call upon you tomorrow afternoon.”

Her brows rose. “Do your maidservants usually entertain visitors at your house?”

Her tone had such bite.

He grinned. “This is a special case. I think your employer will be persuaded to make an exception.”

“Well, I don’t wish to tell you where I live. Good day, my lord.” She turned and made her way out of the bookshop.

Henry watched her walk away. The minute she was out the door he was after her.

“What—?” Seymour started, but Henry ignored him.

He opened the bookshop door in time to see that prim back retreating down the busy London street.

Just in front of the shop, a trio of boys of about twelve were loitering.

“Want to earn some money?” he asked them.

The boys came to attention.

Henry quickly explained his needs and gave them each a coin with promise of more should they successfully fulfill their mission.

Then they were off, weaving through the mass of people.

Henry turned to see Seymour by his side.

“What was that all about?” his friend asked.

“She was suspicious of me,” Henry said quietly. “I can’t simply let her go.”

He stared after her, though she’d long since disappeared into the crowd. He had an almost overwhelming urge to follow her, as if she might be lost again. Ridiculous. He’d already set three urchins on her trail.

Besides. He didn’t know her. She was a stranger to him. If anything, he should be appalled at the mere possibility that he might be tied to a woman who’d been raised as a servant instead of a lady.

Yet he was oddly eager to find out more about the girl.

He looked at Seymour. “Well. I’d thought to attend the horse auction this afternoon, but I think on the whole we ought to pay a visit to Lady Joanna and the Countess of Angrove, don’t you?”





Chapter Two



Clio lived beneath the sea with all the other mermaids, each more beautiful than the last. When the mermaids sang, the waves themselves stilled, and sailors were helplessly enthralled.

Nearby dwelt the Sea King and his seven sons in his gold palace. The youngest of these sons was Triton. He had shoulders like boulders, a complexion the color of coral, sea-green eyes, and hair that waved in the water like black seaweed. Since childhood Triton and Clio had been friends.…

—From The Curious Mermaid



Mary arrived back at Caire House a little after five of the clock—earlier than she’d originally planned, but she’d been unable to shake the silly tale the viscount had told her, which had rather ruined her day. Stolen babies and lords and ladies—what rot.

But what if…?

Mary remembered Lord Blackwell’s startlingly blue eyes and the way he’d sparred with her. He’d said she was supposed to marry him, a beautiful, laughing aristocrat.

It was like a fairy tale.

She grimaced and shook her head. A fairy tale indeed. It was too ridiculous to even consider. Just as well that she’d not given him her address. Who knew how far he would’ve taken his jest?

Mary pushed open the back door to Caire House and walked into the warm kitchen.

The cook, a wiry woman of about five and forty, looked up from kneading a huge mass of dough. “Back early, then, Mary Whitsun?”

“I’m afraid so, Mrs. Green,” Mary replied.

“Then I suppose you’ll be joining us for supper.” The cook jerked her chin at one of the scullery maids. “Mary Giving, make sure to set enough for Mary Whitsun tonight.”

“Aye, Mrs. Green,” called Mary Giving. She, like almost all the servants at Caire House, had come from the orphanage.

“Thank you,” Mary said and hurried from the kitchen.

The servants’ stairs were immediately outside the kitchen. Mary climbed the narrow uncarpeted treads. She couldn’t stop thinking about Lord Blackwell. He’d been so sure of himself and who he thought she was. So arrogant and easy in his rank and privilege.

And his laughing blue eyes had been surrounded by the thickest black lashes she’d ever seen.

She scoffed at herself. That was the problem with handsome gentlemen: they had a way of distracting one.

She reached the uppermost floor of the house and turned down the corridor. On either side was a row of doors. Hers was the second on the right. Unlike most of the other maidservants she had a room all to herself—a luxury she appreciated after a childhood spent in a girls’ dormitory. Her room was small, just under the eaves, but it held a neat bed, a small table with a white stoneware washbasin and pitcher, a chair, and a row of hooks. The chair sat beside a window that overlooked the square at the front of Caire House. Mary liked sitting there at night, her room dark, watching the bustle of London. The city never entirely quieted. At night carriages rolled by, carrying wonderfully dressed ladies and gentlemen on their way to balls and the theater. Drivers arguing and shouting to each other. The night watchmen strolled by with their clubs over their shoulders. Drunken lords and beggars huddled around bonfires. She could see all the world from her little window.