After the Wedding (The Worth Saga #2)(15)

Even that tiny amount of guarded praise had her glowing. In the years since she’d left her sister, she’d had little enough praise. Deservedly so. Camilla had that chorus of devils on her shoulder and no matter how she sometimes felt about the rector, he’d made sure that any rumors of her would not harm her family. She had to remember that.

“That will be all, Camilla.”

She escaped, feeling scraped raw.

Judas, it was said, betrayed Christ for thirty silver pieces. Camilla had sold her family for lemon tarts. It seemed fitting that she had nothing.

In a parable or a Greek myth, she would have been doomed to yearn for love hopelessly, forever. But this wasn’t a parable or a myth, and that legion of devils on her shoulder still gave her more hope than her single angel.

It’s been bad, they whispered, but just hold on. Don’t look back; look forward, and it will all come out right. Any day now. Just hold on to your hope.

The rector had told her not to listen to that hope. It sounded sweet, he told her, but it would lead her astray. Foolishness, said her angel, but its voice was small in comparison.

One day, said those devils. It will all be better one day.

Camilla took a deep breath, shut her eyes, and tried not to believe her devils. As always, she failed.

“Camilla!” The call came from below stairs. Camilla jumped. “Camilla? Where are you?”

She came back to herself again, and locked her bitter loneliness away. She tied it up with hope in the center of her heart. With any luck, it wouldn’t escape again, not for a good long while.





Chapter Five





It had been three days since Adrian arrived in Rector Miles’s household, and he still hadn’t discovered what he needed. A substantial part of the problem? Being a valet was hard work—particularly since Adrian did not know how to be a valet. Now, he had been told there was a red wine emergency.

Adrian didn’t have time for emergencies, he thought, dashing up the servants’ stair.

What he wanted to do was finish the task his uncle had set to him. But Miss Winters had avoided him the entire second day he’d been there, blushing when their eyes met, looking pensive and thoughtful, as if she’d been reprimanded. The cook knew nothing. Miss Shackleton, the other maid, shook her head and said to speak with Miss Winters. It was all dreadfully inconvenient.

The sooner he found evidence, the sooner he could quit, return to his uncle, and be back about his business.

More saliently, if he didn’t find something soon, he was going to end up sacked.

Possibly, he thought, as he arrived at the room where Lassiter was staying, he would get sacked today. He was absolute shite at being a valet, and his inexperience would be exposed at any moment.

When he’d interviewed for the position, he’d promised he was a veritable genius at removing stains. It had been a lie; he knew nothing about removing stains. He knew how to make extremely vibrant stains that would bond with the surface of bone china upon application of heat and not come off no matter what one did with the piece afterward. He had a wealth of expertise in dyes and metal oxides and glazes. Knowing about those processes had allowed him to construct realistic-sounding sentences that bore absolutely no relation to reality.

Luckily, there was one person who knew less about stain removal than Adrian, and it was Bishop Lassiter. The man had listened to Adrian make up some rubbish about vinegar and sunlight and… Adrian couldn’t even remember what he had said. It had worked, though, which was a miracle. His lies rarely worked.

But it wouldn’t last. He’d just been told that the bishop had spilled red wine down his front at lunch, and was waiting for him in his room.

Adrian opened the door.

A quick glance—nobody in the chair, nobody standing at the window, bed stripped of sheets….

Strange. Lassiter would be up shortly, no doubt.

Adrian crossed to the wardrobe, opened it, and started sorting through the clothing, looking for an appropriate change.

The shirt the bishop had worn two days ago should have done, except it had been stained with mustard. Adrian had tried to launder it, but…who knew mustard was so discoloring? Not Adrian. That yellow blotch would betray him.

Damn. That left—

His train of thought was interrupted by a noise on the other side of the room. He turned to see Miss Winters straightening, feather duster in hand.

Of course. He should have realized someone else was here, with the linen piled in a white heap in the corner.

Miss Winters had been avoiding him ever since that first night. She took a step back from him now, even though she stood on the other side of the room. They’d had almost thirty-six hours of monosyllabic exchanges, thirty-six hours of her almost looking at him before catching herself in the act and blushing.

“My apologies for the interruption,” Adrian said, “but I’ve been told the bishop will be up momentarily. He spilled something on himself at lunch.”

“No.” Miss Winters frowned. “He didn’t.”

“But—”

“I cleared away the dishes an hour ago with him in the room. He didn’t spill anything.”

Adrian frowned. “But—I was told most specifically…” He trailed off. Maybe it hadn’t been at lunch? But… Red wine at lunch. What a specific thing to say, if it hadn’t happened.