Winterberry Fire: A Silver Foxes of Westminster Novella (Winterberry Park Book 2)(7)

The walk to Winterberry Park was a cheery one. The weather continued to be unseasonably warm and sunny, something about which Tim had no intention of complaining. He had to be careful once he crossed over onto Winterberry Park grounds, though. If Mr. Noakes spotted him, it would all be over before it began. What he really needed was someone to deliver the note to Ada for him.

He waited, pacing around the edge of the garden, for nearly half an hour before a likely candidate came into view. At last, one of the footman strode up the lane behind him, whistling, a packet of what looked like other mail in his hands. Tim couldn’t have asked for anything more perfect.

“Excuse me. Hello there.” He stepped away from the shrub where he’d been waiting to intercept the footman. The young man started and blinked at him. “I have a favor to ask,” Tim went on. He held up his note for Ada. “Would you be so kind as to deliver this to Miss Ada Bell for me?”

The footman smiled and took the letter. “For Ada?”

“Yes.” Tim nodded. “And, if you don’t mind, I’d like a reply.”

“A reply?”

Tim wondered just how bright the man was. “If you don’t mind. Could you tell her that I’ll wait here for her answer?”

“Uh, yes, sir.” The footman stared at the letter, turning it over, even though nothing was written on either side of the folded paper. “You’ll wait here for her answer,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“All right, then.” The footman nodded and walked on.

Tim took a step back, watching him go. His heart thrummed with nervous energy. That was it. He’d started the ball rolling. All he had to do now was sit back and wait to see how his future would unfold.





Chapter 3





Mary upended her bucket of filthy, ammonia-smelling water into the large sink in the scullery with a grunt. She hated scrubbing out fireplaces. Particularly in winter. They were dirty, sooty, and coated with grime, and even though they were scrubbed every other day while the family was in residence, the deep, thorough cleaning they got once the Croydons returned to London usually left her dirty, sooty, and coated with grime instead of the fireplaces.

“When you’re finished with the dining room,” Mrs. Musgrave said, coming up behind her but not fully entering the scullery, “Go and help Martha with the guest bedrooms.”

“I’m supposed to have my tea soon,” Mary protested. As soon as Mrs. Musgrave turned on her with a sour frown, Mary added, “Ma’am.”

Mrs. Musgrave sighed. “You may have fifteen minutes for tea, but if you are not back at work by five o’clock, there will be consequences.”

Mary waited until Mrs. Musgrave had walked away to make a face at her back. “Consequences,” she mocked, then stuck out her tongue. “The only consequences in this bloody place are more work.”

“Did you say something in there?” Mrs. Carlisle, the cook, asked as she fetched a pot from the rack beside the scullery.

“No, Mrs. Carlisle.” Mary set her bucket down and left the scullery, going as far as she could to pretend deference to Mrs. Carlisle, the fat old sow. It was ridiculous how much sway the senior staff was given over the likes of her. It wasn’t like she was Annie, the kitchen maid, or Jonah, the hall boy. She deserved better treatment than that.

Her bitter mood carried her as far as the hallway, but before she could cross into the servants’ hall, Tad came bustling through the kitchen door. He tripped into the door jamb, bumbling into the hall. Mary rolled her eyes.

“Is that the mail?” she asked, her curiosity motivated by the sheer levels of boredom that cleaning all day had raised in her.

“It is,” Tad said. He set the mail on a small shelf, then contorted his way through removing his wool coat. He looked like a crane caught in a fishing net as he twisted this way and that.

At least his stupidity allowed Mary to peek at the letters he’d brought up from the post office. Most were for Mr. Croydon and would be forwarded to London. One was for Mr. Noakes, and one was for Mrs. Musgrave. But one had no address at all. In fact, it was just a piece of paper folded over, with writing on the inside.

“What’s this?” she asked, reaching for it.

“That’s not for you,” Tad warned her. The wretch had finished with his coat and was able to snatch the letters away before Mary could read the mystery note. “That’s for Miss Ada.”

“Miss Ada?” Mary crossed her arms, sneering at the dolt.

“It’s from the schoolteacher,” Tad explained, holding the letters close.

Mary’s brow went up, and her mind began to turn. “Is it now?”

“Yes. And he’s waiting for a reply.”

Mary stood straighter. “Waiting? Here?”

“Down by the end of the lane,” Tad said.

A thousand ideas popped into Mary’s head. She’d only begun her scheme to keep Ada and her precious teacher apart. Throwing Tad in Ada’s way was one thing, but she felt as though she’d just been handed the perfect opportunity to cause even more trouble.

“I’ll take Ada the letter,” she said with as much innocence as she could muster, which, admittedly, wasn’t much.

“No,” Tad said, shaking his head. “I’m supposed to take it to her myself and wait for a reply.”