Winterberry Fire: A Silver Foxes of Westminster Novella (Winterberry Park Book 2)(9)

He flinched, his overly bright smile fading. “What are you doing?”

“You had a bit of something on your cheek, love,” she said with a shrug. No need to spend it all at once. The slower she reeled him in, the better.

“Ah.” His smile returned, though slightly more guarded. “So did Ada say she’d go to the dance with me?”

“Well,” Mary began with a coy look, “she said she wanted to speak to you about it.”

“She did?” He frowned.

“In private,” Mary added, arching a brow.

“Oh,” Mr. Turnbridge answered as though he understood completely. “In private.”

“Yes.” Mary slid closer to him, resting her hands on his chest. She lifted to her toes and whispered near his ear, “She wants to meet you at the old cottage down by the river.”

“The one that belonged to…that woman?”

“The very one,” Mary confirmed. Mr. Croydon’s deceased mistress’s cottage was the perfect place for an illicit rendezvous. Not only did it have a certain reputation, it was a well-known secret that the key to the house was kept under a rock near the front door.

“And Ada wants to talk to me there?” Mr. Turnbridge went on.

“Talk? Maybe.” Mary sent him a knowing look.

“Oh.” A far-off look came into his eyes, and with it, a distinct flush appeared on his cheeks.

The man was ripe for the picking. Mary was certain that as soon as she got him alone in the cottage, all it would take were a few kisses and some petting and she’d be able to take him for a tumble. And as soon as dear Ada found out her precious schoolteacher had stuck his pen in the first inkwell that came his way, she’d be heartbroken. She’d never be able to so much as look at the man again. She’d be miserable, and Mary would have her revenge.

“What time did she say to meet at the cottage?” Mr. Turnbridge asked.

“Your school lets out at three o’clock, doesn’t it?”

“It does.”

“Then four o’clock.” She could plan her chores accordingly and make sure Ada was otherwise engaged at the time.

Mr. Turnbridge smiled. “Four o’clock it is, then. Tell Ada I’ll be there.” He took a step back. “Tell her I can’t wait, that my heart….” He shook his head. “No, I’ll tell her those things myself.”

“I’m sure you will,” Mary said. “Run along now. We all have preparations to make.”

“We have,” he agreed. “Thank you, miss…it’s Mary, isn’t it?”

“It is, but you can call me Sweetheart.”

He blinked, and for a moment looked confused. But whatever else he was thinking must have banished that confusion. He waved to her, then turned and hurried off down the path and into town.

Mary grinned and crossed her arms as she watched him leave. Seducing an idiot like that would be too easy. She’d enjoy it, though. The man wasn’t half bad to look at.



A maid’s work was never done, but Ada worked through her tasks as diligently as she could, determined to do the Croydon’s proud. As challenging as it was, she liked the idea that, while the Croydons were away, it was her duty to make their home as beautiful as possible. And if that meant scraping accumulated candle wax off the wooden floors in the library, scrubbing the sooty spots on the ceiling above the gas lamps, and polishing away general grime from the bookshelves, then she’d do it.

Besides, working in the library gave her a chance to pore over the hundreds of books that Mr. Croydon owned. He was surprisingly liberal about allowing his servants to borrow books from his library. Then again, as enticing as the leather covers with gold lettering were, most of what Mr. Croydon owned were political titles or dry works of philosophy. The history books were interesting, but there wasn’t a novel in sight.

She was halfway through dusting a shelf of Aristotle, peeking at some of the wise words of the ancients, when Tad appeared in the doorway. He cleared his throat, and Ada dropped her book in surprise.

“Tad. I didn’t see you there,” she said, breathless, and bent over to pick up the book. She was dead lucky that it had landed flat instead of in any way that would have damaged the spine or bent the pages.

“Sorry.” Tad walked swiftly into the room. “Only, I have something for you.”

Ada blinked, sliding the book back onto the shelf. “You do?”

“Yes.” He broke into a broad smile and took a few more steps toward her, but didn’t say anything more.

Ada gathered her patience and stepped away from the bookshelf. Tad was a dear, but he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. He seemed to have taken a fancy to her in the past few days as well. It was sweet, but she wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“What do you have?” she asked when the silence between them dragged on.

Tad gazed at her, his smile distant. Far too late, he blinked and flinched. “Oh, sorry. It’s just that you look so pretty today.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

Ada touched a hand to her hair, fixed in a bun at the back of her head. It was frizzy and wild, escaping from her mobcap. She was fairly certain dirt smeared her face as well. “Thank you,” she laughed, “but I’m sure I look a fright.”