“You are quite safe now. Shall I escort you home?”
“Oh, would you?” she breathed in relief.
“It would be my pleasure.”
“You are so kind.”
Tristan shrugged. “Think nothing of it. Which way?”
Pointing down the street, the maid offered him a shy glance. “To Lady Gilbert’s.”
“You are employed by Lady Gilbert?” he demanded in mock innocence as they moved together down the darkened street.
“Yes, sir. A fine lady.”
Tristan’s lips twisted. Lady Gilbert would some day pay for the troubles she had given him. Pay in blood.
“A fine lady, indeed,” he smoothly retorted. “I suppose, however, that like most beautiful women she is temperamental and difficult to please?”
“No, sir.” The maid loyally defended her mistress. “She is always kind to the staff.”
He gripped his cane with impatience. “Highly commendable. But no one is a paragon. Surely she has some faults? A few hidden sins?”
Obviously culled by the beautiful Lady Gilbert, the maid gave a reluctant shrug.
“Well, she does insist that no one be allowed to enter the house without her approval. She is quite particular about that.”
“Is that all?” Tristan shot her a cold gaze. He would have the information he desired. “No odd fancies?”
“Odd fancies?”
His desire to do away with the idiotic wench was nearly overwhelming.
“Any secrets that she keeps from society,” he at last bluntly demanded.
“Oh.” She thought for a moment. “None unless you count the fact she makes her own gowns.”
Hardly the shattering secret that Tristan had hoped to discover. He could hardly blackmail the woman just because she happened to make her own gowns.
Still, there was something about the unusual behavior that caught his attention.
“How peculiar. She does not approve of dressmakers?”
The maid ducked her head. “I really couldn’t say, sir.”
Certain that the maid was concealing something, Tristan lightly touched her arm.
“You can confide in me, my dear.”
There was a pause before the maid nervously cleared her throat.
“I ... I think it has something to do with the scars I seen on her back.”
Tristan raised his brows in surprise. “Scars? From a burn?”
“No. It looked more like she had been whipped. Badly whipped. Terrible scars they are.”
A stab of pleasure curled the edges of Tristan’s lips. So, the stubborn woman had been beaten. Not surprising. Her sharp tongue alone should have seen that she was put into her grave long ago.