Last Dance in London (Rakes on the Run #1) - Sydney Jane Baily Page 0,106

of her first day.

“There’s clean water for washing, miss.” Emily gestured to the washstand where a pitcher and bowl stood with a towel hanging beside it.

Julia went over to examine it, dipping her finger in. Frigid. She’d always heard of the drafty, cold, and uncomfortable conditions of the nobility’s large country homes. But at least there was a bar of Pears’ soap.

“I can bring up some hot water, miss.”

“No, it’s fine,” Julia assured her. The experience would build character and prove how dreadfully spoiled she’d become since living in Sarah’s comfortable home where the maid brought in hot water every morning, and they had a bath thrice a week.

“Do you need assistance?” Emily asked, standing in the doorway, clearly ready to go.

Julia supposed the girl had to ask, but since it was going to be a quick flick of cold water on her face and around her neck, she doubted there was much Emily could help her with.

Yet she had one more concern. Her mouth felt like she’d tried to chew wool.

“Any mouth fresheners?” she asked, hoping at least for a comfit.

“In the cabinet will be a toothbrush, miss, and some cleaning powders, and the freshening eau de bouche her ladyship raves about.”

Julia looked to where the maid indicated. A small cupboard stood directly beside the washstand. She’d never heard of the latter, but freshening mouth-water sounded like something worth trying.

“And a comb?” she asked.

“In the bedroom, miss, on the dresser.”

“Thank you, Emily. Where shall I go when I’m ready?”

“Where would you like to go, miss?” the girl asked, looking mystified, as if Julia might want to ride a camel to Egypt.

“Never mind, thank you.” She would make her way downstairs and find her hosts.

“Yes, miss. And I’ll find out about those gowns by the time Christmas dinner is served.”

JULIA COULDN’T RECALL the last time she went downstairs in a grand country manor house to meet the mother of an earl with whom she’d had inappropriate relations.

Of course, that was because it was as implausible a situation as any she’d ever known. This did not happen to a vicar’s daughter who only went to balls at the grace of her sister’s good fortune.

The Marshfields’ country house was probably similar to where Sarah currently resided in Great Oakley. Massive ceilings yawned overhead, a thick polished oak banister ran smoothly under Julia’s hand, old portraits of even older people stared down at her, and chilly air gave her goosebumps in the stairwell despite the wool she wore.

Reaching a two-story front hall which she’d been too exhausted to take note of upon arrival, she crossed its checkerboard black-and-white marble floor. Dust motes floated on the sunbeams streaming through the many windows facing the front drive.

Everywhere was luxury, albeit a little faded, including large mirrors, even larger paintings, oak and mahogany furniture, and gilded whatnots whose sparkle of gold caught her eye.

There was an open doorway on either side of the entrance hall, which she would swear was forty feet long yet hadn’t seemed so very large in the wee hours. Passing through the entry at the far end, she traversed a small anteroom before ending up in a spacious billiard room. Julia continued on through more doorways and rooms as it appeared the house was built upon a square of connected chambers.

Finally, she heard voices and entered a salon with a small dining table for six. All conversation stopped and two similar pairs of eyes turned to regard her.

The earl rose to his feet, welcoming her with a smile.

“There you are. I was beginning to wonder if you were hopelessly lost.” Jasper turned to a handsome woman in mauve-colored silk with dark brown hair and the very mirror of his mischievous gaze.

“This is my mother, the Dowager Countess of Marshfield. Mother, this is Miss Sudbury, our guest.”

“You are most welcome, my dear,” said his mother. “Merry Christmas.”

The knot of nerves inside Julia loosened at the woman’s warm tone.

“Thank you, my lady. Merry Christmas.” She curtsied, feeling the moment demanded such formality.

“Heavens,” Lady Marshfield exclaimed. “Do sit down. You are rail thin and clearly in need of sustenance. Jasper, fill her plate at once.”

Instead of a sideboard, the tureens and platters of food were in the center of the round table. It seemed odd to have the earl serve her when she could perfectly well reach the food herself, but she had no intention of gainsaying a single thing the dowager countess ordained.

Taking a seat, she watched as Jasper took the clean plate from