tonight.” A weak smile crossed her lips as she looked up at Eliza. “You may seek your own bed.”
The maid’s face was devoid of friendliness. “Your aunt wishes me to let you know if you aren’t well in the morning, she will send for the physician.”
Margaret wanted to snarl at the maid; instead, she said in a quiet voice, “I’m sure that won’t be necessary. All I need is a good night’s sleep to put me to rights, but if not, I believe a doctor is warranted.” Margaret should have assumed sooner that her aunt had the entire household watching her every move. Especially Eliza.
Margaret closed her eyes. “Goodnight, Eliza.”
“Goodnight, miss.” The maid left, taking the broth, and shut the door behind her with a soft click.
Margaret counted to ten before her eyes popped open. She turned to look at the clock on her nightstand. She must wait.
When her aunt opened Margaret’s door a few hours later to check on her, Margaret lay very still and kept her breathing even and slow. Aunt Agnes was on her way out. She’d been asked to join Lady Patson at a ball tonight. Margaret couldn’t remember which one, nor did she care. She’d caught a glance at the invitation sitting on a tray in the hall. She could smell her aunt’s freshly applied perfume and hear the swish of her silk gown. If she rolled over, Margaret would catch sight of a hideous turban perched on her head.
She didn’t move until she heard the front door close and her aunt’s carriage pull away.
Margaret threw back the blanket. She positioned the pillows from her bed to resemble a person sleeping and then drew up the coverlet. In the darkness, no one would know the difference. After all, Aunt Agnes always said Margaret left so little impression on a person she was nearly invisible. Tonight, she’d put her aunt’s philosophy to the test.
Eliza was a traitor, but she was also stupid.
Clad only in her shift and stockings, she made her way to her wardrobe and grabbed her worn half-boots, ignoring the neat row of dresses and gowns. Where she was going, a dress wasn’t required.
An old wool cloak hung in the back of the wardrobe, one she hadn’t worn since leaving Yorkshire. The wool was gray, slightly moth-eaten, and patched in places. If any of the servants caught sight of Margaret, they would assume her to be one of them. She threw the cloak over her shoulders and paused at the mirror.
A thick braid of hair hung over one shoulder. As she pulled the cloak around her, Margaret was relieved to see the old wool covered every inch of her from chin to ankles. Her eyes were dark against the stark oval of her face, but she didn’t look the least bit afraid.
Not at all like a woman who was about to perform a private concert, half-naked, for a gentleman at Elysium.
17
Tony leapt from his carriage and walked into Elysium, shrugging out of his velvet-lined cloak before handing it to the waiting attendant.
“A pleasure to see you this evening, my lord.”
“Thank you, Johnson. How are your wife and little girl? Was the physician I sent to tend them sufficient?”
Johnson’s eyes widened at Tony’s words. “More than sufficient, my lord.”
“I am glad to hear it.” Tony and Leo had a habit of collecting strays. Men and women whom life had tossed to the winds, in dire need of someone in their corner. Like Johnson. Johnson lacked a right arm, the limb having been caught beneath a cart while filching food from a baker’s stall one day to feed his small family. He’d barely survived the loss of his arm, and would not have if the cart and the driver involved hadn’t worked for Elysium. Johnson had been brought to the club where Leo immediately had him tended and cared for. Hearing the man’s story, Leo had hired Johnson, who had now been the doorman at Elysium for several years.
“Ida is much improved?”
Johnson beamed, showing an uneven row of teeth, flattered Tony remembered the name of his daughter. “She’s much better, my lord. The fever is gone and she’s mending fine. I thank you again for sending the doctor to us. My wife keeps you in her prayers for doing so.”
“I am pleased to hear little Ida is better.” Tony patted him on the shoulder. “And my thanks to Mrs. Johnson. Though I fear her prayers are wasted on me.”
Johnson nodded. “Doesn’t hurt none, though, my lord.”