The Duke Effect (The Rogue Files #7) - Sophie Jordan Page 0,8

the kitchen. They would be readying for luncheon. If her sister and the duke were not yet home, they would be soon.

It was now or never whilst the servants were so occupied and below stairs in the kitchen. She darted up the stairs and slipped inside her room undetected, setting her satchel down carefully on her work table.

She stripped off her clothes, letting the sodden garments drop heavily. Unpinning her hair, she worked a brush through the half-dry mass of snarled waves. It really was an inconvenience and such a bother. She should cut it.

She selected a fresh dress and donned it. This frock was just as plain and modest as the last one she wore. It was another one from the old days. The days before Warrington and her life at Haverston Hall. There had been no fine dresses in her life then. It made no sense to wear one of her new elegant gowns when she was working in her laboratory. In truth, she had little use for the gowns, but they were what was expected of a duke’s sister-in-law, even an unorthodox duke like Warrington who eschewed life in Town and could scarcely be prevailed upon to rub elbows with his peers.

The cotton dress fit her snugly, but the fabric was well-worn and comfortable, even if it did hug her chest too tightly and stretch at the seams in several places, namely her generous hips—they were a definite tribute to the splendid bisques and soufflés Cook was fond of preparing. One welcome perk of her sister marrying a duke; his kitchens were far superior to what she was accustomed.

Just then the door to her chamber opened and Bea entered as Nora managed to do the last button.

“Now Bea,” she began, prepared for the dressing down she was certain to receive for not ringing Bea to come and help her. “It was a simple change of wardrobe that I could do perfectly well on my own—”

“You’ve a caller,” the maid interrupted. “Ack! And look at your hair. ’Tis not fit to feed the pigs.” Bea pushed her to sit down before the dressing table.

“A caller?” Nora frowned at her reflection. “Who is it?”

Bea focused on her hair with single-minded zeal. “I do not know. Mrs. Conally told me to fetch you.”

“I am certain it’s someone from the village in need of a poultice or some such.” She attempted to rise.

Bea settled her hands on her shoulders and pushed her back down. “You’ll not be running downstairs with your hair a tumble. Such a disgrace.” She tsked her tongue. “It will be a poor reflection on me and we can’t have that.”

“Very well,” she grumbled, watching as Bea deftly arranged her hair into plaits and then pinned them atop her head in a very stylish fashion.

“There you are.” She lightly patted Nora’s head. “Splendid. Very tidy. You should let me attend you every morning.”

“Let us not go so far as that,” she said as she surged from the chair, glad to be free of Bea’s ministrations.

She was no fine lady and would never grow accustomed to all the trappings that went along with being one. She’d grown up in a modest household, with only two servants to wait on their family of six. After Mama and Papa died, after she and her siblings were truly orphaned, they had lost even that. They had to let their beloved staff go.

They had lost so much really and had been left on their own to endure considerable hardships. Nora was accustomed to doing for herself and that would never change.

No matter her shift in fortune, she was an independent woman.

She hastened down the steps, ignoring her growling stomach. That combined with the delicious smells of their impending luncheon drifting from the kitchen reminded her that she’d had no more than a few bites of toast hours ago. The fault was hers. She’d been in such haste, late as usual to breakfast because she’d lost track of time studying a new botanical text that arrived from London. She could scarcely tear herself away from its pages and was eager to return to it.

She spotted Mrs. Conally in the corridor as she came down.

“Oh, there you are, Miss Langley. Your guest awaits you in the drawing room. I’ve sent in Cate with some tea.”

Hopefully scones, too.

“Thank you, Mrs. Conally.”

The double doors were parted, awaiting her entrance. She imagined the guest must be of some import if Mrs. Conally secured him (or her) in the