in the Hargrave kitchen. His dark hair was pushed back from his face, and he looked like he had been out getting some exercise. For a moment, she wondered what he did when he was not studying. Fencing, perhaps, or even sparring? Of course, the gentry didn’t dirty themselves as the boys back home would; they would use special gloves and padding. Will and his lot would have a good laugh.
Adam repeated his question in a tone that brooked little humor.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered, trying not to recoil.
“Come, Lucy. You know exactly what I mean. Did you think Aubrey would not tell me about your request? Did you want me to seem a fool before my friend?” Adam tapped his foot. “Make haste, if you will. It would not be seemly for me to enter a chambermaid’s bedroom, but by God, I’ll go right up there and search your things to find what is mine. Your honor be damned.”
“Lady’s maid,” Lucy muttered without thinking.
He folded his arms, his frown deepening. “What?”
“I’m a lady’s maid. Your mother is a lady, is she not? And I’m her servant, am I not? Then I’m a lady’s maid, sir, and not a chambermaid.”
“Of all the damndest—”
Pushing past him, Lucy added, “I shall retrieve what you request shortly. You may meet me in the drawing room.”
His raised brow made her think she might have gone too far. “Sir,” she added hastily.
Racing to the drawing room, she quickly unwrapped the scarves that crossed her bodice, pulling the papers out. Making a snap decision, she kept “A Murder at Rosamund’s Gate” hidden. Adam walked in a few moments later, just as she was refastening her dress.
He looked at the small pile of papers on the table and then back at her. “You were wearing all of that under your skirts?” he asked, incredulous.
Lucy smirked. “Under my bodice, actually.” Suppressing an inner groan, she bit her lip. Why on earth had she mentioned her bodice? She talked quickly then, to cover her embarrassment. Putting her hand on the papers, she said, “I paid for these, you know. A crown. My money,” she emphasized, in case he didn’t get it.
“The price of using my name, I’m afraid.” Adam held up a hand to quell her protest. “Now, I am interested, however, in knowing what my mother’s charming little lady’s maid wanted with these nasty, sordid pieces.” He eased one of the flimsy sheets from under her hands.
Despite the great show he was putting on, Lucy had the feeling he knew exactly what they all were.
“Yes, I see. Bessie’s murder, of course.” He looked at the others. “Hmm … and Jane Hardewick’s, and even little Effie Caruthers’s. Tut tut. Dreadful business all, to be sure. What is going on in that silly little head of yours?”
Lucy shook her head.
“Oh, come now; it’s easy to see what you’re thinking. A connection between them. Tell me your reasoning.” His voice was lazy but commanding. “Really, I insist.”
Although she remained standing, Lucy leaned against the table. “Well,” she began, “I found it hard to piece it together, truth be told. I thought Dr. Larimer had said that the two girls, Jane and Effie, had both been killed the same way. Yet this one”—she picked up a pamphlet and in a halting manner read, “‘The True Account of a Most Treacherous Murder,’ says Effie was killed by a passing woodcutter. This makes no sense at all.” Lucy laid the sheet down on the table. “It seems odd that Effie had left the house with her satchel of clothes, planning to run off with someone, then she just happens to have the ill fortune to be set upon—what? Why are you laughing? ’Tis not a humorous event!”
“No indeed,” Adam said, the mocking grin disappearing for an instant. “Her murder is no laughing matter. I think you know she was not hacked to pieces by, what did you call him? A passing woodcutter?”
“But,” Lucy reasoned, “why would the picture here show it like this? It makes no sense.”
“For that confusion, you may blame Master Aubrey. He will simply select woodcuts that he had used for other texts, a common practice among printers. See, he’ll use that woodcut whenever the crime seems to suit. However, there may be some truth here, even if the author may have made up other details to better sell the story.”
“Did Master Aubrey write this story, then? About Bessie?”
“Not likely. He probably just bought this from a Grub