“His valet?” Her visitor appeared astonished. “You know, you cannot let servants overstep…”
Rage came flooding back. “Cannot? How am I to stop them when the master of the house encourages them to persecute…?” Charlotte bit off the word, battered by her conflicting emotions. He had intervened, but of course he didn’t really understand. How could he? And why would he want to? She couldn’t bear to expose the humiliations of her life to this… this Wylde. “Are there… documents I must have?”
Sir Alexander drew papers from an inner pocket. “Will you be employing Mr. Seaton?”
“No!” She wanted nothing to do with anyone associated with Henry. She practically tore the pages from his hand.
“Then I would recommend Harold Wycliffe. He is the solicitor who reviewed the will for me. His card is there with the…”
“All right!” She moved toward the door. “I need to think.”
“Of course.” He retrieved his coat and hat. “If I can be of any…”
“Lucy will show you out.” She hoped. He was probably thinking that her household was in complete disarray. And he would be right.
Sir Alexander bowed and passed through the drawing room door. “Please do not hesitate…” She shut it in his face. She couldn’t help it.
***
Now there was a proper gentleman, Lucy thought as she closed the front door behind their visitor. Silently, she went over his speech to Holcombe yet again in her mind. She’d been desperate for someone to squash that slimy bug for months and months, and this Sir Alexander had done it so thoroughly. The look on Holcombe’s face when he was threatened with a magistrate! Lucy hugged the memory to her. His defeat was so long overdue. It did her heart good. Maybe there was some hope for better things, after all.
Suddenly, the strain of the past months descended on Lucy in one headlong rush. She had to put a hand to the wall to keep from sinking right down onto the floor. The carping, the frustration, the helplessness; it had been the worst year of her life, and no mistake.
She swayed, and the movement flickered in the mirror on the opposite wall. There she was, reflected, a slender young woman in a dark gown and white apron. Lucy was always too busy checking Miss Charlotte’s hair or the drape of her gown to study herself in a mirror, but now she leaned forward and took stock. She’d never been pretty like her mistress, which wasn’t such bad news. A pretty maid had a load of extra troubles in this world. Her face looked even sharper than it used to, though, her chin more pointed. The gardener’s boy back home had claimed she looked like a fox, which was a rare compliment coming from him. She wondered what had become of Tom. He was good with plants, so he’d probably found another post.
The troubles that had burdened both her and her mistress hadn’t taken all her curves. Lucy turned a little to reveal them in the mirror. Her brown hair wasn’t as glossy as before, maybe, or her cheeks as rosy. She raised a hand to her cheek; her dad had always said she had good strong hands, like him. A person could do right well with good strong hands, he’d claimed. She liked using them, too, liked to work, liked learning tasks that she could do well.
She moved closer to the mirror. Her eyes were still a plain, steady blue. The lines of strain around them were new. She looked worried, even though she wasn’t particularly worrying just now.
Life had been weighing on her a sight more than she could let herself admit, she realized. She didn’t mind being relied on—was proud to be. But Miss Charlotte had needed—still needed—more help than she could possibly give. She didn’t know enough or have the power to change things.
But this unexpected nephew, now. He did. He was a nobleman. His clothes spoke of wealth. His manner—the way he said “silence” and instantly cowed Holcombe—showed he was well accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. He would know important people and understand the law.
He’d left a card, Lucy thought, stepping back from the mirror. If Miss Charlotte didn’t put it away somewhere safe, she would make sure she did. She wanted to know how to get hold of Sir Alexander Wylde. He was just the ticket.
***
Alec strode through the March drizzle, wondering if there was any hope of finding a cab in