The Postilion (The Masqueraders #2) - S.M. LaViolette Page 0,5
moldy old straw she’d just been pitchforking. She needed a wash. Badly.
Benna found Lady Catherine hovering around the front entrance to the stables, unwilling to step into the spider and rat-infested structure to find the object of her desire and persecution: Benna.
“Good afternoon, Lady Catherine.” Benna doffed her cap to the earl’s niece, who was about four years younger than her, keeping her expression polite but aloof.
Lady Catherine had the same dark hair and fair skin as her uncle but she’d inherited her mother’s—a woman so reclusive that Benna had only seen her once—blue eyes and tip-tilted nose. At nineteen she should have been attending her second London Season rather than mooning over her uncle’s tall, gawky stable master.
Lady Catherine’s eyes roamed Benna’s body with a fervency that made both their faces flush. Even after all these years, Benna still wasn’t accustomed to the attention she received from other women.
“Come along,” Lady Catherine ordered, visibly miffed at Benna’s indifference.
Benna glanced at her hobnail work boots. “I’m covered in muck, my lady. Mayn’t I—”
“No. You will come with me now.” Lady Catherine spun on her heel and began to stride in an unladylike fashion across the weed-strewn drive that led from the stables to the house.
Benna followed, scuffing her feet as she went to knock off some of the dirt.
Lord Trebolton’s house was as neglected as his stables. From the look of it, the original structure had been built during the early Tudor period but had been expanded so often it was now an architectural hotchpotch that sprawled over an acre or more.
The journey from the stables to the house cut through several distinct gardens—all of them overgrown and dormant at this time of year.
Lady Catherine strode several steps ahead, her hips swaying in a deliberate, exaggerated way that made Benna sigh.
Flirtatious females were not a new complication; Benna had dodged amorous inn maids and groping pub wenches almost nightly when she’d worked as a post boy.
But Lady Catherine was persecution on an entirely new level—although she’d thus far kept her hands to herself—and Benna lived in fear that the other woman’s behavior would attract the notice of the earl and get her sacked.
She didn’t want to lose this position because it was perfect for her in so many ways.
First, Lenshurst Park was remote and far, far away from Scotland.
Second, the earl was kind and too distracted to pay her much mind.
And third, he did not employ a lot of servants to wonder why a mere stripling with limited experience had landed such a plum position as his lordship’s stable master.
As they mounted the gray slate steps to the house Benna darted past Lady Catherine to open the door. There were so few servants on the estate that there was nobody to spare for door opening, message delivering, or fetching and carrying, which was why the earl had used his niece as his emissary today.
Lady Catherine nodded slightly at Benna’s gesture of respect and swept into the house like a grand dame.
Benna had to bite back a smile. Both Catherine and her younger sister Mariah were almost endearingly naïve. As far as Benna could tell, neither girl had ventured any farther than the small market town of Redruth.
Lady Catherine led her up two sets of stairs and down a long hallway with worn, ragged carpets on the floor, stopping in front of a beautifully carved wooden door that was dry, splintery, and crying out for a good oiling.
Almost six years of being a servant made Benna notice such things.
“He is expecting you,” Lady Catherine said, casting a haughty look in Benna’s direction before sweeping past her, the epitome of a great lady who’d been put upon to play the part of footman.
Benna removed her cap and scratched on the door as all the servants at Wake House had been trained to do. The duke had disliked loud or obtrusive sounds so the house servants had worn felt slippers over their shoes.
She glanced down at her second-hand, too-large boots and frowned. Well, there was nothing she could do about it now.
The muffled command, “Come,” came from beyond the door.
Lord Trebolton’s study was unexpectedly cramped, dark, and ill-situated, its only windows facing the east and offering a view of the stables.
The furniture and draperies were as tattered and worn as everything else on the estate.
Well, everything except the man who sat behind the big, scarred desk.
“Just a moment,” he mumbled, his quill scratching across a page.