The Carriagemaker's Daughter Read Online Free PDF Page B

Quentin thought he heard a stifled snort from Miss Blankenship. “I’m sure Lord Quentin will return as soon as matters are settled.”
    “But–”
    “The earl now resides in London, does he not?”  Lady Jenkins broke in smoothly over Celia’s pique, and Lord Quentin offered her a grateful smile.
    “Yes,” he told her. “My father and his wife are greatly content these days, but his health is still poor. They prefer a quiet life in town.”
    Lady Jenkins, like most of the ton , probably knew all there was to know about the Earl of Tavelstoke’s recent history. “I’m so glad to hear he is happy,” she told Charles, “They both deserve every bit of it.”
    “Indeed,” said Miss Blankenship. She turned to the marchioness with an ingenuous smile. “As you know yourself, Lady Sinclair, it is marvelous fortune for an older widow to find such joy in a second marriage.”
    Lord Burgess was seized with a sudden fit of coughing, and Celia rounded on Lucinda with poorly concealed fury.
    “And what, pray tell, would you know about–”
    There was a loud knock at the door. “Dinner is served, milord,” announced Telford,  
    And not a moment too soon, thought Lord Quentin, hearing several faint sighs of relief. Charles was beginning to realize that his week at Luton Court might prove less relaxing than he had hoped.
     

CHAPTER THREE

 
    The governess shall have no object of more than the most basic of accommodations.

 
    “Miss?” 
    A soft voice broke into the last moments of sleep, and Helène woke to the unbelievable, mouth-watering aroma of hot chocolate. In those first moments she had no idea where she was.
    “Miss?”
    Helène pushed herself up in the bed. A young girl stood in the doorway to the room, holding a pot of chocolate and a plate of cheese scones. At the sight of the scones, one thing was clear to Helène.
    She was no longer in her father’s house.
    “Miss, I’m ever so sorry t’ be wakin’ you, but Mrs. Tiggs said as what you must be hungry–”
    Mrs. Tiggs?
    “–an’ she tried t’ get you t’ eat summat last night, but you was so tired–”
    Last night? 
    “–an’ I was t’ see you got these.”
    “Thank... thank you,” said Helène.
    The girl bobbed a quick curtsey, set the chocolate and scones on the nightstand, and left.
    She must be a parlour-maid, thought Helène. But where am I?   Feeling the scratch of wool on her skin, she realized that she was still wearing the brown merino dress. Someone had removed her shoes and covered her with a goosedown duvet during the night, but she had no memory of any of it.
    Helène looked around. A small room, but pleasant enough, with  two large windows set into one wall, and a washstand between them. The windows faced east, she thought, from the sunlight pouring in. A small rug covered a portion of the well-scrubbed floor, and the bed was fitted with a decent set of linens and a plump duvet.
    Sheer bliss, thought Helène, bouncing slightly on her bed, and noting that the mattress was firm and not the least bit lumpy.
    Where was she?   Deciding that the matter would be best addressed on a full stomach, Helène directed her attention to the scones. Her eyes closed at the first bite, threatening tears. The scone, still warm, was the best food she had tasted for a year, and two or three more quickly disappeared. Then she swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat for several, rapturous minutes, sipping hot chocolate. A rather unpleasant, muddy-looking bag sat on the floor next to the washstand, and Helène frowned, wondering where she had seen it before.
    Her portmanteau. With that realization, memories of the past two days flooded back. The coach ride from London. The long walk to Luton Court. And... and a gentleman on horseback.
    “Oh, dear,” moaned Helène. “My clothes.”  She sprang from the bed and almost fell, the room spinning around her.
    The dizziness–an aftermath of hunger–was a recently familiar