Read Online Her Quicksilver Lover: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 6 by Lynne Connolly - Free Book Online
Authors: Lynne Connolly
Tags: Paranormal;historical;club;gods;Georgian;Regency;newspapers;London;history;wealthy;aristocracy
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that, whatever the provocation. While he saw her employment as a temporary measure, Joanna had discovered a modicum of contentment doing real, honest work.
The streets grew wider and more gracious as she crossed through a fashionable shopping area. Shops with bow windows and as much glass as they could take stretched into the street, displaying their wares as blatantly as any Covent Garden resident. Pausing, Joanna stared into the window of a draper’s shop. Mouth-watering fabrics were draped carelessly over a form inside, the rest of the stock folded neatly into bolts and stacked on ceiling high shelves. Gorgeous colours—rich jewel shades and impossibly delicate pastels—were racked up, ready for the custom to begin at eight. Two hours from now. A clock chimed mellifluously, followed by the more strident tones of the churches in the city. She was late.
Joanna ran the rest of the way, and arrived tousled and ruffled, her hair sticking out of her cap like a hedgehog’s and her hat askew. She’d lifted her skirts to run, so where her hands had bunched the drab fabric was creased and scrunched. Not the picture she wanted to present, but nobody looked up as she rushed through the door to the kitchens and hung her hat and cloak on one of the pegs provided for that purpose. At the last moment, she remembered to take her glasses out of her pocket and prop them on her nose.
The residents would be sleeping, but the kitchen was already humming with activity, redolent with delicious scents as the cooks prepared breakfast for the people staying here and any member who happened by. Joanna had arrived barely in time, for she would be needed upstairs to lay the tables in the main dining rooms.
She smoothed back her hair hastily before the pastry cook saw her. “Get me some cold water from the pump, girl.”
Being a housemaid, this was not Joanna’s job, but she was not about to remind the formidable man of that small fact. Besides, she could take the opportunity and snatch a drink of the water herself. She could hardly stop for tea, although the thought of the fragrant brew sent a jolt of longing through her.
As she returned, bearing a full bucket of water, the cook nodded to the door. “Mrs. Holdsworth wants you.”
To inform her of her duties for the day, no doubt. Her step brisk, she stepped toward the small office from whence Mrs. Holdsworth ran her kingdom.
The room was furnished with a table, which doubled as an office and dining table, two easy chairs on either side of a small fire and a bed tucked in the corner. Mrs. Holdsworth had her own bedroom, just off her sitting room, but the smaller bed had proved useful for sick maids or overnight stays by a female, such as herself. She had not needed to use it yet, though with the early starts, she might beg a lodging for a night or two.
How was she thinking of this position as long term? She would no doubt be leaving soon, or be asked to leave, once she fed enough stories to her father to keep the paper going.
The lady looked up from her desk as Joanna knocked and went in.
“Good morning, Joanna. Could you help set the places in the dining room today? After that, the master wants to see you.”
She gaped, then closed her mouth with a snap. “Lord d’Argento?”
“Yes, who else did you think I meant?” For a small woman, Mrs. Holdsworth had a lot of dignity. She was one of those women of indeterminate age, appearing older than thirty but younger than fifty, her face only lightly lined and her hair still a rich shade of brown. Her cap had a pretty lace frill, framing her face, unlike Joanna’s enveloping and unbecoming one.
Joanna bobbed a curtsey to hide her dismay. “Yes, Mrs. Holdsworth. After that, what should I do?”
The housekeeper waved her hand in a vague gesture. “Whatever you wish. The master will tell you.”
That sounded ominous. Did he mean to dismiss her personally, then? Her heart sinking, Joanna left Mrs. Holdsworth to her account books and
The streets grew wider and more gracious as she crossed through a fashionable shopping area. Shops with bow windows and as much glass as they could take stretched into the street, displaying their wares as blatantly as any Covent Garden resident. Pausing, Joanna stared into the window of a draper’s shop. Mouth-watering fabrics were draped carelessly over a form inside, the rest of the stock folded neatly into bolts and stacked on ceiling high shelves. Gorgeous colours—rich jewel shades and impossibly delicate pastels—were racked up, ready for the custom to begin at eight. Two hours from now. A clock chimed mellifluously, followed by the more strident tones of the churches in the city. She was late.
Joanna ran the rest of the way, and arrived tousled and ruffled, her hair sticking out of her cap like a hedgehog’s and her hat askew. She’d lifted her skirts to run, so where her hands had bunched the drab fabric was creased and scrunched. Not the picture she wanted to present, but nobody looked up as she rushed through the door to the kitchens and hung her hat and cloak on one of the pegs provided for that purpose. At the last moment, she remembered to take her glasses out of her pocket and prop them on her nose.
The residents would be sleeping, but the kitchen was already humming with activity, redolent with delicious scents as the cooks prepared breakfast for the people staying here and any member who happened by. Joanna had arrived barely in time, for she would be needed upstairs to lay the tables in the main dining rooms.
She smoothed back her hair hastily before the pastry cook saw her. “Get me some cold water from the pump, girl.”
Being a housemaid, this was not Joanna’s job, but she was not about to remind the formidable man of that small fact. Besides, she could take the opportunity and snatch a drink of the water herself. She could hardly stop for tea, although the thought of the fragrant brew sent a jolt of longing through her.
As she returned, bearing a full bucket of water, the cook nodded to the door. “Mrs. Holdsworth wants you.”
To inform her of her duties for the day, no doubt. Her step brisk, she stepped toward the small office from whence Mrs. Holdsworth ran her kingdom.
The room was furnished with a table, which doubled as an office and dining table, two easy chairs on either side of a small fire and a bed tucked in the corner. Mrs. Holdsworth had her own bedroom, just off her sitting room, but the smaller bed had proved useful for sick maids or overnight stays by a female, such as herself. She had not needed to use it yet, though with the early starts, she might beg a lodging for a night or two.
How was she thinking of this position as long term? She would no doubt be leaving soon, or be asked to leave, once she fed enough stories to her father to keep the paper going.
The lady looked up from her desk as Joanna knocked and went in.
“Good morning, Joanna. Could you help set the places in the dining room today? After that, the master wants to see you.”
She gaped, then closed her mouth with a snap. “Lord d’Argento?”
“Yes, who else did you think I meant?” For a small woman, Mrs. Holdsworth had a lot of dignity. She was one of those women of indeterminate age, appearing older than thirty but younger than fifty, her face only lightly lined and her hair still a rich shade of brown. Her cap had a pretty lace frill, framing her face, unlike Joanna’s enveloping and unbecoming one.
Joanna bobbed a curtsey to hide her dismay. “Yes, Mrs. Holdsworth. After that, what should I do?”
The housekeeper waved her hand in a vague gesture. “Whatever you wish. The master will tell you.”
That sounded ominous. Did he mean to dismiss her personally, then? Her heart sinking, Joanna left Mrs. Holdsworth to her account books and
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