Read Online The Lady's Tutor by Robin Schone - Free Book Online Page A

and hanging up
her clothes that no one would know she had been outside the house, she had
forgotten to take down her hair.
    “Thank you, Emma,” she said through stiff lips.
    Elizabeth’s face in the dressing table mirror was chalk white—the
same color as was the reflection of Emma’s apron. The abigail’s square,
competent hands moved deftly through the dark auburn strands, unpinning,
unbraiding, brushing, twisting, repinning.
    Emma stepped back—a square chin and an attractively plump neck
appeared in the mirror above the white apron. “Would you like your jewelry box,
ma’am?”
    “That won’t be necessary.”
    “Very good, ma’am.”
    Elizabeth realized that Emma was as much of an enigma now as she
had been sixteen years earlier.
    “Have you ever been married, Emma?”
    “No, ma’am. Employers do not encourage servants to marry.”
    “I would not object.”
    Emma turned, presenting a rather broad black backside to the
mirror, and then that, too, was gone and Elizabeth had no alternative but to
stand and face the abigail. She patiently held out a black cloak.
    Elizabeth slipped first one arm and then another into the sleeves.
The wool was still damp from Elizabeth’s earlier outing.
    “Your gloves, ma’am.”
    Elizabeth stared into Emma’s gray eyes and could see . . .
nothing. No curiosity, no disapproval, no awareness that anything was amiss.
    “Thank you, Emma.”
    “Don’t forget your reticule, ma’am.”
    Elizabeth sighed with relief. At least she had possessed the
forethought to put the Bastard Sheikh’s book and her notes into her desk.
    “Mr. Petre.” She slowly fitted her left hand into a black leather
glove. “Is he lunching at home today?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    Elizabeth concentrated on drawing the remaining glove onto her
right hand. “Did he inquire as to why I overslept?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    Elizabeth blindly examined the contents inside her reticule.
    It was bad enough that she had to question a servant about the
whereabouts of her husband. Worse yet, she had to ask a servant if he was
interested in his wife’s comings and goings. But far, far worse was to be
informed by a servant that her husband was not interested in her welfare.
    A dozen excuses raced through her head. She leapt upon the most
plausible.
    No doubt Edward, due to the late hour that he had come home, had
slept late himself and had not realized she was home. It was Tuesday.
    The horsehair-lined bustle weighting her down suddenly felt pounds
lighter.
    Downstairs, a brown-haired footman dressed in a short black coat
and black bow tie stood at attentionby the sitting room doors.
    Elizabeth frowned. She did not recognize him.
    “Hello,” she said cordially, advancing forward. Up close, he was
older than what she had first thought, probably in his late thirties or early
forties. “I am afraid I do not recall seeing you before.”
    He bowed briefly, then as if he were not quite certain what to do
with his hands, he clasped them behind his back and stared over her shoulder. “I
be Johnny, Freddie Watson’s cousin. There be an emergency with his mam, came up
sudden this morning. Yer butler didn’ think there’d be no trouble if I worked
Freddie’s position until he came back.”
    Freddie, a young man in his early twenties, had been employed in
the Petre household for a year. Because he needed to help take care of his
mother and younger brother, who both had tuberculosis, he lived at home.
    “I am so sorry,” Elizabeth said in all sincerity. “Of course it is
all right. Please let me know if Freddie or his mother need any assistance. I
would be happy to advance him a month or so of wages.”
    He nodded his need. “Thank ye, ma’am. I’ll tell ‘im.”
    Elizabeth patiently waited. Starting, as if suddenly realizing the
duties of a footman, he leaned down and jerked open the door.
    Whatever “Cousin Johnny” did in the normal course of events, she
thought with a flicker of amusement, it was not being