Stunned by her comment, he curved his hand around hers. “What is wrong, Veronica? Are you hurt?”
“I’m not hurt. Simply exhausted. It has been a terrible day.”
“What on earth happened?”
“The new housemaid broke several pieces of china just minutes before my guests were to arrive.” She shuddered dramatically. “It was simply awful. All the ladies had to wait in my mother’s private receiving room for a full ten minutes while everyone set things to right.”
He blew out the breath he’d been holding. “You’re crying over a broken teacup? Come now, Veronica. I can never imagine you getting so worked up about something so insignificant.”
“You’re only thinking that way because you weren’t there to witness it all. Our new maid is ghastly.”
“Oh?”
“I wanted to fire Rosalind, but my mother said we were already short one servant. Then she declared I was getting too emotional. And then Douglass got in the middle of things.”
“The maid’s name is Rosalind, you say?”
She stilled as a new, sharp awareness filled her eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“It’s just that I, uh . . . met her the other day in the hall, remember?” Not wanting to create a problem where there wasn’t one, he said, “Tell me, where are your guests now?”
“Oh, they left.” Her gaze warmed as she reached out and pressed her palm against his lapel. “So, where should we go?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have the time to take you anywhere today. I only dropped by to get some stock advice from Douglass.”
She leaned in a little closer. “Are you sure you can’t change your plans?”
“I’m afraid not.” He tried his best to look regretful.
“You’re as bad as everyone else.” With a flounce of her lovely pale pink gown, she strode down the hall, leaving him to wonder where Douglass was. Seeing one of the footmen, he asked.
“Mr. Sloane is in his rooms, sir,” the footman replied. “He asked not to be disturbed.”
“Oh.” He paused, half waiting for the man to give some explanation. When the servant merely stared back at him, his gaze revealing nothing, Reid stepped away. “Well, thank you. I’ll be on my way then.” When he was back on the street, he felt at a bit of a loss. He wished he’d brought his carriage instead of choosing to walk to the Sloane mansion. Now he had little choice but to walk back home to get it.
He’d just turned the corner when he spied a riot of brown curls. He picked up his pace, wondering if he’d guessed right. Just as he got close enough to realize that he had, Rosalind crossed the street to the park.
Though he feared it wasn’t proper, he followed. He was curious about her, about her side of Veronica’s story, and, he had to admit, drawn to this little slip of a girl.
The park was several acres, a wide expanse that many had seen as wasted space when it had first been planned. Only the grove of maple, birch, and oak trees prevented it from becoming mowed over for someone’s home. Eventually, however, it became a popular spot for many of the well-to-do families in the area and for many middle-class families seeking a respite from the bustling city.
When Rosalind slowed, he closed the distance between them. When he did so, he noticed the thick bandage on her hand. That, combined with the careful way she was holding her arm, told him much about Veronica’s complaints.
Obviously, her version of the events wasn’t the whole story.
He debated briefly before approaching her. But when Rosalind looked up at him, and the startled look in her eyes faded into suspicion, he knew he had no choice but to speak to her.
“Hello, Rosalind. I thought that might be you.”
Her expression turned wary. “Yes, sir? I mean, beg pardon, Mr. Armstrong?”
Feeling vaguely foolish, he murmured, “Deciding to take a respite outside?”
“Yes. Mrs. Abrams, the housekeeper, said I might have a short break.”
“I’m not checking up on you,” he assured. “I was out walking and happened to notice your hand. I didn’t want to walk by without ascertaining if you needed any help.” He waved a hand at the nearby bench. “Please, sit down. That is, if you’d care to.”
She sat. Moving her bandaged hand to her lap, either to shelter it from his gaze or to ease its pain, he didn’t know. “I don’t need any help. But thank you for asking. Sir.”
He felt a little foolish, looming over her like he was. “May I join you on the bench?” When she stiffened slightly, he added, “I promise, I only want to talk to you. To pass the time.” He waved a hand and tried to look as innocent and unassuming as he wished he felt. “We are out in the open too.”