The Lady Who Came in from the Cold(14)

“Who are you?” the girl said, her eyes rounding.

“Molly, mind your manners.” Miss Randall went over to her child, her stance protective. “This is ’er ladyship, the Marchioness of Blackwood. Do your curtsy now.”

The girl scrambled to her feet and followed her mama’s instruction.

“Very pretty, Miss Molly,” Penny said, smiling.

“Thank you, milady.” The child’s dimples peeped out.

“Molly, you may see if Mary is free to play,” her mama said. “’Alf hour only, mind you. Then back to sewing.”

Molly’s eyes lit up, and she skipped out the door. The instant the girl was gone, her mother said curtly, “How may I help you, milady?”

Yes, everything Penny observed today matched with what she’d learned about Jenny Randall and strengthened her confidence in her plan.

“I’ve come to hire you,” she said.

Miss Randall’s lips trembled. “Is this some sort o’ jest?”

Penny could see why the other might think so. After all, Jenny Randall had been publicly dismissed and humiliated last week by her former employer, Lady Auberville, one of the ton’s reigning hostesses. Being a nasty sort, Lady Auberville had fired Miss Randall in front of her entire staff. Then she’d spewed vitriol concerning her maid’s sordid secret far and wide in Society. Everyone who was anyone now knew that Jenny Randall, a once respectable and sought-after ladies maid, had borne a child out of wedlock. Her prospects for a good position were forever ruined by her ex-mistress’ malicious tongue and love of hysterics.

Imagine, the wages I’ve paid the ungrateful trollop have been going toward her bastard’s upkeep, Lady Auberville had shrilled to all and sundry. I dismissed her right away, of course; I had to set an example. One cannot allow such immortality to taint one’s household.

Which was the height of hypocrisy, considering Lord Auberville had at least three by-blows with the mistress he kept. But that was the ton for you, Penny thought in disgust.

“I’m not jesting,” she said steadily. “I am in need of a ladies maid, and you happen to be the best. As you also happen to be out of a position at present, I think we’re an excellent match.”

Miss Randall stared at her. “You know… ’bout Molly. She hasn’t got a father.”

“More credit to you for taking such fine care of her,” Penny said. “Which brings me to the details of my offer. I’ll pay you double the wages you received from Lady Auberville, along with a bonus to start, so that you may find Molly suitable lodgings close to work. We’ll arrange your schedule so that you may see her every day, and you’ll have holidays too—all paid, of course.”

Hope flared in Miss Randall’s eyes, snuffed quickly by disbelief. She said in a taut voice, “I don’t understand, milady. You—you could ’ave any maid. Why would you be wanting… someone like me?”

Because you made a mistake and did the best you could under the circumstances. You deserve a helping hand—and not to be judged by all the blooming Lady Aubervilles of the world.

Aloud, Penny said briskly, “As I’ve explained, I want the best. I’ve seen your work: with Lady Osterly, Mrs. Jones-Sykes, and then with Lady Auberville. You transformed three dowdy matrons into ladies of the utmost style.”

Miss Randall bit her lip and remained silent. The fact that she didn’t comment upon her former employers’ lack of fashion sense—or their sense in general—raised her even higher in Penny’s estimation. By Penny’s accounting, Jenny Randall was well within her rights to flay her last vicious mistress to pieces… but she didn’t. She took the high road instead. This spoke volumes about her judgement, loyalty, and discretion—qualities worth their weight in gold.

“The job of being my ladies maid won’t be easy,” Penny went on. “I’ll expect you to keep abreast of the latest fashions and trends. Modistes, milliners, hairdressers—it will be your responsibility to find me the very best. I won’t settle for less.”

“Of course. But your ladyship… you’re already lovely.”

“My aim is to be more than lovely. I want to make my husband and my son proud,” Penny said with frank determination. “I mean to elevate the Blackwood name to the highest echelons, and I am not yet there.”

Since the birth of James, she’d worked hard to improve her social standing. Her circle of acquaintances now rivaled Cora Pilkington’s, and her parties were well attended. She wasn’t yet the marchioness that Marcus deserved, but, with the right help, she would get there. From what she’d seen of Jenny Randall’s work and manner, the maid would be a valuable addition to her team.

“I reckon I would make a few changes ’ere and there,” Miss Randall ventured shyly. “If you don’t mind my saying, with your coloring and looks, I’d dress you in bolder colors and styles, milady, so as to stand out. Sometimes, it’s not so much about following a craze, but starting one... if you get my meaning.”

“See? I knew you were the one I was looking for,” Penny said.

Miss Randall’s cheeks turned pink.

“But I haven’t yet finished discussing my requirements. In addition to fashion and the like, I will expect you to report any gossip you hear to me. You and I both know that the servants’ talk travels faster than any other. They’re the first to know the best and worst of everything that goes on in the ton—and I want to know too.” Penny paused. “I will also expect that, when it comes to what goes on in my household, you’ll keep a discreet tongue.”

“Yes, milady.” Miss Randall nodded. “I han’t e’er spoken ill of my employers.”

“You’ll find I’m a fair employer who rewards loyalty, talent, and hard work.” Penny held out her hand. “Now have we come to an agreement, Miss Randall?”

The maid’s eyes shimmered, and her hand suddenly shot out, gripping Penny’s.

“God bless you,” she said, her voice hitching.

With prickling embarrassment, Penny said, “There’s no need for that. Just know that if you do me a good turn, Miss Randall, I shall return the favor.”

“It’s Jenny, milady.” A smile transformed the maid’s thin face, and she bobbed a curtsy. “You ’ave my word that I’ll do a good job. I swear,”—her words were earnest, her face turning serious—“I won’t let you down.”





Chapter Eleven



November 1829



“I think we should hang poison ivy instead of holly for your Winter Ball.”

“Good idea,” Penny said absently.

“See? I told you she wasn’t listening.”

Silence followed, and Penny hastily returned her attention to the four female visitors in her drawing room. Wary by nature and from experience, she had numerous acquaintances but few close friends. The recent trouble with the Spectre, however, had brought her into contact with the Kents.

The family was unconventional to say the least. Coming from middling class origins in the countryside, the intrepid Kent siblings had managed—apparently without design—to take Society by storm. The eldest brother, Ambrose Kent, had once been a Thames River Policeman. Somehow he’d ended up marrying the former Lady Marianne Draven, one of the ton’s richest and most glamorous widows. After his marriage, he’d started a private enquiry business, and Kent & Associates had quickly grown to become one of London’s most respected investigative firms.

Several months back, when the Spectre had risen to blackmail Penny, she’d turned to Kent and his partners out of desperation. Back then, she’d have done anything to keep Marcus from knowing her past. Not only had Kent proved of assistance, but his wife and sisters had wholeheartedly taken on Penny’s cause as well. Apparently, the ladies often got involved in Kent’s cases (to his dismay and that of their husbands), and not only had the women helped Penny, they’d brought her into their fold.

To Penny’s surprise, she had let them.

At present, each of her friends wore an expression unique to their personalities. Kent’s wife, Marianne, a stunning silver blonde around Penny’s age, regarded her with knowing and compassionate emerald eyes. Emma, the eldest Kent sister, was a pretty brunette with an earnest air. Over a year ago, she’d landed the catch of the ton, the Duke of Strathaven, a once notorious rake; now the duchess had a slight furrow between her brows as if she were trying to decipher Penny’s state of mind. Sitting next to her, Dorothea, Emma’s sister and the newlywed Marchioness of Tremont, regarded Penny with concern in her gentle hazel gaze.

Lastly, Miss Violet Kent, the youngest of the bunch and the one who’d been speaking, had triumph written over her vivid features. Probably because she’d made her point: Penny hadn’t been listening. She’d been caught up yet again in her tumultuous thoughts about Marcus and the state of her marriage.

“Hush, Violet,” Emma said. “This isn’t the time or place.”

“But you know I’m right. Lady Pandora doesn’t seem herself at all—”

“Why don’t you go check on the boys, dear?” Thea’s tone was kind yet firm. “Make sure Fredward isn’t terrorizing the Blackwood boys?”