her into the sort of girl men purchase for an evening. The vivid memory of one such woman Morgana had spied in Portugal still haunted her, the hopelessness that had shown in her eyes.
Desperation and hunger might drive a woman to such ends, but Lucy had plenty of food and Morgana was a kind employer. Why would she choose to run off?
Morgana washed herself with rose-scented soap she’d brought from France, noting with some alarm bruises on her arms and legs. Luckily her clothes would cover them.
Amy helped her into a dressing gown and tied her hair back with a ribbon. She looked nothing like the person who had engaged in fisticuffs, but more like the baron’s daughter she was.
There was a knock on the door. Amy answered it, taking a tray from the footman and carrying it over to a table.
Morgana pulled at a chair. ‘See to your own dinner, Amy. And try to induce Lucy to eat something, too.’
‘Yes, miss.’ Amy curtsied. ‘I’ll be up directly to help you dress for the theatre.’
After taking just a few bites of her meal, Morgana pushed the tray aside. She was restless after the incident in the park, and thoughts of their rescuer all too easily filled her mind. She fancied she remembered each move he made, each expression on his face. It had been a strong face, long and lean, with piercing eyes, a Roman nose and what she could only think of as sensual lips.
She rose from her chair a bit too quickly, knocking against the table, clattering her dishes. She caught the wine glass just in time before it spilled. Releasing a relieved breath, she slipped out of her room and walked more carefully down the hall to visit her grandmother’s sitting room.
‘Hello, Grandmama,’ she said as she entered the room. Her grandmother Hart, a tiny woman who seemed not much more than paper-thin skin hung loosely over frail bones, sat smiling in her winged-back chair.
Her grandmother’s eyes lit up upon seeing her. ‘Why, hello, dear.’
Morgana was not fooled. The dowager Lady Hart greeted everyone who entered the room in the same manner, even the footman who came in to tend the fire. Morgana leaned down and kissed her grandmother’s cheek.
Her grandmother’s companion, the faithful Miss Moore, well into her sixties, handed a cup of tea to Lady Hart. Lady Hart stared at it a moment before smiling up at Morgana again. ‘Would you like a cup, my dear?’
‘That would be very nice.’ Morgana sat in a nearby chair. The cup of tea trembled in Lady Hart’s hand, still poised in the air. Morgana held her breath, not daring to speak until her grandmother remembered to take a very slow, shaky sip and to put the cup on the table next to her.
‘Did you have a nice day, Grandmama?’ Morgana nodded her thanks to Miss Moore, who had handed her a cup of tea.
‘Oh, I had a lovely day, my dear.’
Morgana smiled. Her grandmother always had lovely days.
Morgana would not dream of telling her grandmother about the incident with Lucy, nor about the gentleman who came to their rescue. Not that it mattered. Her grandmother would not remember a word of the conversation the moment Morgana left the room. She did chat about attending the theatre that evening. Her grandmother smiled and said, ‘Oh!’ and ‘How lovely’ in all the right places.
It was good that Morgana’s father and his new wife had gone straight to his new post in Naples rather than travel with Morgana to England. Her father knew nothing of his mother’s failing memory, or of her increasing frailty. Morgana would withhold that information from him until he’d had more time to enjoy his newly wedded bliss, absent of family concerns.
In the meantime, Lady Hart made Morgana the very best sort of chaperon, giving the appearance of fulfilling the proprieties without any of its constraints. Morgana had become used to her independence. Had she been forced to reside with her mother’s sister in the company of her prosy uncle and frivolous cousin, she was certain she would have gone mad.
Lady Hart’s gaze drifted away, and Morgana realised she’d stopped following the conversation altogether. Dear Miss Moore filled in with interested questions. A few minutes later, Morgana kissed her grandmother goodnight and returned to her bedchamber.
Amy was already there, setting out Morgana’s new sea-green silk gown. As she helped Morgana with her corset, she asked, ‘Who do you think the gentleman was, miss?’
Amy must have had as much difficulty keeping from thinking of the gentleman as Morgana had. An image of him, sword in hand, came vividly into her mind. Morgana resisted a sigh. ‘I do not know. Perhaps we will never know.’
She sat at her dressing table. Amy removed the ribbon that tied back her hair and combed it all on top of Morgana’s head.
‘Do not even attempt to curl it,’ she told Amy, with exasperation.
Instead Amy plaited some strands with matching green ribbon and others with strings of pearls. She pinned the plaits in loops so that they resembled curls at the crown of Morgana’s head.
Morgana smiled, pleased at the effect. ‘It looks splendid!’
As she dabbed a droplet of French perfume behind each ear and on the underside of each wrist, there was a knock on the door and Lucy entered, now dressed in her grey maid’s uniform, her countenance still like a June thunderstorm.
Morgana’s brow wrinkled, but she tried to sound cheerful. ‘Ah, Lucy, you look yourself again. Come fetch my gown.’
With a cloudy expression, Lucy gathered up the sea-green silk and helped Morgana step into it. Soon she had the bodice fastened, and Morgana turned to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room.
The silk draped beautifully and the tiny, luminous pearls at the neckline gave it some elegance, as did the lace covering the bodice and trimming the bottom of the skirt.
Her aunt’s recommendation of Madame Emeraude’s new shop on Bond Street had been a good one. The dress was exquisitely understated, a style that might not be the current fashion but suited Morgana much better than lots of flounces, flowers and lace. She’d been so fortunate that all the Paris dresses her father’s new wife insisted she purchase had gone missing somewhere on her way to London. She hoped they were at the bottom of the Channel.
This dress had been worth the month she’d had to wait for a decent wardrobe. She turned to Lucy. ‘Does it not look splendid?’
Lucy merely nodded, and the restless look came back into her eyes.
Morgana frowned as she fastened the earrings to her ears. Amy stood poised with her pearl necklace. ‘Remember your promise to me, Lucy. No running away.’
The girl avoided Morgana’s gaze. ‘I remember.’
Before leaving the room, Morgana risked another quick glance in the mirror. Smiling, she reached for the paisley shawl that completed her outfit, with its deep greens and blues and long silky fringe.
With a quick goodbye to the maids, she hurried out of the room and down the stairs, pulling her gloves on as she went.
Cripps stood in the hall.
‘Any sign of the carriage, Cripps?’
‘No
