Again, My Lord: A Twist Series Novel by Katharine Ashe Read Free Book Online Page A

have a lovely little parlor in the next room. Come for tea. Oh,
do
say you will, dear Calista.”
    Tea
. Free food. She might make it through this day without fainting from hunger after all.
    “Thank you. Now I really should go see to this.”
    “Splendid!” Harriet Ryan clapped. “Until later.”
    Mrs. Whittle came from the kitchen with a tin and cloth. “Molly’s all broken up about mussing your pretty gown, milady. I’ve told her she’s to pay for it out of her wages.”
    “That won’t be necessary,” Calista said through tight teeth. “Is there a dress shop in this village?”
    “Surely, milady.”
    “I will need a replacement from that shop for the day.”
    The innkeeper’s smile faltered. “Molly will run straight over there with a message.”
    “When the dressmaker arrives, send her to my bedchamber.”
    “Of course, milady.”
    Snatching the tin of soda from the innkeeper, she hurried up the stairs, her stomach tight and empty, and alarm crawling all over her skin. Praying for the dressmaker to accept credit from a stranger, for a boat to materialize in the middle of farmer Drover’s east field, and for her husband to disappear off the face of the Earth, she stripped to her shift and began scrubbing the stain from her clothes.
    After the dressmaker brought her a clean gown to wear temporarily, she would go to the stable and insist that Jackson find an exit from this village as soon as the rain ceased. Then she would return here and curl up in bed until it was time to go to tea at Harriet Ryan’s shop. She wanted sleep. Here was her opportunity to steal some. And for a few precious hours she would try not to worry. If she managed for even a moment to forget what awaited her at Herald’s Court tomorrow, it might be almost like a holiday.

 
     

Chapter Three
    From the taproom where he had settled into a game of cards with several of the other guests, Tacitus saw when Lady Holland returned from tea with the milliner. He had been watching for her. Some habits, he supposed, died hard. Or never died. Or were thoroughly imprudent from birth to death.
    Peeling off her gloves and cloak, she handed them to the innkeeper’s wife and spoke to the woman closely. Mrs. Whittle nodded, her face a flush of obsequious good cheer and anxiety.
    Over the course of the morning, the rain had tapered off. Now the clouds were tentatively parting, and pale winter sunshine cast the noblewoman’s features in silhouette. Without the light full on her face, she looked just like the girl he had known six years earlier.
    Quite obviously, she was no longer that girl. The smudged crescents beneath her eyes and the pinched V between her brows had not been there before. And yet a spark of defiance still lit her eyes. Indeed, the little he had seen of her now confused him. All fierce tenderness with her son the previous night, she had been prickly with Pritchard and the serving girl this morning. Given his own mother, he might expect tenderness from any woman toward her small child. But knowing Peyton’s mother well enough, he realized this was not universally true.
    He folded his cards. “Gentlemen, you have nearly emptied my pockets. I am afraid I must bow out now. Thank you for the game.”
    The accountant’s clerk grinned. “Thank you, my lord. It was a pleasure relieving you of your gold.”
    “I’ll wager it was, you blackguard,” he said, and went from the taproom into the foyer.
    Lady Holland glanced at him, then turned back to the innkeeper. “As swiftly as you are able, please, Mrs. Whittle.”
    “Yes, milady.” The innkeeper cast him an apologetic glance. “Milord, I’m terribly sorry, but the milk’s all gone.”
    “Milk is highly overrated anyway,” he said, smiling. “But that boiled beef at lunch was delectable. I must have that receipt for my cook, if you will share it.”
    Pride shone in her round cheeks. “You are a tease, aren’t you, milord?”
    “Absolutely not. If you refuse to furnish me