The Notorious Bridegroom. Kit Donner

      The carriage tilted and swayed over the bumpy, dusty road from Winchelsea. On their trip to Paddock Green, their new place of employment, Colette and Patience discussed Patience’s plan.

      Colette shook her head in resignation. “I still cannot understand why you believe the earl is responsible for your brother’s plight.”

      Patience studied the Sussex landscape of rolling hills in distraction before looking over at her friend and tucking a loose strand of hair back under her mobcap.

      “Both my brother and our cousin Lord Carstairs are convinced it is the earl who is selling information to French agents, and that he has informed against Rupert to throw suspicion from himself. Our cousin says even the constable has his men watching the earl.”

      Colette pounced on Patience’s remark. “There, you see. If the constable’s men have yet to convict the earl, why ever do you believe you can succeed where they have failed?”

      “Perhaps because I have more at stake,” she replied softly.

      “This could be very dangerous.”

      Patience nodded. “I know,” and added more cheerily, “I feel so fortunate that I met you on the post chaise. It has been nice to have a friend to confide in. Without your entrée into his household, I would still be thinking of some way to have the earl arrested.” She still marveled her luck in meeting a young woman her age traveling from Storrington to Winchelsea. With their dark brown hair and hazel eyes, many of the other passengers thought them sisters.

      Colette replied in her lilting French accent. “I hope we both do not live to regret your masquerade as a still-room maid. You, the sister of a baronet.” She waved her hand. “La, you English girls are much more adventurous than we French counterparts. I am happy being a simple lady’s maid to the countess.”

      Shrugging, Patience returned to watching out the window, and wondered what the next few days or months would bring. The carriage rocked past workers planting in the fields and foot travelers on their journey home from the fair. Ripened to nature’s glory, the spring splendor of the countryside unraveled along the ribbon of road bedecked with new grass and budding trees.

      Even the brilliant landscape could not help Patience forget her purpose. But for the horrible picture of Rupert swinging from Tyburn, she would have had the carriage turn around and head back to Winchelsea. Palms moist, she smoothed down her apron over her light gray dress, presuming it would be suitable for her position as a still-room maid. The mobcap and spectacles she hoped would prove a fine disguise from the earl, especially after their unexpected meeting last night.

      At last, the post chaise creaked through massive iron gates, signaling the journey’s near end. Patience stared out the window, her mouth agape. Majestic sycamore trees stood along both sides of the carriageway in welcome. The newly green-carpeted lawns stretched for miles in early-spring beauty dotted with a sprinkling of mischievous dandelions.

      When their carriage bumped over the stone bridge and she saw Paddock Green, fear returned to mock her courage and moisten her brow. Approaching from the east, the house of gray stone loomed on the horizon, dark and imposing, its castle spires nobly reaching toward the sky. She surmised grimly that the house had probably been designed to suit a king but more likely entertained n’er-do-wells, thieves, and homeless spirits, given the earl’s rumored cohorts.

      Upon closer view, Patience saw the stone turrets and gargoyles, perched ready to pounce on curious travelers, intrigued architects, or new servants. The tracery on the windows, the lacy parapets, and the unguarded battlements led her to wonder if the earl hid a mad wife behind the dormer attic windows. Her whimsy was no doubt attributable to Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. Certainly Paddock Green, with its Gothic structure amidst a verdant panorama, created a dramatic setting for the mysterious man who played dangerous games and bought dolls for little girls.

      Left at the servants’ entrance, Colette and Patience waited an answer to their knock. A thin, older woman, who had seen the glory of her days past, opened the door wearing an unpleasant frown making her features even less attractive. A cap placed carelessly on her head held fewer gray strands than had initially been arranged. A greasy dirty apron belied her position as the cook, and her face told a tale of having known more regrets than smiles, given her wizened look.

      She stared sullenly at the young women before allowing them entrance into the kitchen, a cavernous room with a long pine worktable occupying the place of honor in the center. Since no windows lined the stone walls, the skylight granted the kitchen its only illumination. Sweet bread smells scented the stifling air.

      The woman shuffled around them and muttered, “Ye must be the still-room maid and lady’s maid. We were told to expect ye. The one what’s the lady’s maid is to go to the first floor to meet the countess. There’s the steps. The other is to see Mrs. Knockersmith, our housekeeper, in her rooms.”

      The cook returned to kneading bread with nary a glance in their direction again.

      Colette gathered her belongings and headed for the stairs while Patience waited to be shown to the housekeeper. At the far end of the table, Patience noticed a young boy with large brown eyes in a small round face, whose thick brown hair needed a good brushing. He was dressed in mussied livery, and half-heartedly plucking a chicken and blowing the feathers in the air.

      “Lem, show the still-room maid Mrs. Knockersmith’s quarters,” the cook instructed over her shoulder.

      The little boy stared suspiciously at Patience before he shrugged, then rose to head out the far door, not waiting for her to follow him.

      Patience met her new overseer, Mrs. Knockersmith, a kindly woman in her sixth or seventh decade, in the housekeeper’s rooms where they discussed Patience’s duties and uniform. Afterward, the little footboy showed her to her small attic bedroom. Alone again, wondering how Colette fared, Patience sat on one of the narrow beds and bit her lip in contemplation. She had no idea what to expect when she saw the earl again. How long would she need to play this part?

      With a long sigh, she soon returned to the kitchen in a uniform that had once belonged to another maid, which, unfortunately, fit as well as a squirrel would fit in a snakeskin. The bodice pulled across her bosom and the drab dress hung a few inches from the floor. Obviously the previous owner of this uniform must have been a flat-bosomed midget. Patience knew she would need to use a needle and thread to save her dignity, when she had the time.

      Hiding her shaking hands in her pockets, she found her lucky onyx and rubbed it. It usually brought her good luck. Her throat dry, she would have given her shoes for a cool glass of water. Would she pass muster?

      Mrs. Knockersmith met her in the kitchen where she showed Patience to the distilling room and the pantry. Patience then spent the better part of the day distilling simple waters by placing plants in the cold still to dry them, capturing their fine-flavored spirits. A tedious process for not a large return, but it kept her too busy to think about what her next step would be. As she worked, a light mint scent filled the air.

      Later that night, lying in bed and rubbing her sore arms, Patience thought about how to get into the earl’s