With regret at having nothing to share, she shook her head. “I can’t think of anything.” Then something tickled the furthest recesses of her mind. “Singing perhaps. I remember her singing me a lullaby, something about angels guarding me all through the night. She had a lovely voice. I’d forgotten that.” She hadn’t many fond memories of the woman who’d given birth to her but didn’t want to dwell on the reasons for their absence.
“We’ll have to find a musician, see if perhaps he knows it and can give you the tune and lyrics. Do you play the pianoforte?”
“My aunt insisted I learn.”
He smiled. And she wished he hadn’t, because it was like the moon drawing the tide and she wanted to step nearer to him, to be within reach of his embrace. “I’ll have to keep that in mind. Have a productive day.”
Then he was loping down the steps as though late for an appointment, and she wondered why he would care at all if she knew how to guide her fingers over a keyboard.
“Clean without being seen,” Sarah whispered harshly beside her, nearly causing Daisy to leap right out of her skin.
“What was I to do? Duck into a room?”
“You should have been listening for him. If he complains to Mr. Perkins—”
“He’s not going to mention anything to the butler.” She didn’t know how she knew it, but she did. She also knew that no matter what servant he’d encountered, he wouldn’t have been bothered enough to tell anyone.
“You finish with the flowers,” Sarah ordered. “I’ll see to his chamber. As he had no guest last night, it won’t need much tidying today.”
As the chambermaid disappeared into the room, Daisy wondered how it was that a man who seemed to idolize his mother could treat women as playthings and couldn’t be satisfied with only one.
Chapter 3
The advantage to the tryst beginning at nine was that Perkins had dismissed all the servants for the night, except for the cook and Tom. While Daisy knew she was expected to trot off to her room, she’d found an excuse to linger in the kitchen, claiming a megrim and sipping on the Earl Grey, in which Cook had added a powder she guaranteed would cause her pains to melt away.
Leaning against the counter, she watched as Mrs. Karson arranged the tray on the worktable while Tom sat at the far end of it, engrossed in reading David Copperfield.
“Everything is laid out so beautifully,” Daisy told the cook. The strawberries, stems removed, were arranged in a circle around a porcelain bowl filled with a chocolate glaze. Little tea cakes were lined up like soldiers down the center of the tray. On the other side were scattered small chunks of cheese. Everything was designed to be eaten with fingers. No cutlery needed for any of it. “You’re practically an artist with your creation.”
With a blush rising in her cheeks, the cook glanced over at her. “Thanks, ducky. I’ve always believed food should look appealing, and I suspect he’ll be feeding all the nibbles to his guest himself.”
Daisy’s cheeks warmed as she envisioned the intimacy of such an action and wondered if he’d do it in bed. “It’s a shame for them to mess it up by eating any of it.”
“No shame to it at all. It’ll please me if they gobble up every last bit after my going to such bother.”
Mr. Perkins suddenly strode into the room. “She’s here. He took her upstairs straightaway.”
The massive foyer didn’t provide any hiding places, and Daisy hadn’t been able to determine how to get a good look as the woman entered the residence. Spotting Blue-Eyes had been serendipitous because Daisy had been sent to light a fire in the parlor, but no such chore that would place her in the right spot at the right time had been given to her that evening.
“Very good,” Mrs. Karson said. “I’m almost done here.”
“I’m off to take up the wine.” He disappeared.
“It’s quite a production when he has a guest,” Daisy said.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Mrs. Karson muttered.
“Does a maid assist her . . . afterward?”
“No. I reckon he sees to the matter himself, putting her back to rights.”
“Does she stay all night?”
Turning slightly, with her hands on her hips, the cook scowled. “You’ve a lot of questions.”
“I’ve never been employed in a residence where such goings-on took place. Or if they did, people were much more discreet.”
“What goes on upstairs is none of our concern. You keep it to yourself, or you’ll find yourself let go without a reference.”
“I completely understand that. I was just curious as to whether she’d be there in the morning when Sarah and I begin our chores and how it might affect them. I suppose I should simply ask Sarah.”
Cook turned back to her work. “She’ll be gone long before then. He usually escorts them home before midnight.”
Perhaps she could stand on the front lawn behind a tree and catch sight of the woman then. But in the dark, how clear might she be? Even with the lamplights along the drive, Daisy might have difficulty identifying her.
Mrs. Karson stepped back. “There it is, Tom, all ready for you.”
He looked up from his book and studied the clock on a shelf. It showed a couple of minutes past nine. “Bit early yet. He likes it delivered at a quarter past.” He turned his attention back to the story.
“I’d be willing to carry it up,” Daisy offered.
Cook’s brow furrowed. “What of your aching head?”
She lifted the teacup. “It’s much better now, thanks to your marvelous concoction.”
“You should get to bed then. It’s Tom’s job to deliver it.”
“I don’t mind.”
“To bed with you.”
Disappointed, knowing she would raise suspicions if she argued further, she set the cup aside. “Pleasant dreams.”
But when she was out of the kitchen, rather than going to the stairs that led to the servants’ quarters, she went to the back stairs she knew Tom would use to reach the bedchamber hallway. And waited.
She wanted, needed, to see the woman in order to verify that it was her Mrs. Parker, her client’s Mrs. Parker. He’d given her a small photograph of his wife so Daisy could recognize her, but the challenge was to get a clear enough glimpse so she could identify her. Parker was too common a name, so she couldn’t assume the guest was the correct one.
A short time later, she heard footfalls and smiled at Tom when he came around the corner. “You looked to be enjoying your book and are probably anxious to get back to it. I’m happy to deliver the tray for you.”
He glanced back over his shoulder, as though fearing being caught doing what he ought not, and then returned his attention to her. “It is a good read but—”
Wanting to cut off his rejection before he voiced it, she reached out and squeezed his upper arm. “Truth be told, Tom, it seems like such a menial task for a man as strong as you. I’ve never felt muscles so firm.” She batted her eyelashes, something she’d never done before because she considered it a ridiculous flirtation maneuver, but Tom fairly preened with her praise.