After inquiring in the village over the course of the afternoon, she’d purchased clothing that would help her look like a servant. It hadn’t been difficult to disguise her appearance, for she looked positively dreadful since Lady Thistlewaite’s ball, days ago. Emily covered her hair in a mob cap, drawing it down low over her eyes. In her gray gown, no one would ever mistake her for a lady.

It took her most of the afternoon to walk to Nigel’s estate. As she’d expected, men guarded the entrance.

One blocked her path, a stout man armed with a pair of pistols. “And just where do you think you’re going?”

She kept her face down. “Beggin’ pardon, sir. Mrs. Graham asked me to come. I’m to be the new scullery maid.”

The men exchanged glances. The other guard shrugged and stepped forward. “I’ll take her and see if she’s telling the truth.”

Emily bobbed a curtsy, “Thank you, sir.” Her heart pounded with each step they took toward the house. Would the cook help her? She sent up a thousand pleas to heaven that Mrs. Graham would not betray her.

The man led her to the servants’ entrance in the back. Inside the kitchen, maids scurried about, peeling potatoes and stirring dishes. Mrs. Graham directed the bustle of activity with the grace of a conductor.

“You, there, slice the bread. And, Mary, be sure to inspect the strawberries. There mustn’t be a speck of white.”

The guard cleared his throat. “This chit claims you’ve hired her as the new scullery maid.”

Emily straightened and stared hard at Mrs. Graham. The other servants froze, eyeing one another. Emily gave a faint nod of encouragement, willing the cook to follow her lead.

Mrs. Graham’s eyes widened, but she did not argue. “Why, yes. It’s about time you arrived. You were supposed to be here this morning, girl.”

“Beg pardon, mum,” Emily murmured, bobbing another curtsy.

Mrs. Graham took her by the shoulders and nodded to the guard. “Thank you for bringing her. There’s a meat pie on the table there, if you’re hungry.” The guard’s face relaxed, and he accepted the bribe before leaving.

Afterwards, Mrs. Graham handed her a clean apron. Silence filled the kitchen as everyone stared. Emily donned the apron, tying it slowly. “Please do not tell my uncle I am here.”

At their curious looks, she added, “I cannot tell you everything now, but I give you my promise that you will be rewarded for your help.”

Emily cleared her throat. “My nephew and niece—Royce and Victoria—are they upstairs with Anna?”

“They are here, my lady,” Mrs. Graham answered, “but the nursemaid is not. Mr. Barrow hired another woman in the village to care for Victoria.”

“And my husband?”

Mrs. Graham shook her head. “I have not seen Lord Whitmore.”