The Maiden's Hand Read Free Page A

upward.
    In the next few minutes, Lark saw wonders beyond imagining—a moving chair on runners to help the crippled old housekeeper up and down the stairs, an ingenious system to light the great wheeled fixture that hung from the hammer beam ceiling, a clock powered by heat from the embers in the hearth, a bellows worked by a remote system of pulleys.
    Nance Harbutt, who proudly called herself the mistressof Wimberleigh House, assured Lark that such conveniences could be found throughout the residence. All were the brainchildren of Stephen de Lacey, the earl of Lynley.
    “Come sit.” Nance gestured at a strange couch that looked as if it sat upon sled runners.
    Lark sat, and a cry of surprise burst from her. The couch glided back and forth like a swing in a gentle breeze.
    Nance sat beside her, fussily arranging several layers of skirts. “His Lordship made this after marrying his second wife, when the babies started coming. He liked to sit with her and rock them to sleep.”
    The vision evoked by Nance’s words made Lark feel warm and strange inside. A man holding a babe to his chest, a loving woman beside him…these things were alien to Lark, as alien as the huge dog lazing upon the rushes in front of the hearth. The long-coated animal had the shape of a parchment-thin greyhound, with much longer legs.
    A windhound from Russia, Nance explained, called borzoyas in their native land. Lord Oliver bred them, and the handsomest male of each litter was named Pavlo.
    Lark forced herself to pay close attention to Nance Harbutt, the oldest retainer of the de Lacey family. The housekeeper had a tendency to ramble and a great dislike for being interrupted, so Lark sat quietly by.
    Randall, the groom who had accompanied her from Blackrose Priory, was waiting in the kitchen. By now he would have found the ale or hard cider and would be useless to her. This did not bother her in the least. She and Randall had an agreement. She made no comment on his tippling, and he made no comment on her activities for the Samaritans.
    According to Nance, the sun rose and set on LordOliver. There was no doubt in the old woman’s mind that he had hung not only the moon, but also the sun and each and every little silver star in the heavens.
    “I wish to see him,” Lark said when Nance paused to draw a breath.
    “To be him?” Nance frowned.
    “To see him,” Lark repeated, speaking directly into the horn.
    “Of course you do, dearie.” Nance patted her arm. Then she did a curious thing; she smoothed back the hood of Lark’s black traveling cloak and peered at her.
    “Dear God above,” Nance said loudly. She picked up her apron and fanned her face.
    “Is something amiss?”
    “Nay. For a moment you—that look on your face put me in mind of Lord Stephen’s second wife, the day he brought her home.”
    Lark recalled what Spencer had told her of Oliver’s family. Lord Stephen de Lacey, a powerful and eccentric man, had married young. His first wife had perished giving birth to Oliver. The second was a woman of Russian descent, reputed to be a singular beauty. Though flattered by the comparison, Lark thought the elderly retainer’s sight was as weak as her hearing.
    “Now then,” Nance said, her manner brisk, “when is the babe due?”
    “The babe?” Lark regarded her stupidly.
    “The babe, lass! The one Lord Oliver sowed in you. And God be praised that it’s finally happened—”
    “Ma’am.” Lark’s ears took fire.
    “Weren’t for lack of trying on the part of the dear lordling. “Course, ’twould be preferable to marry first, but Oliver has ever been the—”
    “Mistress Harbutt, please.” Lark fairly shouted into the trumpet.
    “Eh?” Nance flinched. “Heaven above, lass, I ain’t so deaf as a stone.”
    “I’m sorry. You misunderstand. I have no…” She lacked the words to describe how appalled she felt at the very suggestion that she might be a ruined woman carrying a rogue’s bastard. “Lord Oliver and I