She had pressed him. She knew that. She had done it often enough before, to her father, to her brother—testing an argument until it bent or broke. It was a habit she embraced more than she tried to suppress. Stubbornness, after all, had served her well.
Still, she had seen the moment when something shifted behind his eye. A flush on his cheeks. The way his knuckles blanched white against the table’s edge.
She had half-expected him to lash out. Many men would have.
Instead, he had… withdrawn.
Retreated.
There was more to Julian Cavendish than rumor allowed—she felt it with the same quiet certainty that guided her pen.
With that thought in mind, Rosamund finished her breakfast and mentally adjusted her strategy.
Mrs. Wetherby was unlikely to say more now that Rosamund was clearly expected to leave, but the other servants might be less guarded.
By the time she set her napkin aside, her course was settled.
She did not ring for assistance. Instead, once her plate was cleared, she rose quietly from the table, all but tiptoeing to the door. There, she paused only long enough to glance down the corridor in either direction.
No one appeared.
It did not take long to find the stairs—narrow, worn smooth at the center by the daily conveyance of trays and laundry. The house, she noted, was laid out not unlike her own.
Smiling to herself, Rosamund descended with quiet purpose. In the past, she’d found that the best way to avoid drawing notice was to move as though she belonged.
When she reached the kitchen, she paused just inside the doorway, her gaze immediately noticing how tidy the kitchen was, even so shortly after preparations for a full meal.
“My word,” she said, genuine admiration in her tone. “I’ve never seen copper kept so bright.”
The cook, dusted with flour, gave her a wary look.
Rosamund smiled and ventured a step farther in. “Breakfast was wonderful. Truly.” She lowered her voice a conspiratorial notch. “Those eggs—what did you put in them? I’ve never had finer.”
“Just the usual,” the woman grunted, but her cheeks were now slightly flushed with what might have been pride.
“I’m Rosa,” she added easily, as though it were an afterthought. “I’m here to help His Grace, actually. Or rather—Hallow’s Bridge in general, hopefully.” She waved a hand lightly. “I’m writing a little piece. Nothing official. Just… clearing up a few of the rumors, perhaps.”
She paused, then glanced back at the sideboard. “But, oh, the spread you put out—cooked to perfection. You’ve outdone yourself.”
“Render the bacon slow,” the cook admitted, shoulders easing. “Potatoes like a hot pan and patience—don’t stir ’em till they’ve crusted. Most folk rush it.”
Rosamund winked. And because she was keeping her identity hidden, rather than mention she’d like to share the trick with her fathers’ cook, said, “That explains why mine get so mushy. I haven’t an ounce of patience in the kitchen.”
A few more compliments, a little advice, and only when the rhythm of the room settled again did Rosamund begin to ask her questions.
Just small ones, folded between genuine interest and curiosity, as though they had occurred to her naturally.
And when the matter of her departure inevitably arose, she laughed it off with a shrug.
“Oh, I can’t be leaving until the duke is ready. He’s yet to send me away himself.” Which, technically, was the truth. “So, instead of just sitting around doing nothing, I thought it would be a pleasure to meet the fine people behind the running of such a grand estate.”
“Well, I suppose that’s all right, then…”
Once assured of her good intentions, the servants spoke with surprising ease. With relief, even. As though they had been carrying these observations for some time, waiting for someone who might listen with an open mind.
Rosamund listened.
And the more she listened, the clearer it became that she was not the only one who wished the record set straight.