Portia inclined her head. “Indeed.”
“We was all talking in the servants’ hall, frightened it might be one of the gentlemen, but Mrs. Fletcher, she’s the housekeeper, told us it was the gypsies, sure as anything.”
“The gypsies?”
“That Arturo—he’s always hanging about, putting on airs. ‘Andsome devil, he is, and quick with the ladies, if you take my meaning.”
Portia inwardly frowned. She wrestled with her conscience for all of two seconds. “Did any of you have any reason to think it might have been one of the gentlemen?”
“Nah—that was just us, imagining-like.”
“Did the staff like Mrs. Glossup?”
“Mrs. G?” Picking up a pewter vase, the maid rubbed hard, concentration in her face. “She was all right—had a temper on her, o’course, and I suppose some might call her flighty, but then all young married ladies are, aren’t they?”
Portia bit her tongue.
The maid set down the vase, tucked her cloth into her pocket. “Ah well, wouldn’t you know it—it’s the day for the sheets.” She strode across the room to the bed; Portia watched her, envying her her energy.
“Blenkinsop says as how there’ll be a man coming down from Lunnon.” Gripping the turned-down corner, the maid glanced at Portia. “To ask about what happened.”
Portia nodded. “Apparently it’s required.”
The maid’s lips formed an O; she yanked back the sheet—
Furious hissing filled the air.
The maid leapt back, her gaze locked on the bed. She paled. “Oh my Gawd!” The last word rose in a shriek.
Portia leapt up and rushed to the girl’s side.
The hissing escalated.
“Oh my heavens!” Portia stared at the adder, angry and irritated, coiling in the middle of her bed.
She tugged the maid’s sleeve.
The maid squealed.
As one, they turned and fled across the room, yanking open the door, then slamming it shut behind them.
The maid collapsed against the nearby stair rail, gasping for breath.
Portia checked that the bottom of the door fitted flush to the floor—no space for an angry adder to slide through—then slumped against the wall.
An hour later, she sat in Lady O’s room, her hands wrapped about a steaming mug of cocoa. Not even the scalding brew could stop her shivering.
Her bedchamber was at the end of the wing; Blenkinsop, doing his morning rounds opening up the great house, had been at the bottom of the stairs when she and the maid had come flying out of her room. He’d heard the commotion and come hurrying up, just in time to quell the maid before she launched into hysterics.
Portia had explained. Blenkinsop had paled, then quickly taken charge. He’d ushered her downstairs to a small parlor, summoning footmen to assist him, and the housekeeper, into whose charge he assigned the sobbing maid.
In an unsteady voice, she’d asked for Simon to be summoned. Didn’t stop to consider the proprieties, only knew she wanted him, and he would come.
He had; he’d taken one look at her, and insisted on sweeping her upstairs again—to Lady O’s room, into Lady O’s keeping.
Propped high on her pillows, Lady O had listened to Simon’s abbreviated explanation, then fixed him with a black stare. “Fetch Granny.”
When Simon blinked, she’d snorted. “Granville—Lord Netherfield. He may be a trifle feeble these days, but he was always a good man in a crisis. His room’s in the middle of the main wing—closest to the main stairs.”