Page 55 of Not a Fine Gentleman

“Of course, my lady.”

Now, to the task at hand. Though Margaret had known Taylor for years, she took a risk confiding in her lady’s maid. Many of them were terrible gossips. Still, she knew of no other way. Alicia had discarded the old frock Margaret had worn when she’d sneaked into Lord Hennessy’s townhouse, so Margaret must find a similar frock.

She made eye contact with Taylor. “I need to ask an unusual favor of you.”

“Of course, milady. Anything.”

“First of all, you must keep this a secret. Do not tell a soul. You must promise me. I’m not asking you to lie, simply to avoid volunteering information regarding what I’m about to ask of you. Do not speak of it to anyone.”

Taylor nodded. “You have my word, my lady.”

“Thank you.” Margaret lowered her voice. “I need to borrow your plainest clothes.”

Taylor blinked. “Milady?”

“I need a disguise while I visit a former servant who is now working for another employer.”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to leave the house.”

“This is one reason why I must dress as a maid or some other kind of servant.” Margaret held her breath. “It’s important that I speak with her. I need to go unnoticed as I leave here, and while I’m moving about there.”

Taylor considered. “I could make inquiries. Perhaps we can arrange to have her come here to meet with you.”

“She might not be allowed to leave the house for days and days. And I need to speak with her urgently.”

“Who is her employer?”

“The Finches.”

Taylor made a wry face. “Ah. I hear Finches’ butler runs a tight ship, with none to few days off for most staff. The cook had to beg for a half-day off every week. I think you’re right. It’s unlikely we can bring her here to speak with you any time soon. But I can’t like your plan.”

“It’s the only thing I can think of, and time is of the essence.”

“Very well, I’ll fetch you my spare frock.”

In her absence, Margaret stretched out on the bed. If anyone checked on her, she ought to appear as though she really did suffer from a headache.

No sooner had she lain down than Rachel entered. “I brought a cold compress with lavender water and peppermint.”

“Thank you,” Margaret said.

Rachel laid it over Margaret’s head and sat next to her. “No one in our family believes you killed Hennessy. You know that, don’t you?”

“I’m grateful to hear that.”

“He wasn’t well-liked in the House—at least no one respectable liked him, according to Cole—so I’m sure even if it comes to trial, they won’t convict you.”

“I wish I had proof that would clear me fully,” Margaret said without opening her eyes. The idea of suspects being guilty unless they could produce irrefutable proof of their innocence seemed downright medieval. The burden of proof should rest on the law, not the accused. “Even Connor doubts my word.”

Rachel pounced on the name, “Connor?”

The cold compress covering the better part of her face blocked Margaret’s view of Rachel, but her amusement could not be mistaken. Pretending that she misunderstood Rachel’s tone, Margaret explained, “Connor Jackson, the Bow Street constable Christian sent to bring me home.”

“Oh, I know who he is.” An oddly enthusiastic tone laced her voice.

Margaret held on to her cool tones. “He’s uncertain of my innocence, even after spending days in my company. I thought he would have taken measure of my character by then.”

“And he’s Connor, then, not Mr. Jackson?” Rachel’s amusement had deepened.