“Ahem,” the older man cleared his throat.
She started and belatedly recalled she lay prone at his feet, her backside presented to any members of polite Society who happened by. She stared up at his outstretched fingers and the burn on her cheeks threatened to set her face afire. “Er, yes. Thank you.”
With the older man’s assistance, Jane climbed to her feet. Her hem dripped a sizeable puddle onto the otherwise immaculate, marble foyer. Oh, dear. This was hardly an entrance that would earn her the marquess’ favor. She braced for the sneering condescension in his servant’s cool, blue stare and froze. A twinkle lit the servant’s rheumy eyes.
He was one of the kind ones. Having been born a bastard, she’d had a good deal of experience in sorting out the kindly ones from the sneering, disapproving others. Unfortunately, there had been a shortage of the kindly ones.
She cleared her throat. “I am Mrs. Munroe.”
The man stared at her in confusion.
“I am here to see the Marquess of Waverly.” Jane fished around for her reticule and opened the sopping piece. She withdrew the well-read note. She held it up for the other man’s inspection. “I’ve come from Mrs. Belden’s Finishing School at the marquess’ request to serve as companion.” He accepted the note from her trembling fingers. Her breath caught in dreaded anticipation of the gods sending a bolt of lightning through the sweeping foyer to smite her for her lies.
The butler eyed the page in his hands and she braced for him to jab his finger at her and thunder “Liar” into the towering space. He folded the note and handed it over. There was nothing in his kindly eyes to indicate he’d seen her for the charlatan she was. Instead, he inclined his head with a smile. “Allow me to show you to the marquess.” He motioned to her cloak.
Jane followed his discreet gesture and then glanced back at him. She gave her head a small shake. What was he on about?
A ghost of a smile played on his lips. “Er, your cloak, Mrs. Munroe.”
“Oh, yes!” She widened her eyes. “Of course, my cloak.” With jerky movements, she fiddled with the clasp of her modest, brown muslin cloak and then turned the wet garment over to his care.
A footman rushed over to claim the cloak and then disappeared. A protest sprung to her lips as he carried off the only one she had in her possession.
“If you will please follow me, Mrs. Munroe?”
Jane jumped at the servant’s quietly spoken request. She wet her lips. Fear always chose the worst time to present itself. She stood rooted to the floor. Unease turned in her belly. Her future hung upon the following exchange; upon the benevolence of a nobleman who’d hired a companion for his sister and had instead received a sacked, former instructor and, well, a liar. Guilt needled at her insides. I am a liar.
Desperate, but a liar all the same and desperation did not pardon the sins of a liar. Alas, survival superseded honor in the cold, uncertain world in which she dwelled.
The butler coughed, breaking her from her panicked reverie. He stood at the edge of the corridor looking at her expectantly. “I—” She flitted her gaze about the foyer and then her stare collided with her bag. “I cannot—”
The old servant clapped once and a different footman instantly materialized. A startled shriek escaped her at the liveried servant’s sudden appearance. Jane slipped on the dampened marble and slid forward. Her heart thudded hard, but she tossed her arms wide and managed to prevent a fall. Another fall, that is. How many blasted footmen did a person require? She managed a sheepish grin for the butler.
“If you’ll follow me,” he repeated. This time, he did not wait to see if she followed but continued along the halls.
Jane forced her legs to move and, with wooden steps, walked at a slower, more reluctant pace behind him. As they walked through the lavish townhouse, the trepidation that had gripped Jane all morning threatened to overwhelm her with numbing panic.
What if she was discovered as an interloper? An imposter? She glanced down at her dark, modest uniform of Mrs. Belden’s. Surely the gentleman’s letter returned to him with Jane and her Dragon skirts would rouse no suspicions. Because the alternative, to be turned out and ultimately forced to starve or humble herself before the father she’d met but twice as a child, and only when he’d paid visits to her mother, was unfathomable. His lover. Familiar rage rolled through her, reminding her of why she hated the nobility who saw those deemed inferior, such as a bastard Jane and her actress mother, as beneath their notice. Those gentlemen who could, with a single look or one word utterance, decide a person’s fate.