Wicked Nights With a Lover (The Penwich School for Virtuous Girls #3)

Wicked Nights With a Lover (The Penwich School for Virtuous Girls #3)

Sophie Jordan




Chapter 1

Marguerite Laurent was not given to emotional histrionics as so many females she had come across in the course of her five and twenty years. It was this, her lack of excitability, her utter constancy, that perfectly suited her for her particular vocation. Only now, on this particular occasion, did she find herself tested beyond custom.

“ But I simply don’t understand,” Mrs. Danbury whined in shrill, petulant tones. “Why must you leave now? I am going to live! I should think you would be happy about that.” The widow affected a great sniffle as she set about her morning regimen of toast and honey—at least her morning regimen when she had not been prostrate at death’s door. She brandished a drippy spoon in the air, waving it like a weapon to be plied. “One would almost think you wished I had died.”

“Don’t be silly,” Marguerite gently chided. “You are well. A fact, I promise you, that fills me with only the greatest relief.”

Mrs. Danbury sniffed yet again, and repositioned her considerable girth in her chair as she took a crunchy bite.

Against all odds and the dire predictions of physicians, the widow Danbury had taken a turn for the better. Such the case, Marguerite counted herself unneeded and had already begun preparations to move on to her next assignment. Moistening her lips, she yet again went about the difficult task of explaining to her patroness that she only attended to the infirm and dying.

“You’re going to live, Mrs. Danbury. While I couldn’t be more pleased, I am a sick nurse.” I’m better with the dying. Biting back that morbid thought, Marguerite stepped forward and cupped a linen beneath the dripping spoon before a dollop of honey landed on Mrs. Danbury’s dressing robe.

The widow pursed her lips. “Well, you could be my well nurse.”

Marguerite smiled, but could not help her niggle of discomfort. This was a wholly unique situation for her. By the time the agency referred her, her patients were quite beyond recovery. No one had ever recuperated before. She’d never had to beg an exit. Usually, the family was happy to be rid of the sight of her for all that she reminded them of their loved one’s final days.

“I have another assignment waiting.” Marguerite had received the note this very morning from Mrs. Driscoll at the agency that a position was available.

“You cannot go yet,” Mrs. Danbury insisted with an unappealing pout of her honey-moist lips. “Not until we’re sure I’m well and mended.”

Marguerite blinked. “Why, you’re a vision of health, Mrs. Danbury. You’ve been free of your bed well over a fortnight. Your physician vows you are cured. Yesterday you rode in the park and ate so many scones that I lost count.”

“Posh! Meaningless all. I can’t be certain until I’ve seen her. Only then can I know for certain. She’ll be here any moment. Now excuse me while I dress.” With a flick of her hand, the two maids lurking in the corner rushed forward, hurrying after the widow as she fairly skipped into the dressing room.

Her? Marguerite remained where she was, contemplating the bags she’d already packed and asked the butler to see collected from her room. She was so close to escaping. The need rose hot and thick inside her, climbing up her throat. Mrs. Danbury was a capricious creature, given to fits of laughing and weeping interchangeably. She drained the energy out of Marguerite. As mad as it sounded, Marguerite craved the predictability and calm of the dying.

Mrs. Danbury’s voice drifted from the dressing room as she berated one of the maids, serving to confirm all of Marguerite’s dread.

“I’ve just risen from my deathbed! I no longer need look a corpse, you daft girl. Put that horrid thing down and fetch me my blue silk tea gown.”

Marguerite squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, hoping to block out the sound of her shrill, excitable voice.

A knock sounded at the suite’s doors. The housekeeper stuck her head inside the room. Marguerite nodded toward the dressing room. The portly woman walked with a briskness that defied her girth for the dressing room door. With a knock, she announced, “Mrs. Danbury, Madame Foster has arrived.”

“Excellent! Tell her that Miss Laurent and I shall be right down.” Madame Foster?

Moments later, Mrs. Danbury swept into the room in a flurry of blue silk. “Come, Marguerite, dear. We shall find out if I am truly on the mend and whether you can take your leave or not.”

A knot in her throat, Marguerite followed. Uncharitable or not, she somehow suspected she would not care for this Madame Foster.

“Tell me, Madame Foster,” Mrs. Danbury encouraged between bites of frosted biscuits. Marguerite watched as crumbs fell from her lips to her silk skirts. The widow didn’t flicker an eye over the mess tumbling from her mouth, her attention trained on the garishly attired woman across from her. “What do you see?”

Madame Foster clucked her tongue and rotated the teacup in her heavily beringed fingers, even as she glanced furtively at the room’s appointments, assessing with the rapacity of a predator.

Marguerite frowned from where she sat near the window, fairly certain the female was looking for anything she might pocket before leaving.

“Ahhh,” the woman murmured, refocusing her attention on the cup.

“Yes? Yes?” Mrs. Danbury leaned forward eagerly.