Dark Fires by Brenda Joyce Page A

high wire between them. Then he sat back down, hard. He toyed with his wineglass, watching her.
    Jane would have been devastated if he had been rude enough to leave her alone at the table to finish eating. She realized, keenly, that he was not trying to be rude; rather he had never learned etiquette or else had lived alone for so long he was sorely out of practice. So this seemed another small victory, and she smiled sweetly. “If you wish, you may leave.”
    “That’s right.” He leaned back lazily. “I can do any damn thing I wish.”
    She decided she had eaten enough, and she carefully placed her knife and fork side by side. He had left his utensils sprawled out, as if he were in the midst of dining. His gaze narrowed. “Your manners are so proper.”
    Jane looked at him. “My mother was a lady.”
    He had the grace not to respond, but she sensed he was skeptical of that statement. “Finished?”
    She nodded. He bolted. With long, hard strides he left the room.
    Jane collapsed in her chair, exhausted and trembling, not sure whether to be exultant or insulted. The earl was not just difficult, he was frightening. But … he wasn’t hopeless.
    The manor’s foyer was vast. It was as large as half the parsonage. Jane surveyed it with satisfaction. The black-and-white marble floors gleamed. There was not a speck of dust on the tawny stone prayer table, and the ornate mirror above shone. The scrolled Tudor chairs and the rest of the furniture, mostly Regency, ringing the perimeter of the entryway glistened with polish and wax. She watched two servants cleaning the windows that were on the second-story level. They stood atop ladders, rubbing the panes industriously with soapy water.
    The hounds were baying. Jane moved to the open drapes and saw a hired curricle come up the drive. The earl had a visitor. She smiled, for the timing was almost perfect. At least the foyer was clean the way it should be. She turned to alert Thomas, but he must have surmised the situation from the howling hounds, for he appeared to open the front door. “Madame.” He bowed slightly.
    A woman with vivid auburn hair, resplendent in emerald-green silk and black cording, swept in, parasol dangling from her hand. “Hullo, Thomas. Is the earl in the library?”
    She was smiling. Jane had a bad feeling. The woman was gorgeous, big breasted, full hipped, with a tiny waist. She was near the earl’s age. She did not wait for an answer, but started across the foyer. Then she stopped, seeing Jane.
    Jane was instantly aware of the contrast between them. She felt like an ugly orphan next to this elegant, sophisticated woman. She regretted the braid she wore, the dirt on her nose, the dust on her hands, and her plain blue dress. Mostly she wished desperately that she was not seventeen and skinny. She had a terrible feeling.
    “Hello,” the woman said slowly, no longer smiling. Her glance swept Jane from head to toe. It was a calculating, critical perusal. “Are you a new maid?”
    “I am Jane Barclay,” Jane said coldly.
    “How nice,” the redhead murmured, and then she was gone, gliding down the corridor toward the library, her red heels clicking on the stone floors. Jane watched, with growing dismay, as she knocked once upon the door then let herself in without waiting for a response. She felt a strange urge to cry, but would not. Hopefully, desperately, she waited for the earl’s anger to erupt. But it never did.
    She looked at Thomas glumly. “W-who is t-that?”
    He gave her a kind, commiserating look. “That is the Lady Amelia Harrowby. The widow Harrowby,” he added significantly.
    “Oh” was all Jane could manage, her chest choking her.
    She blinked up at the servants, who were watching her strangely, and with compassion, it seemed. She forced a smile for their sakes. “Please finish the windows, and thank you very much.” The last words broke.
    Jane didn’t go upstairs to her room. She slowly walked down the corridor toward the