Free The Rose of Winslow Street by Elizabeth Camden

“Michael said you used to live here?”
    Libby did not know how to answer that. The kindness in the girl’s eyes made Libby doubt she intended any insult by implying this was no longer the Sawyers’ house. “Yes,” Libby stammered. “We are taking an inventory.”
    Sheriff Barnes attempted to step inside the room, but Mr. Dobrescu shifted his weight to block him. “You can see everything from where you are,” he growled.
    Libby remembered something curious the young boy had said after he opened the door. She looked at the dainty young woman sitting with the poise of a queen in the window seat. “Are you Lady Mirela?” she asked.
    Before she had even finished the sentence, Mr. Dobrescu whirled around to face her, spreading his arms across the doorway with a mighty smack and blocking her view of the room. “I told you not to speak to her,” he snapped.
    Libby flinched at the ferocity in his voice. Every instinct was screaming to turn and flee, but she could not allow this man to bully her. “That is the second time I have asked someone their name and you tried to take my head off for it. I cringe in terror of what you will do if I dare ask what they had for lunch.” Despite her bravado, the intensity of his stormy blue glare was disconcerting, and she felt herself wilting beneath it.
    â€œIs there anything in that room you require?” It was not a question, it was a demand for her to finish her business and leave. He probably used that tone to intimidate serfs into quivering fear all over Eastern Europe, but rather than turn and flee, Libby stood straighter.
    â€œI would like to meet Lady Mirela,” she said calmly. With a little dip she slipped beneath his outstretched arms and stepped inside her own bedroom.
    Lady Mirela was stifling laughter behind her hands. “Oh, you are very brave!” she said. Her blue eyes sparkled with wit and intelligence.
    â€œVery brave or very fool—”
    Before she could finish her sentence, the giant barged in and began forcing her backward, but then something amazing happened. The young woman raised her hand and Mr. Dobrescu immediately froze, obeying the girl’s wordless command. “She seems harmless enough,” Mirela said. Strange, the girl spoke only a few words, but the note of authority was apparent to everyone. Mr. Dobrescu stepped back to the doorway, almost like a footman obeying a queen.
    Libby’s gaze traveled over the bedding, the furniture, the surface of her bureau. Her belongings were exactly as she had left them. She pulled open the door of the wardrobe to see her clothing hanging in its proper place, without anything belonging to Lady Mirela tucked inside. There did not seem to be a single personal possession belonging to Lady Mirela in this room at all. In fact . . .
    Libby swiveled around to stare at the girl. The white blouse and simple brown skirt Mirela was wearing belonged to Libby.
    â€œI see you have made yourself at home with my clothing,” she said coldly as she looked pointedly at the blouse and skirt.
    â€œThese clothes belong to you?” Lady Mirela looked crushed, and Libby felt like she had just stepped on a butterfly. “I’m so sorry,” the girl stammered. “I have no clothes except the dress I fled in and it needed to be washed.”
    Libby gasped as two hands clamped around her waist. In a mighty heave Mr. Dobrescu hoisted her into the air and spun her around as he carried her from the room. So tightly did he clasp her, Libby could not even draw a breath.
    â€œI told you not to speak with her,” Dobrescu snapped. He kicked the bedroom door shut, then tossed Libby back on her feet. The hallway whirled and she braced her hand against the wall to regain her balance.
    â€œHow dare you,” she sputtered, tugging her vest back to a decent position.
    â€œYou hold yourself out as some sort of lady,” Mr. Dobrescu