Free A Lady’s Secret by Jo Beverley Page A

that.
    She’d like to take off the belt and pouch, but again there was nowhere to put it. She realized she’d put her bag containing soap and toothbrush down in the kitchen, along with her clean shift. She wasn’t going back out there for them, and what was the point? She hadn’t been offered washing water.
    She pulled her cloak completely around herself and lay on the bed, keeping her sandals on. Then she said a prayer against fleas and composed herself for sleep.
    Her mind jangled. What was it that had struck her as odd about the table?
    Stop it, Petra. The atmosphere here is strange because the poor women are terrified without their men.
    She sat bolt upright. Their men! This evening, with five people at the table, only one space had remained. Was there only one man in the family—Monsieur Goulart? No, there could be two, with a son to take her place on the bench.
    Whatever the truth of that, the man of the house would sit at the head of the table, so when he was home, where did the old woman sit? Petra doubted she could climb onto one of the benches. Hard to imagine Madame Goulart lowering herself to sit on one.
    The truth was, there were no men. They were women alone, poor things, which explained their poverty and fear. All was explained, and perhaps Robin could be especially generous to them tomorrow.
     
    Petra was awakened by muttering voices. Was it morning already? No, it was dark.
    Two or more people were talking in the kitchen, so she’d probably dozed off for only minutes. She huddled into her cloak and concentrated on sleep, but the voices warred with exhaustion. She rolled onto her back, wishing she could go out there and tell them to shut up.
    Was it the young women sharing secrets, or Madame Goulart complaining to her mother about the visiting nun who wouldn’t eat garlic and insisted on keeping the window unshuttered? Petra pulled her hood over her ears to block the sound, but her mind wouldn’t calm. It insisted there was something wrong about those voices, something suspicious.
    Grumbling to herself, she rose and went to the curtain. She eased it back an inch and the voices became a little louder, but she still couldn’t understand a word. The room beyond was dark, but a bit of light leaked around the edges of the curtain. The big bed looked empty. They were all still up?
    They have a right to sit by their fire talking, she told herself. Go back to sleep. But she couldn’t. Ready with the excuse of wanting her things, she slipped across the bedroom and up to the left-hand curtain.
    “One of you make sure they’re…” Petra couldn’t understand the last word, but it had been the old woman’s raspy voice.
    “Course they are.” That might be Solette. “There was enough”—another unknown word—“to make them sleep for a week.”
    Petra’s breath caught. “Them” could only be the men. They’d given them something to make them sleep?
    She wasn’t drugged—but she’d eaten only a mouthful of that strange soup. Everyone at the table had eaten from the same pot—but the old woman had ladled it into bowls and Solette had delivered them. Could there have been something extra in the one delivered to her?
    Something from that pouch?
    But why? It could be because they were afraid and wanted the men to sleep deeply in the night, but that didn’t explain their current conversation. Madame Goulart was talking now, in such a rapid, low voice and heavy accent Petra couldn’t understand a word, but it sounded unpleasant.
    Think, Petra, think !
    She remembered the persistent questions about Robin’s wealth. He’d said that the French thought all Englishmen were made of gold. The woman had mentioned Coquette’s collar. Had these impoverished women decided a treasure had fallen into their hands and planned to steal from the sleeping men? They’d have to be mad. Tomorrow the theft would be discovered, and as soon as they reached the next town…
    Her imagination skidded to a halt.
    Unless