Free Miss Pymbroke's Rules by Rosemary Stevens Page B

baldly. Then her gruff voice softened. “It’s been over a year since your Mama was consigned to her tomb. You needn’t be covering yourself in mourning clothes or staying home for the rest of your life. You should be around people your own age, having fun. That’s what’s wrong with your generation. You’re mealy-mouthed and don’t know how to have a good time.”
    With a perfectly bland expression, Lord Carrisworth said, “How right you are, Lady Iris. Perhaps together, Miss Pymbroke and I might somehow contrive.”
    Verity frowned at the marquess, but before she could say anything, a scream pierced the air. Another quickly followed, catapulting the company up the stairs to find their source.
    The marquess was first in the upstairs hallway. He followed the sounds of the continued screeching and flung open the door from which they emanated. It was Louisa’s bedchamber, and she stood by the fireplace, white-faced with terror. In her hand, she held a heavy poker.
    Verity and Beecham arrived with a breathless Lady Iris on their heels. The trio rushed into the room full of questions. Louisa stood mute, using the poker to point toward the four-poster bed.
    Lord Carrisworth crossed the room and let out a derisive laugh. “Is this what all the wailing is about, madam?”
    The bedclothes had been turned back for the night, and on one of the pillows lay a dead mouse.
    A chuckle escaped from Beecham before she moved forward to remove the offensive sight. Lady Iris barked out a laugh, muttering about how they weren’t so missish in her day, and Verity was left to comfort her sister.
    But anger had replaced Louisa’s fear. She glanced across the room and saw Empress framed in the doorway, a triumphant expression on her feline face. “That horrible cat did this deliberately to spite me. After dinner I told it to go away and catch mice, and look what it did! It is a nasty creature and should be kept below-stairs if not thrown out into the streets.”
    “What ... did ... you ... say?” Lady Iris demanded, glaring at the widow.
    “Oh!” Louisa cried, bursting into false tears in hopes his lordship would console her.
    Unmoved, the marquess promptly said, “I cannot abide a watering pot. I shall see myself out.” He bowed to Lady Iris, informing her he would call to escort them to the breakfast tomorrow at three.
    Raising Verity’s gloved hand to his lips, he pressed a brief kiss upon it. He stared into her flushed face for just a moment. Then he was gone.
    Lady Iris picked Empress up and slung her pet over her shoulder. The cat cast Louisa a feline grin while riding out of the room on her comfortable perch. Lady Iris’s gruff voice could barely be heard in the hall. “How about a dish of cream to wet your whiskers, Empress?”
    After Beecham had changed the pillowcase, Louisa was left alone with Verity.
    “Dear sister, let me help you into your night rail. You have suffered a shock and would be better for some rest. I am persuaded I should have asked Beecham to bring you some hot milk before I dismissed her,” Verity said, fussing with the tapes to Louisa’s gown.
    Louisa’s temper snapped. She flung Verity’s hands away. “Go away and leave me in peace, Miss Do-good. I cannot bear your moralizing now, and I can tell you are ready to launch into a sermon.”
    Verity had been ready to do just that, thinking of Louisa’s use of cosmetics, the low cut of her gown, and her bold manner with Sir Ramsey. But she shrank from the look in her sister’s eyes, contenting herself by saying, “Your nerves are overset. We shall say our prayers together and then—
    “Out!” Louisa shrieked.
    Verity hurried out, cringing when her sister slammed the door after her. She leaned against the wall, breathing deeply.
    One thought crystallized in her brain. It was her duty to guide her sister toward more virtuous ways. She might have to give up as lost her mission with the actresses. But here was someone closer to her who was