I nodded toward the corridor. "Ask Mrs. Kettle. She underestimates me daily with great consistency."
This time, his laugh made no sound. It changed his face instead: loosening the stern line of his mouth, warming his eyes, making the room feel less like a library and more like a place people might survive.
That was how I became a spy for the deaf duke.
It was not glamorous. Spying in novels involved moonlit balconies, hidden letters, and women in cloaks; spying as a housemaid involves carrying coal, changing linens, dusting rooms where people are trying to be wicked, and pretending not to sneeze inside wardrobes.
The wardrobe incident occurred on Tuesday. Lady Portia met Lord Edmund in the blue guest chamber, which had been closed for winter. I had slipped inside minutes earlier after seeing her take a key from Mrs. Kettle's ring. My plan was to hide behind the curtains. Unfortunately, the curtains were tied back, and I lacked the authority to untie them without explanation. The wardrobe was my only option: it smelled of cedar, mothballs, and regret.
Lady Portia entered first. "Edmund, we must move quickly. Sebastian watches too much."
Lord Edmund snorted. "Watches, yes; hears, no. Speaks when forced. The magistrate will believe Mowbray."
Lord Edmund spoke first: "Mowbray wants more money."
Lady Portia answered him: "Then give it. Once guardianship is signed, Ravensmere's canal rights can be sold. The harbor investors are ready."
I held my breath.
Lady Portia lowered her voice: "And the old accident?"
Lord Edmund sounded bored. "No one can prove anything. The glasshouse accounts burned. The boy who handled the lamps died at sea. Sebastian remembers noise, fire, and nothing useful."
My fingers clenched around a sleeve that was not mine. The glasshouse blast had not been lightning; it had been arranged.
Inside the wardrobe, a large hatbox chose that moment to slide from the shelf and land on my head. I made a sound no trained maid should make: it was somewhere between a cough, a prayer, and a duck discovering rent.
Lady Portia froze. "What was that?"
Lord Edmund opened the wardrobe door. A hat with three gray feathers sat crooked on my head. I held a velvet cloak in both hands. We all stared at one another.
Lady Portia spoke softly: "Clarabel, why are you in the wardrobe?"
A lesser woman might have panicked. I had once blamed a burned pudding on a visiting bishop and survived. I curtsied as much as a wardrobe allowed. "Moths, my lady."
Lord Edmund looked at the hat on your head.
I glanced at the wardrobe roof. "A cunning breed, my lord. They attacked from above."
Lady Portia's eyes narrowed. "How much did you hear?"
I brushed dust from my sleeve. "Only the moths. Very rude creatures."
Lord Edmund grabbed my wrist and pulled me from the wardrobe, his fingers digging into my skin. "Do you think us fools?"
I lowered my eyes at Lord Edmund. "No, my lord. I try not to think of you at all."
His face darkened. Lady Portia touched his sleeve. "Careful. Bruises raise questions."
That frightened me more than the grip. Lord Edmund released me. "Get out. If you speak of this, you will be dismissed without character. No respectable house will take you."