June 20, 1815

Rain stopped beating against the carriage roof as the horses halted under a dilapidated portico attached to the most horrendous Gothic monstrosity of a manor Minerva Peniston had the displeasure to encounter. This was Wycliffe Manor? Once the home of the wealthiest earl in the kingdom?

Charming. Well, monstrosities did not matter to her task here. Rain blurred the harsh gray stone of the walls around the cracked and aging wooden side door. A proper butler awaited, as if he’d been watching for them. Which he couldn’t have been, because they hadn’t told anyone they were arriving. The fewer who knew, the less prepared the thieving assassin would be.

Their footman swung down, and a lad ran out of the manor to help unload their trunks. Lady Catherine anxiously plumped her skirts, adjusted her bonnet, then tied her cloak. Minerva had learned to endure her companion’s constant primping. Well, she was supposed to be the companion. Lady C was her camouflage.

“This is so exciting,” the older woman whispered. “My husband talked so much about the late Earl of Wycliffe. To actually see his library. . . Do you think they have luncheon? I am fair starved.”

In her urge to investigate, Minerva refrained from shoving the lady out but tolerated her chatter until their footman set the stairs and assisted them down. Once the lady was inside the building, Minerva could look around. She wouldn’t melt from a few leaking rain drops.

An urchin dashed under the portico, out of the rain, shaking a sodden cap and approaching the rather massive butler attending the luggage. “Mr. Upton says as he needs Mrs. Walker right away. Mrs. Brown is a’having her baby!”

Not her problem any longer, Minerva told herself, watching the servants carry in their trunks to be certain hers was properly unloaded.

“Mrs. Walker has gone to Birmingham,” the butler intoned. “I will see if Mrs. Brown’s mother is in the sewing room.”

“Her ma is with her! She says somethin’ is wrong.” The lad looked anxious. “She’s screamin’ somethin’ fierce.”

A stout older woman in an apron emerged in the hall, presumably the housekeeper. She did not appear pleased at their arrival. “I don’t have rooms prepared for ladies. We had no warning. You will have to wait in the parlor.”

“We have an invitation.” Minerva indicated her bag as if it might be in there. She didn’t intend to identify herself by sharing it.

“Mrs. Upton,” the lad cried over their dispute. “Mrs. Brown is a’havin’ her baby!”

Minerva tried to maneuver around the housekeeper and this domestic crisis. She didn’t like letting Lady Catherine too far out of sight. The lady would have them both thrown out on their ears if left to her own devices. Discreet was not in the garrulous woman’s vocabulary.

Whereas Minerva’s mission required being unobtrusive, a skill in which she excelled.

With trunks piling up, the carriage driver impatiently holding the restive horses, and the boy wailing, more people gathered in the dark, narrow hall to view the entertainment. Devil take the boy, calling attention to their entrance. She had not counted on this. She couldn’t afford failure—her father’s position rested on her success.

The housekeeper and butler frantically consulted. Minerva caught snippets about Mrs. Brown being all the help the curate had for his invalid grandfather and the unlucky mother being the main provider for a houseful of siblings.

At the same time, Lady C was escaping down the hall, happily oblivious to chaos, admiring the ugly paintings and peering in doorways. Really, Minerva should have found someone with more class. But Lady Catherine knew things Minerva didn’t.

She hated choices like this. It only multiplied her chances of failure. But if the mother might die anyway. . . Resigned, Minerva hid her face in her cloak hood before speaking. “I have delivered babies. Perhaps I can help.”

At least she wouldn’t be here to blame if Lady C got flung out in the downpour on her pretty curls before the auction even began.