Someone, most likely Lord Rexford, Amanda thought, had sent for her clothes at Sir Frederick's. The single trunk could not have contained her entire wardrobe, and the surly maid might have run off with the rest, but Amanda was grateful to see some of her own things, especially her mother's pearls. Just knowing she would not have to face her future in rags or borrowed apparel raised her spirits another notch.
She chose her favorite gown for the interview with Lord Rexford, a rose-colored muslin with tiny flowers embroidered at the hem and the neck. As it happened, her wardrobe was now far more fashionable than in previous years, for she had been escorting her seventeen-year-old stepsister on Elaine's come-out Season. Sir Frederick had been determined to snare a well-born beau for his daughter, and needed Amanda's connection to Lady Royce to procure vouchers and invitations. He could not let the beau monde see Amanda in faded frocks or mended gloves or styles of five years ago, lest they label him a pinchpenny, which would ruin his daughter's chance of marrying a title. So for once he gave Amanda a generous clothing allowance, likely from her own funds.
Amanda had had plans to catch a husband of her own this Season now that Elaine was old enough to wed. With freedom from Sir Frederick in her mind, she'd selected her new gowns with an eye to style and color instead of the serviceable fabrics and modest gowns she'd chosen in the past, knowing they had to last. Her new clothes were in the latest mode, with a graceful, airy look that became her slight figure and made the most of her rounded bosom, which, the modiste assured her, was more liable to attract a gentleman's eye than all of Elaine's frills and furbelows. Elaine's gowns were white and the palest pastels; Amanda's were in brighter, more vibrant tones.
Nanny shook out the deep pink gown to check for creases. "This will put roses in your cheeks for sure."
And the face powder Nanny borrowed from the countess's vanity would hide the bruises on her skin and the shadows under her eyes.
Nanny trimmed her hair, too, tsking over the uneven lengths. "Looks like goats have been nipping at it." She and her sister mixed eggs and ale and lemons into a frothy shampoo, then twisted the short locks around their fingers into tiny ringlets. They fed her and dressed her and put her mother's pearls around her neck, before seating her on the chaise longue in the countess's sitting room near the fireplace, with a blanket across her knees.
Despite the blanket, Amanda started shivering.
Nanny added more coal to the fire. "Maybe we did too much. I worried that we should have waited another day."
"No, Nanny, you did wonders. And you were right, I do feel human again, simply being clean and neat."
"Neat and clean? Why, I swear you look like a princess, only prettier. No one could suspect you of an evil thought, not with that sweet smile, much less murdering anyone."
"Thank you, for what you have done and for what you believe." She held the old woman's hand and started weeping again. "You-you have been so kind."
"Go on with you, lass," Nanny said, dabbing at her own eyes with her apron. "Now I'll just change the bed linen so it will be ready for you as soon as the gentlemen have the information they need."
Alone, Amanda thought that although she felt better and looked better, her prospects were just as dim. She did not know what Lady Royce's son could do, if anything, but no one else would try. If Lord Rexford did not believe her, her chances were nonexistent.
Amanda twisted her hands in the blanket, afraid he would not accept her word of what happened. What if his reputation for brutality was valid? She would not think of that.
He had been kind and sober. Maybe he only turned savage with the drink in him. Like last night and the barroom brawl. She could not think so badly of the man who had carried her on his horse, put ointment on her cuts. Oh heaven, she so wanted to believe he was a gentleman, but perhaps a barbarian could do more for her.
She blotted her eyes with her own handkerchief, one she had embroidered herself, and straightened her spine. She looked like a lady and smelled like a lady. She was determined to act like one, too, not fall to weeping and wailing as she waited for two of the most dreaded men in the King's army, the Inquisitors.
Rex was speechless. The reclining woman could not be Miss Amanda Carville, accused murderess. She was an angel, all tousled blond curls and big brown eyes. She was a raspberry pastry in deep pink. She was a china figurine, so still and perfect. She was spun-sugar delicate and gossamer soft and, hell, her breasts were larger than he remembered, overflowing the bodice of her gown. She was-waiting for him to introduce his cousin, who nudged him in the back.
Rex bowed and stepped farther into the room. At least he must have, because he had her hand in his, and was raising it to his lips. "I am delighted to see you looking better," he said, in what had to be one of the world's greatest understatements. She looked like-No, he could not fall into that abyss again. He was a soldier, not a poet. "May I present my cousin, Mr. Daniel Stamfield?"
Daniel shoved him aside, which reminded Rex to relinquish her hand, so small, so fine-boned that it got lost in Daniel's huge paw. "I promise he is a gentle fellow, for all his great size." His scowl said it better be so.
Daniel made a proper bow and said, "I am at your service, miss."
Mr. Stamfield's breadth and bulk were intimidating, Amanda decided, but his smile was genuinely friendly, unlike Lord Rexford, who did not smile at all, but glared at her and his cousin and the very room as if he hated being there. He was looking as cross as a bear with a sore foot, which she supposed was understandable, with his nose all red and swollen. He might have the headache, too. Sir Frederick often had, after a night of overindulgence.
Despite his frown and his spotless uniform, Captain Lord Rexford still appeared the buffoon. His cousin wore the clothes of a clown. And these were the army's invincible interrogators? For that matter, these were her only hope of rescue?
She turned her attention back to Mr. Stamfield, who politely raised her hand, and said, "Anything you need, I shall see that Rex provides."
She did not laugh at the teasing. "You are too kind."
"Any friend of my aunt's is my friend," he insisted, lowering his body carefully into a chintz-covered chair. Lord Rexford chose to stand near the hearth.
"Then you believe me innocent?" Amanda asked.
"I did not say that. Some of my best friends are scoundrels, and my own aunt is not above blackmailing a chap to get her own way. Not that I am saying you aren't innocent. That's what we're here to find out. Then we can decide the proper course to take."
Now Lord Rexford stepped closer. Amanda could see the strain in his blue eyes, and the scar showing white against his tanned skin. "I suppose you have heard of our reputation?"
She would not flinch. "That you get the truth any way that you can?"
He was the one who winced at the bald statement. "You need not be afraid. Just answer our questions honestly, that is all I ask. As I promised, I will still help you no matter what you tell me, even if you say you have been planning to murder your stepfather for months and do not regret it now."
"I have told the truth to everyone," Amanda said, hating the catch in her voice and the dampness in her eyes. "I never attempted to lie about anything. No one listened to me. Now you tell me to speak honestly. Why should I think that you will believe what I say?"
Rex brushed his thumb across her cheek, catching the tear that fell. "Because I know it will be the truth."
Chapter Nine
"I do not understand."
"No, I cannot suppose you do."
Amanda waited for an explanation that never came. Instead Lord Rexford seemed to grow angry again. "It is irrelevant, and we are wasting time. Sir Nigel Turlowe wants a conviction, damn his black heart to hell. Begging your pardon."