Now, a full seven hours since he had left her home, as she sat in her boudoir, supposedly writing a letter to Thomas, she kept looking at her reflection in the mirror. And, yes, still holding up her hands to stare at them. Just to see if her body could possibly carry any outward mark from the experience. But of course it did not. Just as she bore no outward effects of Douglass Sloane’s attack. She looked the same as ever. It seemed it was possible to conceal almost anything. The briefest of knocks signaled her maid’s arrival. Juliet was almost her same age—just a year younger—and had lived and worked in the house since she was sixteen. Two years ago, when Eloisa had made her debut, she’d become Eloisa’s personal maid, and they’d quickly formed a warm relationship. “Good afternoon, Juliet.” “Good afternoon, Miss Carstairs,” she replied in the same friendly but deferential way she always had, refusing to ever call Eloisa by her given name. However, the adherence to rules didn’t prevent her from raising her eyebrows at Eloisa after she glanced at her bed.
