Mistress of Scandal (Greentree Sisters 3)

Francesca opened one eye. “I am happy with the wardrobe I have.”

“Oh Francesca, I do hope you will indulge me! That dreadful green monstrosity you were wearing when Mr. Thorne sat down with us to dinner…I hardly knew where to look. It was one of your charity dresses, wasn’t it?”

Francesca sighed and gave up on calming thoughts. “Mrs. Hall has four children and an invalid husband, Mama. She needs the money. And I find her sewing quite adequate to my needs.”

“You only say that to make me feel guilty,” Amy retorted. “She could be employed making clothing for the servants, or darning the household linen. But please, never ask her to make you another dress!” Their vehicle rattled around a corner, veering to make way for a trolley bus. “I wonder if we will ever see Mr. Thorne again?” she added idly.

“Who?” Francesca exclaimed, as if she truly had forgotten.

Amy smiled. “Mr. Thorne, our gentleman in distress, or perhaps not quite a gentleman. Mr. Jardine seemed to think he was not a man whose acquaintance we should pursue, and I am sure he is right. He usually is.”

“Whatever he was, Mama, he is gone and we will never see him again.”

Amy did not reply, not even to argue that since they were in London and Mr. Thorne lived in London, might they not run into each other accidentally…? Francesca, who had several replies ready, to show just how indifferent she was, felt her spirits sink. Her life, she admitted to herself, seemed very tame now Sebastian was no longer part of it. He had arrived so suddenly, stayed so briefly, she couldn’t believe she could miss him so much. It was to do with the sense of excitement and danger he had brought with him, of course, that was it. Burning buildings and men with pistols and…and other things, she thought hastily, stealing a glance at her companions.

They were deep in their own thoughts.

That was just as well, because the guilty pleasure was probably there on her face for the whole world to see. Scandal, ruination, disgrace—take your pick. She could become the center of any one of them.

“Good heavens, what is that smell?” Amy pressed her handkerchief firmly to her nose. Her eyes were watering.

Lil’s nose gave a brief twitch. “Tannery across the river in Bermondsey,” she said knowledgeably. “And the soap factory in Southwark.”

“Oh,” Amy murmured faintly. “I’d forgotten how Londoners live. Factories, rookeries, mansions, all within a short stroll of each other. Rather dreadful, really.”

“Perhaps we should forget all about Uncle William and turn around and go home?” Francesca said hopefully.

Amy met her eyes, and with an air of determination, set aside her handkerchief. “Certainly not. We are here now. I’m sure we will soon get used to the—the miasma.”

“Eau de London,” Francesca murmured. They had turned into Wensted Square and were approaching the Tremaine house. She could see Amy’s agitation growing with every turn of the wheels. Perhaps she was more afraid of her brother’s temper than she let on, and like Helen, she didn’t enjoy scenes. William was always very good at scenes, in fact he seemed to thrive on them, and he was intimidating when angry.

“He won’t turn us away,” she went on, staring up at the houses lining the square. “But he can be dreadfully unpleasant, my dear, and I think we should prepare ourselves for that until I work him around. I always was able to win my brothers around to my way of thinking; we must hope I haven’t lost the knack.”

“Such a shame Uncle Thomas died so young,” Francesca said, knowing that he had been her favorite brother.

Amy’s smile held sadness. “Thomas and my husband Henry died together in India. They were the best of friends from childhood. I fell in love with Henry when I was still in the schoolroom, and Thomas was so pleased. He was a very pleasant man. William and I have never been close. I used to think he was jealous of Thomas, even when he would so loudly disapprove of him. Of course dear Thomas laughed and took no notice. ‘William will never be happy,’ he’d say, ‘no matter what he does.’ I think, in a way, Thomas pitied him his lack of joy in the world around him.”

“William should be happy

now. He’s head of the family and can order us all about.”

“To give him his due, William has always been most diligent and meticulous when it comes to family matters. I know he can be overbearing and—and difficult, but he is also a man respected by his peers.”

That was all very well, thought Francesca, but Uncle William was such an unpleasantly prickly man, it was sometimes difficult to feel comfortable in his company. He had a morbid dread of some scandal attaching itself to the Tremaine name, and that hadn’t helped his relationship with Amy when she adopted Aphrodite’s daughters.

They had come to a stop outside the Tremaine house. Lil hurried off to find someone to inform that they had arrived, and to help them with their luggage. It was August, late summer, and the sky was hazy over the trees in the garden that graced the center of the square. A young boy was busy sweeping a path for two gentlewomen with parasols, who were crossing the dusty cobbles. As Francesca and Amy ascended the front steps, the door opened.

“Mrs. Jardine?”

It was a nasal-sounding voice, with a thin layer of ice. The woman stood in the doorway, almost as if she was blocking their entry. She was dressed in gray silk, with the skirts so padded out with petticoats and horsehair stiffening that they brushed the door frame on either side. Her hair was so fair almost to be white, and had been caught up and curled into ringlets. It was a style more suited to a young woman, and this woman was thirty at least.

“I am Mrs. March,” she said proudly. “Mr. Tremaine’s housekeeper.” Her eyes were cold, and there was certainly no smile lurking in them. “Your servant tells me that you have come to stay. We were not expecting you, Mrs. Jardine.”

Her tone suggested that she found Amy’s conduct wanting, and it stung Francesca to her mother’s defense.

“This is Mrs. Jardine’s family home, Mrs. March. Surely it isn’t necessary for her to make an appointment?”

Mrs. March’s cold, haughty gaze lingered on Francesca. “Mr. Tremaine rarely has visitors,” she said, more like the mistress of the house than a mere housekeeper.