Mistress of Scandal (Greentree Sisters 3)

He took her in his arms, but she sat there stiff and unyielding.

“You and I were a mistake. By following my heart I’ve only made everything worse. I have to stop it.”

“Francesca, my darling girl…”

“No.” She pushed him away.

They said nothing more until the cab reached Wensted Square and drew up outside the Tremaine house. Sebastian helped her down, asking the driver to wait, and then went to sound the knocker.

There was a delay before anyone answered, and when the door was finally opened the servant looked half asleep. “Fetch Mrs. March,” Sebastian said, before Francesca could speak.

The girl looked uneasy. “She’s in bed, sir. She don’t like to be woken once she’s in bed.”

“Fetch her anyway. And fetch Mr. Tremaine while you’re at it.”

She looked surprised, but Francesca nodded for her to do as she was told, and she hurried away. Francesca led him into a masculine-looking library, where the shelves were full of leather-bound books, and there was a large portrait hanging over the mantel. It seemed to capture her attention, because she went to look up at it.

“I’d forgotten this was here,” she said. “It’s my uncle and his brother when they were boys.”

Sebastian cast a glance over it. They were both dark-haired, both pale-eyed, but whereas one of them was smiling and open-faced, the other was solemn and serious.

Just then there were footsteps behind them, and a chilly voice said, “What is the meaning of this?”

Mrs. March in her night attire and a shawl was thin and tall, with a haughty expression. And Francesca was right, he thought, as he watched the woman’s gaze fix on her. The housekeeper did resent her.

“I want to ask you some questions, Mrs. March,” Sebastian said in a level voice, and was glad when her eyes moved on to him and away from Francesca.

“And you are?” she said imperiously.

“My name is Sebastian Thorne.”

Recognition flickered in her eyes before she could stop it, and something else besides. Was it fear? Plenty of people were afraid of him, and often for no other reason than that they’d heard of him and what he did. Or was it anger? Was Mrs. March simply angry with him and Francesca for waking her up in the middle of the night?

“I’ll go and get Mr. Tremaine,” she said, half turning to leave.

“He’s already been called,” Francesca told her. “He should be down any moment.”

“Besides,” Sebastian said smoothly, “you may prefer to answer my questions in private.”

She hesitated, and he could see a sharp mind at work. “Very well.” She shrugged. “What is it you want to ask me, Mr. Thorne?”

She thought she was superior to him. She believed she could outwit him. He could read it in her eyes, in the way she held herself. He’d met people like her before.

“Madame Aphrodite has been poisoned with arsenic,” he said baldly, hoping to shock her into some sort of admission.

But she was ready for him. “Oh? Well, a woman in her profession must make a great many enemies. Jealous wives, disappointed lovers. What can one expect? I hope you don’t think I can help you capture the culprit?”

“No, Mrs. March, you misunderstand. We already have the poisoner in our custody.”

She was rattled, and she grew wary. “Then I suppose it is an ex-lover or a disgruntled client?”

“No, it is a protégée of Aphrodite’s called Maeve.”

Mrs. March said nothing, waiting, but her eyes were watchful.

Sebastian might have waited, too, played her along a little longer, but Francesca wasn’t used to the game. She was too impatient for the truth.

“I know you know who Maeve is, Mrs. March,” she said, angry and upset. “I saw her here. With you. Why are you pretending not to know her? What was she doing in this house? You must tell us immediately!”