She continued to glare at me, and then she smiled. “Okay, but that still doesn’t explain this,” she said, holding up the envelope with the money and the note.
“I said I was interested in you. Neither Mama nor Papa talked about you with any of their friends, of course.”
“Of course.”
“And those who did know about you didn’t mention you in their presence. Papa wouldn’t have stood for it.”
Her eyes got smaller. “And?”
“And I didn’t talk about you in school, either, except with the girl who was my best friend at the time.”
“That fat girl at the funeral?”
“Yes, Chastity Morgan. I was always planning with her to see if we could see you. I told her where you were and what you were doing.”
“What did Papa say about your doing that sort of research?”
“He didn’t know about it. Neither did Mama. Finally, one day, we came up here after school and stood across from the hotel, waiting to catch a glimpse of you. I was afraid to ask for you, of course.”
“Of course. Papa would have disowned you, too, if he had found out.”
“We were about to give up when we saw you come out and followed you to a boutique. We watched you try on a dress, that black one you wore two nights ago, and then we followed you to where you met a woman for coffee. An older man joined you. I stayed far enough away, but Chastity overheard you speaking in French.”
“Mr. Bob,” she said, nodding.
“Who is he?”
“The man who saved my life, I suppose. He brought me to Mrs. Brittany. I still don’t get this,” she said, holding up the envelope.
“I got involved with someone at the school, Evan Styles.”
“Martin Styles’s son?”
“Yes. You keep up with politics?”
“I know who he is. So?”
“Chastity became annoyed because I was ignoring her and wouldn’t go back to spying on you. One day, she told someone about you at school, and it spread very quickly. Evan’s father was running for Congress, and when his parents found out, he broke up with me, not that we had gone together very long, but it wasn’t pleasant. More stories were spread, nasty things said, and stuff like that.”
“I see. And now it’s worse because they know you’re living here with me?”
“Yes.”
She looked at the envelope. “So that’s the joke? They think you’re—”
We heard the front door open and close. I knew there was only one other person with the key. We both froze in anticipation until Mrs. Brittany sauntered into the kitchen. She was wearing a dark brown pantsuit with a frilly collared blouse. Her hair was shaped and styled, and she looked made-up to attend an important event.
“Sisters having a bit of dinner?” she asked, disarmingly pleasant.
Roxy recognized something frightening in her voice and demeanor, however. “I had nothing on for tonight, Mrs. Brittany.”
“Oh, I know, although if we followed up on the requests for you, you’d have something every night.”
“What do you mean?” Roxy asked.
Mrs. Brittany looked at me, and her face hardened, her eyes turning to ice cubes, her lips tightening. “We’ve been inundated today with requests for Fleur du Coeur.”
“What? What do you mean? Who’s calling?”