Mistress of Scandal (Greentree Sisters 3)

Francesca realized she had paused in the hall, beside a grandfather clock. As she made to move on, she heard voices farther along the corridor. One of the voices belonged to Mrs. March. Curiously, she made her way closer to the sounds, which she now realized were coming from the best sitting room. The door to the room was ajar, just enough to enable her to see the backs of Mrs. March and a dark-haired woman. There was something familiar about the second woman—her voice or the look of her—but even as Francesca struggled to recall where she’d seen her before, Mrs. March turned and spied her.

She was startled. “Miss Francesca!”

Francesca forced an innocent smile. “I was fetching tea for Mrs. Jardine. I went myself so as not to be a nuisance to the servants. I know how busy they are.”

Mrs. March’s nostrils flared. She gave a quick glance over her shoulder and then moved to fill the doorway, almost as if she meant to prevent Francesca from seeing the other woman. Anyway she, whoever she was, had moved toward the far corner and was lost in the shadows.

“Nevertheless, you should have rung for a servant,” Mrs. March said coolly.

Francesca was sorely tempted, but she managed to control her tongue. “I must remember to do so next time. You have a visitor, Mrs. March?”

“Yes.”

Francesca waited a beat, but Mrs. March was silent. “Good night, Miss Greentree,” she said firmly, and she closed the door in Francesca’s face.

“Miss Greentree has hired us to watch over her family,” Sebastian said as Martin put his clothes away.

“That will be interesting,” Martin replied with a comical look. “Does that mean we’re working for Miss Greentree or Madame Aphrodite? Or are we working for them both?”

“We’re working for Aphrodite,” Sebastian said, with a frown. “Miss Greentree only thinks we’re working for her.”

“Ah, I see.” Martin grew thoughtful.

Sebastian wondered whether he did. Keeping Francesca safe was his main objective. It filled his head; it kept him awake at night. Today, when he’d held her in his arms, he’d felt the wildness in her, that primitive emotion he had known was there the first time he saw her. She kept it leashed but he had set it free, and she admitted that she couldn’t think straight around him.

What would happen when Mrs. Slater was caught and her secrets were out in the open? Would Francesca still come to him? Or would she accuse him of duplicity and return to her lonely life on the moors?

Since she’d saved him from the mire, he couldn’t remember what his life was like without her. The thought of being without her again unnerved him as it never had before, as if he’d shed the person he’d been for the past eight years, and become another. He’d begun to remember events, moments from his boyhood. He’d begun to remember Barbara, his sister.

It was Barbara who’d caused him to turn his back on all he’d known and become someone else. He’d been punishing himself. Was it possible to forgive himself after all, something he would never have believed when the tragedy happened? Would Barbara have forgiven him already, if she’d still been alive?

“Sir?”

He looked up, startled. “Sorry, Martin, I was miles away.”

“Are you going out again tonight, sir?”

“Yes, Martin, I am. And so are you.”

Martin sighed. “I thought I might be.”

Helen arrived early the next morning, and she and Amy were closeted in the breakfast room. By the time Francesca came down—after another restless night—they were flushed and bright-eyed over breakfast, and obviously up to something.

“Please, I beg you, no more shopping,” Francesca groaned. “As much as I love my new wardrobe, I don’t think I would survive the experience.”

Amy laughed. “No, my dear. But your Aunt Helen has had another wonderful idea, haven’t you, Helen?”

Helen leaned forward excitedly. “Francesca, your mother and I wanted to do something to bring this old house to life again. It has been so long since your Uncle William held any sort of entertainment here…”

“I think the last truly memorable gathering was your coming-out ball, Helen.” Amy gave her daughter a pleading glance.

“Yes.” Helen sighed, and for a moment she fell silent, remembering.

“You must have looked a picture,” Francesca said gently.

Helen smiled but shook her head. “This isn’t about my coming-out ball. This is about you, Francesca. We want to throw a ball in your honor.”

Francesca looked from Helen’s