Regency High Society Vol 7

By late morning, Cook, the footmen and maids were all given the false story. Morgana prayed the deception would hold.

She gathered her girls in the library where they could not be glimpsed from the street. Lucy had found dresses for them, and Morgana supposed she would need to concoct another story to explain why they had not arrived with luggage of their own. She bit her lip in dismay at the mounting lies.

At least the girls’ appearance did not now give them away. They appeared as ordinary girls, ones who might indeed be nieces of Miss Moore. Except for Rose, who could not look ordinary if she tried, and who spoke with an Irish lilt besides.

Miss Moore walked into the room, Lady Hart leaning on her arm. ‘Miss Hart, I hope you do not mind. But I should like to help.’

It had been enough that Miss Moore had not packed up and left London. Morgana had never expected her assistance. ‘But what of Grandmama?’

‘Allow her to sit among us. She will enjoy the liveliness, you know. It will be good for her.’ Miss Moore helped Lady Hart into a chair.

Why not? thought Morgana. There was no risk her grandmother would remember enough to expose the truth.

‘I should like to teach comportment and manners and proper speech,’ Miss Moore said.

‘I can teach music,’ Rose chimed in. ‘My father is a musician, and I have been trained on harp and pianoforte as well as voice.’

Mary Phipps looked up shyly. ‘I… I used to be a governess. I can teach all manner of things.’

‘That is splendid, Miss Phipps.’ Morgana smiled at her. ‘Perhaps you can look through the books here and find something useful.’

Katy laughed. ‘Well, there is only one thing I know, but I can teach it, all right.’ She gave a bawdy glance around the room. ‘Might need one of those handsome footmen to help me.’

Miss Moore, who was a good deal shorter than the red-haired young woman, still effectively looked down her nose at her. ‘Miss Green,’ she said in clipped tones, ‘you will behave like a lady here in this house. You aspire to be a highflyer, attracting the best and the richest. To do so you cannot act like common Haymarket ware. You must not fraternise with the footmen. Do you understand?’

Oh, yes. Miss Moore would be an asset indeed.

Katy looked down at her lap, but with a hint of rebellion in her eye. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘It is Miss Moore, dear,’ she said gently.

‘Yes, miss,’ Katy corrected herself.

Lucy hung her head. ‘There’s nothin’ I can teach. I’ll just be a burden on everyone.’

Morgana walked over and put a hand on Lucy’s shoulder. ‘You shall be in charge of supplies, Lucy. You managed to find everyone a proper dress and a bed to sleep in. In fact, I will prevail upon you to produce a trunk to be delivered, the nieces’ luggage. Do you think you can contrive such a thing?’

Lucy gave a surprised glance, then wrinkled her brow. It took several seconds, but she finally responded. ‘I could send to home for some of Amy’s and my old clothes. Would that do?’

‘That is an excellent idea.’ Morgana had forgotten about her lady’s maid. No matter what Miss Moore thought, Morgana simply must tell Amy the truth, though what the girl would say about it, she could only guess.

The day flew by with all of them talking and showing off their skills. When it was time for dinner Morgana led them to the main dining room. Lucy held back, insisting she ought not to eat there. Morgana acquiesced. There would be time enough to bring her abovestairs. To do so now would merely whip up the servants’ curiosity.

The dinner was the most pleasant Morgana had passed in the house to date. When Mr Cripps and the footmen left the room, Morgana and Miss Moore drew the girls into the conversation, learning more about their lives. Rose talked of growing up in Ireland and of recently coming to London. Mary spoke of being the daughter of a country vicar. When he died, she’d become a governess. She did not disclose how she wound up at Mrs Rice’s house. Katy, whose table manners needed the most improving, said she’d left Derbyshire to make her fortune in London and she’d go to the devil before she’d return there. Morgana’s grandmother cheerfully picked at her food and smiled at them all. At meal’s end, Morgana left the table in high spirits, confident that all would go well.

She retired to her room to dress for the musicale. As Amy worked on another braided style for her hair, Morgana told her the truth about the plan.

‘Do tell me what you think of this business, Amy. Tell me if you think I’ve done right by your sister.’

Amy frowned as she concentrated on sticking hairpins in securely. ‘It is not right, miss. I cannot say ‘tis right, because it is not, but Lucy was ready to run off again, I know she was.’ She gave Morgana a quick glance in the mirror. ‘You stopped her from doing that. Going with one of those procuring fellows, I mean.’

Amy’s point did not miss the mark. Morgana knew the better course was to convince Lucy and the others to lead moral lives, but, once fallen, could they rise again? Lucy had convinced her she could not.

Morgana watched Amy concentrate on her hair. She set her chin in determination. This was the only chance for Lucy. The only chance for all of the girls to change their lives.

Sloane surveyed the room where the guests to Lady Sed-ford’s musicale loitered in groups, waiting for the latecomers to be announced and the programme to begin. Across the room stood his brother, Lord Rawley, who, without cutting him directly, was at least pretending he had not seen him. David gave him a friendly nod. At least the Earl was not present, although Sloane would have experienced a smug satisfaction if his father had witnessed him mingling successfully with Lady Sedford’s set.

‘Lord and Lady Cowdlin. Lady Hannah. Miss Hart,’ the butler announced.

Sloane turned to watch them enter and greet the host and hostess. Lady Hannah looked as delectable as a dish of cream and strawberries in a white gauzy gown decorated with red ribbon. Her cousin wore a much plainer gown, one done up in gold fabric that nearly matched her eyes and glistened under the candlelight.

Averting his head so as not to be so obviously gaping, Sloane observed Lord and Lady Cowdlin stop to converse with friends. Lady Hannah seized her cousin’s arm and propelled them both forward. Hannah glanced in Sloane’s direction, pretended to glance away, whispered something to her cousin, and led her gracefully across the room, making it appear as if it were mere chance that they came to where he stood.

‘Good evening, Lady Hannah, Miss Hart.’ He bowed.

‘How nice to see you here, Mr Sloane.’ Lady Hannah smiled up at him, showing her white, even teeth. ‘You must sit with us. I insist upon it.’

Miss Hart also smiled, but her smile seemed distant, almost sad.

He turned his attention to Lady Hannah. ‘Nothing would delight me more, my lady, but it might hint at partiality. I would not wish to make you the topic of gossip.’ If Sloane were perceived to favour Lady Hannah to the exclusion of other eligible young ladies, he would be forced to make her an offer. He did not wish to be forced into anything.

A fleeting look of disappointment crossed Lady Hannah’s face. She quickly recovered. ‘I have it. You shall sit next to Morgana and that will seem quite unexceptionable.’

He opened his mouth to reply, but her attention had already flitted away.

‘Oh, look,’ she cried. ‘Here comes your nephew, Mr Sloane. Perhaps he will join us as well.’

When the programme was about to begin, Hannah hurried them all in, and arranged the seating to her satisfaction. At one end sat Lord and Lady Cowdlin, then David, Hannah, Morgana, and Sloane. David made polite conversation with Lady Cowdlin, while Hannah looked about the crowd, waving to friends. Miss Hart studied her programme.

‘Do you enjoy music, Miss Hart?’ Sloane asked her.

She gave him a serious expression. ‘You must not consider yourself obliged to make polite conversation, Mr Sloane.’

His brow furrowed. ‘Are we back to not speaking, Miss Hart?’

Her face relaxed. ‘Oh, no. I did not mean that. Goodness! I must have sounded cross. I am vexed at my cousin, not you. She treats me as if I were a doll to be moved about at whim.’

His lips twitched. He leaned closer to her. ‘Confess, Miss Hart. You merely dislike being told what to do.’

She smiled. ‘You have the right of it, Mr Sloane. It is one of my abiding faults.’

‘Mine as well,’ he admitted. ‘Let us begin again. Do you like music, Miss Hart?’

Her ginger eyes came alive with expression. ‘I do like it excessively, sir.’

‘Do you play?’

She rolled her eyes, very unladylike, but charming none the less. ‘Badly, therefore, never in company, but I do love to bash away for hours on my pianoforte.’

‘Hmm.’ He pretended to study the programme. ‘I wonder how thick the walls are between our houses.’

She laughed softly. When he glanced at her again her eyes sparkled. ‘And you, Mr Sloane, do you play?’

He could not help himself. He gave her a wicked grin. ‘Not music, Miss Hart, but I play at other things very well.’

He watched, fascinated, as her pupils grew larger. Her smile changed from mirthful to inscrutable. Perhaps he’d gone too far. Reverted to his rakish ways. But she did have that effect on him. He averted his gaze.

Morgana looked away as well, resisting the impulse to fan herself. Had he been flirting with her? If so, it felt delightful. Very stimulating. She hoped her cheeks were not as flaming red as they felt.

She was glad Sloane did not dislike sitting next to her, though she still had no doubt he would rather be next to Hannah. Hannah had her head together with the younger Mr Sloane, who was obviously as captivated by her as his uncle.

It did not matter, Morgana assured herself, that Hannah drew the attention of men so easily. She was glad someone distracted Hannah from her chief prey. Morgana needed this opportunity to speak to Sloane. She opened her mouth again, but there was a signal that the music was about to begin.

Lady Sedford had achieved the coup of engaging Camporese for the evening. When the soprano stepped out in front of the musicians, she looked much taller and more slender than she’d appeared on stage at the King’s Theatre, perhaps even as tall as Morgana herself.

Camporese reprised her solos from Penelope, to much applause. Morgana noticed that Hannah attended more to the guests than the music. Her uncle, quite the opposite, dozed, his chin drooping to his chest. Morgana smiled at that and glanced at Sloane, who caught her look and held it a moment before turning his eyes back to the soprano. The contact had been fleeting, but it somehow warmed Morgana all over. She did fan herself this time.

When Camporese finished her part of the programme, the room erupted into applause and shouts of ‘Bravo’ and the soprano gave a deep curtsy. Lady Sedford announced a brief interval and everyone left their seats to mingle. Morgana watched Sloane converse with Hannah and his nephew.

A gentleman and lady approached her. Morgana recognised them as Sloane’s brother and sister-in-law, Lord and Lady Rawley. Her aunt presented her to them.

Lady Rawley gave her an inquisitive look. ‘I see you are acquainted with Cyprian, Miss Hart.’

Remembering that Sloane was estranged from his family, Morgana regarded the woman with some interest. ‘I am, ma’am.’

‘What do you know of him, my dear?’ Lady Rawley’s question was phrased in ominous tones.

Morgana immediately leapt to Sloane’s defence, though the notion he would need her protection was ludicrous. ‘He is often in the company of my aunt’s family. He is acceptable to them, and that is all I need know.’

Lady Rawley leaned in closer. ‘My husband says there is more to it, Miss Hart. Cyprian has the most shocking reputation. I implore you to beware of it and inform your cousin before she makes a terrible mistake.’

Morgana’s indignation caught fire. How dare this woman presume to spread tales of Sloane to someone she had met not one minute before? She would not stand for it!

She favoured Lady Rawley with her most innocent look. ‘I fear Lady Hannah will demand the details before giving any credence to my words. Would you please tell me exactly what Mr Sloane had done to earn his shocking reputation?’

‘Why… why he is a womaniser, for one thing,’ the lady responded.

‘Indeed?’ Morgana feigned interest. ‘With whom has he been linked? I am sure my cousin will wish to hear names.’

‘I do not precisely know,’ admitted Lady Rawley. ‘But I have it on good authority—’

‘Oh, Hannah will not credit that at all, I’m afraid.’ Morgana feigned being thoughtful. ‘But I suspect there are many gentlemen who claim success with the ladies. That would not be enough to concern Hannah. What else has Mr Sloane done?’

‘I do not know, but it was very bad,’ Lady Rawley said with spirit. ‘Something during the war, I think.’

Morgana pretended to consider this. ‘I believe I must inform my uncle of this shocking information. He is responsible for Hannah, you know.’

‘I am sure your uncle knows,’ admitted the lady. ‘Everyone knows.’

Morgana smiled. ‘Then it must be a mere hum, because Mr Sloane is invited everywhere. He even has vouchers for Almack’s.’ She acted as if she were just struck by a thought. ‘I suppose I could alert Lady Sefton or Lady Castlereagh. I shall tell them you have informed me.’

Lady Rawley paled. ‘No, no, do not do that. I would not trouble them. I am sure if Cyprian has vouchers, it must be quite all right.’

‘Yes.’ Morgana nodded firmly. ‘I am certain such rumours are none of our affair.’

The guests began returning to their seats for the second half of the programme, and Morgana had an excuse to escape Lady Rawley.

When she again took her seat next to Sloane, he said, ‘I see you met Lord and Lady Rawley.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said brightly. ‘Charming woman. She could not say enough about you.’

He laughed, that deep sound that seemed to resonate inside her like the bass notes of the music. ‘I hope you defended my honour, Miss Hart.’

She looked him directly in the eyes. ‘I did.’

Hannah leaned over her to ask Sloane something about the music. Soon the second half commenced, several selections from Haydn, guaranteed to please everyone.

It was not until the supper after the performance that Morgana found an opportunity to speak with Sloane again. He had not remained with their party for the meal, but joined some others, to Hannah’s complete dismay. Morgana noticed him walk over to the buffet table to fill his plate and so joined him.

‘May I assist you, Miss Hart?’ he asked politely.

‘How kind of you.’ She seized this chance, keeping her tone casual. ‘I have been meaning to ask you, Mr Sloane. There is a service you might do for me, if you would be so good.’

He cast her a suspicious look. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing of consequence,’ she assured him. ‘I wish to contact Harriette Wilson, and I wondered if you might give me her direction so that I might pen her a letter.’

‘Harriette Wilson?’ His voice barely managed to remain a whisper. He moved closer to her and put a small round potato on her plate. ‘Why the devil do you want to correspond with her?’

‘Oh,’ she said lightly, ‘that need not concern you. I only need to discover where she resides, and because you are acquainted with her, I thought you would help me.’

‘What are you up to, Miss Hart? Does this have anything to do with that infernal glove shop?’ he asked in a fierce whisper.

‘No,’ she said, pointing to a small sausage, and again not entirely telling the truth. ‘I wish you might forget that episode.’

‘And the scrap in the park? And what else? I do not need to be involved in your schemes, Miss Hart.’ He pointed to a parsnip and she shook her head.

‘Then I am sorry I troubled you. I thank you for providing my meal.’ She reached for the plate.

He did not let go. ‘I will carry it for you.’

They walked across the room, both with stiff expressions on their faces. When Hannah spied Sloane, she insisted he join them, sitting him next to her, of course. He looked distracted and annoyed, even as he listened to Hannah’s chatter.

Morgana, blood still boiling at his scold, could barely muster a word of conversation with her aunt, whose favourite topic of the moment was how splendid Mr Sloane was, and how kind he’d been to attend to her dinner. On the other side, her cousin Varney mumbled to her about how he did not care if Sloane was worth more than ten thousand a year, he did not like him paying his addresses to Hannah.

Lady Cowdlin leaned over both Morgana and Varney to speak to the Poltrops. A moment later she insisted to Sloane that he share their carriage after the musicale.

* * *

When the party had ended, Morgana stood at Sloane’s side while they waited for the line of carriages to move.

Sloane pretended not to notice as Morgana tapped her foot impatiently. True, he was also tired of the wait, and Hannah’s constant chatter had worn very thin. He could have walked home twice already and the carriage was not yet in sight.

What the devil was Morgana up to this time? He swore it must have to do with that female Lucy. Had not the altercation in the park shown her how dangerous the dissolute world could be? Harriette Wilson, indeed. Harriette was just the sort who would spread in every gentleman’s ear that Cyprian Sloane’s acquaintance Miss Hart had corresponded with her. He would be blamed for whatever mischief Morgana Hart was plotting.

The carriage finally pulled up. Even though he was thoroughly vexed with her, Sloane could not help but relish the feel of her hand in his as he assisted her into the carriage. He took the seat next to her, her perfume filling his nostrils, the heat of her body warming him. She sat stiffly and turned her head to look out of the window into the dark night.

When the carriage arrived at Culross Street and good-nights were said, Sloane helped Miss Hart from the vehicle. The coachman drove off and Sloane walked her to her door.

When she reached for her door knocker, he stilled her hand. ‘Not so hasty, Miss Hart. I would speak with you first.’

Chapter Eight

Sloane doused the rush light, giving her time to enter her house if she chose. She did not. The darkness afforded some protection from passers-by, though it also gave the illusion of intimacy, as if a blanket wrapped around them both.

He stood close to her. The night breeze stirred a lock of her hair that had come loose from its pins. He almost swept it back into place.

He forced himself to get to the point. ‘Tell me why you wish to correspond with Harriette Wilson.’

She did not flinch from him, but remained still, face upturned to his. ‘I seek some information from her.’

He disliked her evasion. ‘What information?’

‘That, sir, is private.’ He could almost see her chin set in stubbornness. She turned to her door.

He grabbed her arms. ‘I have a nose for trouble, Miss Hart, and I smell it now.’ But what he really smelled was the exotic spice and floral scent she wore. ‘I demand to know what mischief you are in this time.’

She did not pull away from his grip. ‘I assure you, it is no mischief,’ she said softly.

‘You are flirting with a dangerous world, Miss Hart.’ He leaned closer to make her heed his words. ‘The glove shop may be respectable by day, but you can be sure it is not respectable at night.’

‘I know this.’ Her voice was low. It put him in mind of dark bedchambers rather than dark entryways. ‘You need not worry.’

But he was worried. He told himself his only interest was avoiding blame for whatever her scheme was this time. He told himself he rued the day he had purchased property next to hers.

But, at the same time, she seemed pliant under his grasp. Her femininity was an intoxicating lure. It had been long since he’d tasted a woman’s lips, or held a woman against him. Morgana Hart felt wonderful in his arms. He leaned closer and she rose on tiptoe. She placed her palms against his chest, her touch soft, but it filled him with heat. He wanted to slide his hands behind her and press her to his groin, to ease the ache that increased with each sweet breath that cooled his cheeks.

His arm trembled as he set her away from him, then released her. He sounded her knocker and stepped away, waiting until the door opened and she disappeared inside. She did not look back and he made his way slowly to his own door.

Morgana hesitated only slightly as she stepped into the hall. She greeted Cripps as if nothing had happened, but inside she felt altered, as if Sloane had rearranged all her organs. He must have removed one of them, because she was aware of needing… something.

She sounded very normal when she spoke to Cripps about closing up the house for the night. She even calmly ascended the stairs.

But once out of her butler’s sight, she ran to the door of her bedchamber. She felt like dancing—or weeping—she did not know which.

Amy waited in her bedchamber to help her undress.

‘Did you have a nice evening, Miss Hart?’ the maid asked as Morgana removed her gloves, resisting the impulse to stare at the fingers that had caressed his chest.

‘Very nice,’ she replied. She did not wish to talk. She did not want anything to break the spell of his touch, the nearness of his lips.

Morgana undressed as quickly as Amy’s assistance would allow, but she was eager for the maid to leave so she could think about him holding her in his arms.

What did it mean that he’d held her so close? Why had he released her? Why, oh, why had he not kissed her?

Amy jabbered as usual, while removing Morgana’s hairpins and loosening the plaits so her hair could be brushed. Morgana watched herself in the mirror, amazed that she still looked the same.

Soon enough she was tucked under her covers, and Amy had closed the door behind her. Morgana hugged a pillow, rubbing her cheek on the soft fabric, still feeling his hands gripping her arms, still filled with the clean masculine scent of him.

She squeezed her eyes closed as tightly as she could and rolled over.

He had pushed her away, after all. He did not want her. He wanted Hannah. Young, vibrant, beautiful Hannah.

Sloane melted into the darkness, standing in the shadows as she hurried through the doorway and out of sight. He stood in the darkness a long time, hoping the blood would stop surging through his veins.

He’d wanted her, wanted her like the very devil, like the rake he was. A second later and he would have tasted those lips, felt her soft body against his hard one—his much too hard one.

Instead of reaching for the doorknob, Sloane spun around and strode down the walk to the street. A brisk walk would cool his loins.

He made his way through Mayfair, in the general direction of Bond Street, caring not how far he walked. The night welcomed him like an old friend, and soon his step became lighter, quieter, smoother. He had almost forgotten this sensation, of moving through the darkness unseen, as if he were part of it. His agitation eased as the familiar role overtook him.

Slipping through the darkness, Sloane avoided St James’s Street, where the gentlemen’s clubs still spewed members on to the street. Sloane might, like them, pass some time at White’s, even gamble a little, but he had no desire to break the spell the night had created.

St James’s and streets nearby were nearly as busy as day, though most of the night people sought pleasures best hidden in darkness. Sloane thought about entering one of the gaming hells that attracted gambling of a more dangerous sort than the respectable White’s Club, but the urge to test his skills in those deep waters had fled. Of course, there were establishments where he might slake the primal urges Morgana Hart had awoken, but Sloane, no matter what his reputation, had always avoided that sort of debauchery. If he wanted a woman, he could find a willing one without having to pay for her services.

The notion that it would be an easy matter to make Morgana willing quickened his step. He’d come very close to doing that very thing when he’d held her in his arms. No matter her birth and respectability, she had a wild nature underneath, one he could so easily exploit. It would be a simple matter indeed to ruin her, if she did not ruin herself first.

Sloane stopped in a shadow and shook his head. He must cease these rakish thoughts. Besides, far more likely than he ruining Miss Hart was that she would ruin him.

She was up to something. He needed to discover exactly what it was before she dragged him down with her when her fall came.

Sloane proceeded with new purpose. He made his way to Jermyn Street, concealing himself in the darkness, while he watched men come and go through the door of the glove shop. The front of the shop was unlit, but windows in the upper floors showed the peek of candlelight when the curtains stirred. Certain now that his suspicions of the establishment had been accurate, Sloane waited. He did not know what he hoped to discover, but the years he’d worked for the Crown had taught him to bide his time. Something useful always came his way.

His reward came when a man in a plain coat paused under the street lamp, giving Sloane a glimpse of his face. It was the man from the park. He entered the glove shop with the familiarity of a frequent visitor, but Sloane suspected his visit was for business, not pleasure.

Sloane left his place of concealment and crossed around the row of shops to the back. One light shone in a window on the ground floor of the glove shop. He crept closer.

The window was open, allowing the cool night breeze into the house. Sloane heard voices. He gripped the exterior sill of the window a couple of feet over his head and pulled himself up high enough to peek inside.

A woman’s back was visible. The establishment’s owner, he guessed. She shook her finger at a man facing her, the man from the park.

The woman’s voice could be clearly heard. ‘I do not want you to try to find my girls. I want you to succeed in finding them! And while you are at it, get me that pretty maid.’

‘Never fear,’ the man said in the rough voice Sloane remembered from the park. ‘When I clamp my hands on that one again, she will not get away.’

‘Hmmph.’ The woman tossed her head. ‘You could not hold her the first time. I wish I had held her when she turned up with that harridan.’

Morgana, Sloane thought.

The woman continued, ‘Do you know where to find her?’

‘I will discover her.’

Sloane’s arms trembled with the strain of holding on to the window. He let himself slip to the ground.

He had heard enough. There was no doubt in his mind Morgana Hart was toying with a danger she could not imagine.

He meant to put a halt to this flirtation of hers with the Paphian world.

The next morning Sloane rose early. He’d slept little. Dawn had not been far off by the time he’d returned to the house and his brain was racing too fast to turn off.

Why had Morgana Hart gone to the glove shop that day? Why did she wish to contact Harriette Wilson, of all people? What mischief was she getting herself into?

He told Elliot he was going for a walk, not precisely a falsehood. He planned to walk around the row of houses to the back.

He’d retained enough of the previous night’s mood to decide he would first watch her house, to learn what he could before confronting her.

As he stepped out of his door, a servant left Miss Hart’s house, hurrying down the street as if on an urgent errand. Sloane walked by Morgana’s house at a slow pace, glancing into her window as he passed. A female he’d not seen before appeared briefly in the drawing-room window. There was something afoot in that house, all right.

He crossed the street and walked around to the backs of the houses. Stepping through the mews, he reached her gate. Through the gap in the gate, he peered into her property.

Finding it deserted, he tried the latch. It was locked, but Sloane made short work of picking the lock.

He slipped into the garden. Luckily it had bushes enough to conceal him. He inched his way along the wall, looking for a nice vantage point to watch the back of the house, and almost tripped over a pile of bricks. Catching himself, he saw a gap in the wall and laughed. He might have spared himself a great deal of trouble had he known he could step from his garden into hers.

It proved an excellent place to stand, providing him easy escape. So he settled in and, like the Peeping Tom of the Lady Godiva legend, and the English spy he’d been during the war, he fixed his attention on the back windows of Miss Hart’s house, hoping to witness something he was not supposed to see.

He saw a great deal more activity than he would have expected. The sound of the pianoforte reached his ears, as well as a beautiful feminine voice singing to it. Either Miss Hart had exaggerated how badly she could play, or someone else had fingers on the keys. The voice did not sound like her either, too high and crystalline. A quite remarkable voice, none the less, but whose?

Sloane watched for over an hour, an inconsequential space of time compared to the long hours he’d put in for King and country. But instead of piecing the puzzle together, Sloane became more confused.

In the past hour, three women had walked out to the privy. One he recognised as Miss Hart’s maid. The other two were dressed as maids, but somehow they did not fit the part. Another puzzling thing. They all seemed to be gathered in the back room. Why would a covey of maids spend so much time in one room?