Pauline went to the crying woman’s side and offered a sympathetic pat. “There there. I’m certain her grace will be forgiving.”
“I let a cinder fall on the drawing room carpet,” one of the housemaids blurted. “It burnt a hole.”
“But don’t you feel better now for having the truth out in the open?” Pauline asked.
The housemaid sniffed and raised her head. “I do, Miss Simms. I truly do. It’s like a weight’s been lifted.”
“I’m so glad. No one should live under the burden of secrets.”
Young Margaret spoke up, eager to have her part. “I saw Lawrence in the pantry, fumbling with a housemaid!”
The duchess straightened her spine. “Lawrence.”
The footman in question paled.
The duchess addressed the housemaids sternly. “Which one of you was it? Step forward now.”
Three of them did, in unison. When they looked around the room and realized they weren’t alone, they each turned on Lawrence with vicious glares.
Lawrence twisted under their anger. “I . . . I . . .” He thrust his chin forward. “Higgs wears a corset!”
If he meant to divert attention from himself, he succeeded. All around the room, eyebrows soared.
Poor Higgs. His cheeks went beet red. “It’s not a ladies’ corset. A butler must cut a respectable figure.”
For a long, uncomfortable moment, no one had anything to say.
And then . . .
“I’m not French.”
This came from Fleur.
“What?” the duchess exclaimed. “Impossible.”
“I’m not. I’m n-not.” The lady’s maid gave her confession in halting, poorly enunciated English. Her accent was even more common than Pauline’s, and she had a painful stammer. “I knew I’d never f-f-find a lady’s maid post, speaking as I do. So I let on that I was French and full of airs, so’s I wouldn’t have to talk. My real name’s Fl-Fl-Flora. I’m so sorry. I’ll pack me things.”
She fled the room in tears.
The duchess went after her. “Fleur—or, Flora . . . Whoever, you are, wait!”
In their absence, a stunned silence filled the morning room.
Griff clapped his hands together. “Well. Thank you, Miss Simms. This has been a most illuminating morning.”
Pauline put a hand to her temple. Oh, Lord.
The doorbell rang. No one moved.
“Here’s a thought,” said Griff. “Why don’t I answer that?”
Higgs shook himself and lurched into motion. “Your grace, allow me.”
Griff held up a hand. “No, no. I confess, I have long harbored a deep, secret yearning to answer my own door.”
As he left the room, Pauline dashed after him. “I’m sorry. I had no idea all that would happen. But don’t you see? This house is full of secrets, and it’s making everyone unhappy. No one more than you. You need to disclose your sorrows, open your heart.”
“The only thing I’m opening right now is the front door.” He strode to the entrance and yanked on the door latch. When he saw the visitors standing outside, he muttered, “Brilliant. Just what this morning needs.”
Pauline froze in disbelief. On the doorstep stood not one, but two familiar people. The woman she’d known in Spindle Cove as Miss Minerva Highwood. And Miss Minerva’s husband—Colin Sandhurst, Lord Payne.
“I knew it,” Minerva said, pushing past the duke to catch Pauline in a desperate hug. “Never fear, Pauline. We’ve come to save you.”
Having opened the door, Griff took on the duty of closing it. As he did so, he felt heartily sorry that these two visitors were on the wrong side.
“It’s been too long, Halford.” Payne offered a hand and a genial smile.
Not long enough. For his part, he could have lasted a week or two more.
Lady Payne looked up at him, eyes burning with violence behind those wire-rimmed spectacles. “You revolting trilobite.”
Charming. And here he had been wondering what Payne saw in the girl.
“If only I hadn’t left my reticule at home,” she said bitterly.
He hadn’t the faintest idea what that signified, but he supposed this wasn’t a conversation to conduct in the entrance hall.
Griff showed them to his study—it was one room he felt certain would not be occupied by a sobbing housemaid. Ringing for tea seemed a chancy prospect. He poured Payne a brandy and made the offer of a cordial to the ladies. Another episode in today’s adventures in self-sufficiency.
“Pauline, what’s happened?” Payne’s excitable wife asked. “What’s he done to you?”
“My lady, he’s only employed me. I’m in this house working as a companion to his mother, the duchess.”
“Oh, really.” Lady Payne’s voice was rich with skepticism. “And where is the duchess now?”
“She is upstairs,” Griff said. “Dealing with a small crisis of the house staff.”
“So,” she huffed. “Servants in this house are often unhappy.” She slid her gaze between Pauline and Griff. “And I’m to believe nothing untoward has happened between you?”
“You’re to believe it’s none of your concern,” Griff answered. “Why are you so suspicious of me?”
“I’m not suspicious. My dislike of you is formed on abundant evidence. I’ve been to that ghastly pleasure palace you keep.” She turned to Pauline. “Do you know he has a den of iniquity in the country?”
Pauline shook her head. “No, my lady. It wouldn’t be my business to know that.”
Griff frowned. Why had she become so docile and compliant all of a sudden? This was hardly the same Pauline he knew. Certainly not the same Pauline who’d pressed him back against his bed last night and dragged her tongue over every inch of his chest.
“It’s called Winterset Grange. I was there last year,” his bespectacled inquisitioner continued, speaking to Pauline. “Colin and I stopped the night there on our journey to Scotland. Oh, it was disgusting.” She shuddered.
“Not so disgusting that you declined my hospitality,” Griff said, leaning against the desk and crossing his arms. “And if you’ll forgive me for saying it, Lady Payne, I’m not sure you have the moral high ground in this particular tale.”
“What can you mean?”
“By your own admission, you’d run away from your family with a scandalous rake. And, I might add, lied to my face about your identity. I seem to remember Payne introducing you as Melissande, some sort of long-lost Alpine princess and cold-blooded assassin who spoke not a word of English. I mean, really. An Alpine princess-assassin. You will call me depraved?”