Delia had given Greta every reason to hate her. It was likely that the girl had put an eye to a crack in the sitting room door a few moments ago and had seen something illicit going on between her and Mr. Simpson. The two of them on the sofa. Frantic embraces, ardent kisses, passionate caresses. The man’s hand inside Delia’s bodice, searching for her breast, or up her skirt. Armed with that kind of sensational report, what might a disgruntled, vindictive employee do? She might threaten to spread it all over town unless—
He shivered, and the word blackmail elbowed its brutal self into his consciousness. Unless what? Unless money changed hands? Unless . . . something else? But what?
At that moment, the parlor door opened, and Delia came down the hall toward them, her voluminous skirts swishing. Her eyes narrowed as she saw Greta in the kitchen door and Adam at the door to his office. To Adam, it felt as if the air had become electrically charged, and the hair stood up on the back of his neck.
“What’s going on here?” Delia asked in a high, thin voice. “What are you two up to?”
“Nothin’, ma’am,” Greta said innocently. “Nothin’ at all.” Her glance went to Delia’s bodice, where the button was noticeably missing, then—with an open impudence—to Delia’s face. I saw you, it said. I saw what you were doing. She turned back to Adam, and her expression softened. He read in her eyes a plea—not a demand, but a mute entreaty—as if she were asking him to defend her once again. He opened his mouth to speak, but Delia intervened.
“Get back to your work, girl,” she snapped. “This minute.”
Greta’s glance lingered on Adam’s face for a moment. Then she turned and went back into the kitchen, her hips swaying. The kitchen door closed behind her.
Delia turned to Adam. “It certainly looked like something was going on.” Her eyes were accusing. “The two of you were discussing me, weren’t you? You were talking about me behind my back.”
“Nonsense, Delia,” Adam said evenly. “We weren’t discussing anything at all. In fact, we hadn’t exchanged a word. I was simply—”
But she didn’t let him finish. “Did you get up to some monkey business with that girl while I was gone, Adam?” Delia’s nostrils quivered, anger sparking in her eyes. “Ever since I got home, you’ve stopped me when I’ve been about to correct her. It is very clear that you are going out of your way to defend her.” Her voice rose, strident and shrill. “Surely you’ve noticed the way she moons around you at the table, rubbing herself up against you every chance she gets. Why, the girl’s in love with you, Adam. Don’t tell me that there wasn’t something between you while I was out of town! You’ve been in her bed!”
Adam stared at her. Good God. Even his wife could see Greta’s mistaken understanding. How had he been so stupidly blind? But he couldn’t explain it; all he could do was deny.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said evenly. “She’s just grateful when somebody speaks up for her. All she gets from you is criticism—and worse. Lord only knows what you say to her when I’m not around to take her part.”
“I’m dismissing her.” Delia’s voice was harsh. “Now. This afternoon. Before this thing—whatever it is between the two of you—goes any further.” She put her hands on her hips and pulled her shoulders back. “There are plenty of capable young women who would be glad to have her job. We can’t have a silly girl who keeps throwing herself at you and making you look like a damn fool—even if you are one.”
Adam gave up trying to hold his temper. “And what if she saw what happened between you and Mr. Simpson in the parlor this afternoon?”
Delia’s eyes widened and her face paled. She put her hand against the wall, steadying herself. “What makes you think she . . . Did she say something? Did she—” She lifted her chin. “Nothing happened. Nothing at all.” But her face was ashen and her fingers felt for the empty buttonhole in her bodice. “I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He had been guessing before. He was sure now.
“Yes, you do. Think about it, Delia. If you dismiss this girl, there’s no predicting how she’ll retaliate. Maybe she’ll tell me what she saw. Or maybe she’ll tell the town. Do you want to take that chance?”
Delia’s hand, trembling, flew to her mouth. “She . . . wouldn’t!” She caught herself and tried to amend. “She couldn’t have seen something that didn’t happen.”
If he needed another confirmation, this was it. But the knowledge didn’t cheer him. It didn’t anger him, either. What’s sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose, he thought. He couldn’t blame Delia—or Mr. Simpson. He was equally culpable, and his guilt robbed him of the right to complain or accuse. And he had behaved unconscionably toward Greta, encouraging her to think God knew what.
But one thing he did know. “Better leave well enough alone for now,” he said. “And lay off the criticism. Things are bad enough as they are.”
Without another word, Delia turned on her heel and flew up the stairs. In a moment, he heard her bedroom door slam hard enough to rattle the windows.
Adam found himself shivering as he went down the front steps and headed for the bank. He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened in the last few moments, but he had the feeling that—whatever it was—it had altered his marriage forever. He walked faster and then even faster, feeling that he was pursued by something dark and ominous, that he
