Miss Pendleton had never liked Peggy, and Peggy constantly tried to ingratiate herself, but to no avail.
She should have been down in the kitchen, waiting for the housekeeper to send her to clean another guest chamber, but instead, she was lurking outside Miss Carstairs’s suite.
When they’d been apprised that the famous celebrity would visit, Peggy had fervidly hoped that she’d be assigned to tend the woman, but as usual, Peggy had been overlooked. Other, more senior girls had received the posh task, and Peggy was incredibly jealous.
The hall was empty, so she could casually stroll past Miss Carstair’s door without being observed. Her costumer, Miss Fishburn, was with her, and they were talking in an animated manner that—when Peggy tarried at just the right angle—was audible.
Apparently, Miss Carstairs was no better than she had to be. She’d misbehaved with Lord Barrett and was feeling guilty, but Peggy wasn’t about to chastise her for the lapse. Actresses had no morals, and Peggy wouldn’t begrudge any female for dallying with Lord Barrett. She might have tried any ruse if it would have guaranteed the handsome lord noticed her.
She was curious as to how Lady Penny would view the relationship though. Would she like to know that her likely fiancé was immersed in a fling with Miss Carstairs? Would she be glad or incensed? Would she kill the messenger?
Peggy debated the issue, wondering if there could be a benefit in telling.
Probably not . . .
This was a delicious secret she would keep to herself. It was like a plot in a scandalous theatrical play.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs behind her, and she continued on as if she had a destination in mind. When she glanced back, she saw that the cheeky scoundrel, Mr. Falcon, had arrived. Miss Carstairs let him in to join the conversation.
Mr. Falcon was another handsome devil who’d tantalized Peggy. The other housemaids were all in love with him, but he was busy flirting inappropriately with Lady Penny.
Had her Aunt Millicent realized what was occurring? Should she be informed? Could there be an advantage to speaking up?
Probably not . . .
She wandered toward the door, desperately anxious to discover what sorts of topics the three fascinating people would discuss. To her great delight, the door hadn’t closed tightly when Mr. Falcon had entered the room. She could hear some of their comments and didn’t even have to press her ear to the wood.
Suddenly, Miss Carstairs said, “I am Little Henrietta, Lord Roland’s lost daughter.”
Peggy bit down a gasp, as Mr. Falcon gushed, “This is so brilliant! I can’t believe you thought of it! We can make a fortune off this story!”
Peggy’s heart was hammering so loudly that she could hardly discern any words, but Miss Carstairs definitely said, “I merely need the two of you to tell me how to proceed.”
Mr. Falcon responded with, “I know how we’ll proceed. Is this a ploy to snag Lord Barrett? He would never wed you because of your low status, but if you’re an earl’s daughter, you’re perfect for him. It’s so cunning! If you’re Roland’s long-lost daughter, think of how we can use it to ingratiate ourselves to him!”
Peggy lurched away, feeling afraid, and very, very excited. She could never get Miss Pendleton’s attention, and she always dickered over how to curry favor. Well, she’d certainly found a stellar route.
Miss Pendleton had to be notified immediately, and—Peggy was sure—when the devious scheme was exposed, Peggy would wind up the heroine for revealing the whole sordid charade.
She reached the stairs and raced down them, eager to locate Miss Pendleton and confess what she’d learned.
Millicent rushed down the hall toward Charles’s bedroom suite, hoping he was in it. There were too many blasted guests observing her every move, so she couldn’t run around hunting for him.
The housemaid, Peggy, had just revealed the most appalling story about Miss Carstairs and her two dubious companions. They were a trio of scheming confidence artists who were about to play a terrible trick on all of them, but especially on Charles.
Millicent had warned Charles about them, but he’d refused to heed her, and look where it had left them!
While he could be stern and unbending when the situation called for it, he could also be extremely gullible, particularly where women were concerned. If Miss Carstairs had already managed to speak to him, there was no predicting what catastrophe she could set in motion. He might make promises or hand over money or . . . or . . . who could guess what else before Millicent intervened to stop him.
The door to his sitting room was open, and she hurried in, seeing that it was empty, the bedroom too. He probably wasn’t in the dressing room behind it, but to be sure, she went over and peeked in.
To her great astonishment, she came face to face with Miss Fishburn. Millicent blanched so violently she was surprised she didn’t fall down. As to Miss Fishburn, if she was discomfited by being found—quite alone—in Lord Roland’s private quarters, she gave no sign at all.
She was holding a glass of liquor, and she brazenly toasted Millicent with it. Then she stared blandly, as if it was perfectly normal for her to be where she was.
Millicent’s immediate and urgent thought was to wonder if Miss Fishburn was a thief. Had she been pilfering Charles’s dressers? Charles’s most valuable jewels were locked in the family vault, but he had diamond cufflinks and other items in a top drawer.
What might she have taken?
“Miss Fishburn!” Millicent’s tone was shocked and firm. “Why are you in Lord Roland’s dressing room?”
“He asked me to wait for him, so I’m waiting.”
“You can’t have the nerve to tarry in here. Tell me your business—and
