“I’m glad you’re taking action, but you must be very firm with her. You can’t let her run to London and start telling tales. You can’t let her cousin open his mouth either. Think of the gossip that would spread. The entire kingdom would be agog, and people would demand you claim her—even if she isn’t Henrietta. The masses would love that ending.”
“Yes, I suppose they would.”
“You have to nip this in the bud. You have to scare her so she is too afraid to disseminate her lies. I mean, what if she went to the newspapers? Can you imagine?”
The butler knocked and peeked in. “Miss Carstairs is here, my lord.”
“I’ll be with her in a minute,” Charles replied, and the butler slithered out.
Millicent stared at him, a thousand unaddressed comments flitting between them. She felt as if she was competing in a race and falling farther and farther behind.
“You’ll never stand up to her, will you?” she fumed.
“Yes, I will. I promise.”
“I’ll stay with you. She’s adept at batting her lashes, and I’ll prevent any manipulation.”
“I can handle one young girl.”
Millicent scoffed. “You’ve never been able to handle any female.”
“I won’t argue the point with you. Why don’t you leave so I can talk to her? I’d like to finish this.”
“Why don’t you delay for a bit? This is a dangerous circumstance, and we should review the ramifications more thoroughly. We should develop a response. We must counter her lies, and you should have your threats ready to unload.”
“I’m not about to threaten her, and I’m sure you’re wrong about this. I predict there’s a perfectly valid explanation for what your maid overheard. Now please depart and allow me to conclude this as quickly and quietly as possible.”
“You’ll never convince her to be silent.”
“I’ll try my best. It’s all I can do.”
“She must understand the power you can wield. She must fear that you could ruin her. It’s the only way you’ll shut her up.”
“I will deal with it as I see fit.”
Millicent glared at him across the polished oak desk, and her temper soared. She thought of all the years she’d wasted on him, all the effort and energy. And for what?
That very moment, a harlot was loafing in his bedchamber. If he would blithely consort with such a disreputable doxy—right in the house where Millicent and Penny resided!—then it was clear he was reverting to his old habits. How could Millicent, who was a moralistic, decent Christian woman, ignore the sordid scenario?
There was a loud voice in her head, goading her to speak up for once. But there was a softer voice too, and it was urging caution.
How many times had she bitten her tongue and pretended to be happy? How many times had she acted like the contented partner, the contented wife—who wasn’t a wife? Her pathetic situation was too wretched to abide.
The louder voice won. “Before I came downstairs, I stopped by your bedchamber to check if you were there. I was searching for you so I could share this terrible news.”
“I’m sorry you were searching, but you found me, and you’ve imparted your information. I’ll take it from here.”
His impatience was evident, but she forged on. “To my enormous surprise, Miss Fishburn was loafing in your bedroom, and she appeared to be quite comfortable.”
“Oh.”
“Is that the sole remark you can muster? Oh? Initially, I worried that she might be a thief, but she insisted she’d tarried with your permission.”
She studied him caustically, and finally, he said, “Yes, I seem to remember asking her to wait.”
“Would you like to clarify why she was there?”
He sighed. “No, Millicent, I wouldn’t, and you shouldn’t be concerned over it.”
“Not be concerned!” Her fury wafted out. “Am I to have no opinion about it? There is a scandal brewing under my very own roof, and you expect me to tolerate it without complaint.”
He crushed her by saying, “It’s not your roof. It’s mine, and whatever deed I decide to perpetrate under it, it’s my business. Not yours.”
“All these years, I’ve stayed for you.”
“And I’ve been grateful.”
“I raised your children. I ran your home.”
“Yes, and you were a great help to me.”
“I thought we would . . . would . . .”
She couldn’t spit out what she’d thought: that he’d notice her devotion and reward her with marriage.
“What did you think?” His tone was gentle, but galling. “I’m inquiring because it’s recently dawned on me that you might have misconstrued your position here.”
It was the scariest statement he could have uttered, and she didn’t dare respond, for it might force them to dicker over topics she was too cowardly to confront.
Instead, she said the only thing she could say, the only thing she truly wanted to know. “Are you in love with Miss Fishburn? Is that it?”
He chuckled. “No, I’m not in love with her.”
“What’s happening then? You’re simply having a . . . a . . . fling?” She hurled the word fling as if it were an epithet.
“As I mentioned, Millicent, it’s not any of your business.”
He stared her down, his expression stern and implacable, and she had so many emotions bubbling just under the surface. It occurred to her that she’d never really been angry in the past. For once, she grasped how a person could be driven to commit murder. She was close to launching herself across the desk and physically attacking him.
Then what . . . ?
The question echoed in her mind, and she had no answer to it. Women were mostly impotent. They had no money or power, no authority or control. She was no exception.
She lived at his mercy, and he’d been generous—because he’d needed her assistance. She’d gladly offered it, but she had to accept that he’d never planned to give her the benefit she’d desired in return, that being a ring on her finger.
She swallowed down the bile that was choking her, and she pushed back her chair and stood.
“Enjoy your chat with Miss Carstairs,” she nastily said. “I hope you get just what you deserve from her.”
She whipped away and marched out,
