“Ah, Lady Hargrove,” he said a bit stiltedly. “I was just consoling this maid.”
Despite the awfulness of the situation, Fiona nearly laughed. She quickly sobered, however, as she felt him stiffen behind her. His body was rock-hard with tension.
Panic began to build inside Fiona. Was she ruined?
“You sought to console her by kissing her?” Lady Hargrove demanded.
Fiona wanted to correct the woman—it was she who’d kissed him. And why on earth had she done that? He would certainly send her back to Shropshire now.
“She’s a maid here, Lord Overton,” Lady Hargrove said with considerable disdain. Though Fiona couldn’t see her, she imagined a middle-aged woman with an austere, judgmental expression.
“Allow me,” another woman said, her voice less outraged than Lady Hargrove’s. Actually, she didn’t sound angry at all, only concerned. “I’ll just take her inside.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Renshaw. I’m sure she could do with some tea. Or something.” He guided Fiona toward a young woman, perhaps in her middle or late twenties, with glossy brown hair and a kind expression. There was an intangible grace about her, an air of confidence and capability that was instantly soothing.
Fiona had the sense Mrs. Renshaw took care of things and people, but then she did oversee the ladies’ side of the club, so perhaps that was her nature. Careful to keep her head down, Fiona went eagerly to the woman’s care. Mrs. Renshaw guided her toward the house, keeping them away from the small group of people who’d gathered outside. Fiona could only see them from the corner of her eye. She didn’t dare turn her head.
When they reached the door to the house—that led into the ivory and gold sitting room in the corner—Fiona gave in to temptation. She turned her head and spied Overton walking back toward the ballroom. His body was still rigid, his head high, and his features inscrutable.
This was such a disaster.
As Mrs. Renshaw ushered her into the sitting room, Fiona thought of Cassandra. Where was she? Hopefully, she was hidden.
“I’m Mrs. Renshaw, and I oversee the Ladies’ Phoenix Club. We’ll take the backstairs up to my office.”
Fiona hesitated, wondering if she should tell her about Cassandra. But Mrs. Renshaw was already moving into the narrow servants’ cupboard that also contained the stairs down to the lower floor—the origination of this excursion that was not turning out to be the adventure Fiona had planned.
However, it was, whether expected or not, an adventure.
They went up instead of down, and Mrs. Renshaw led her into yet another gorgeously decorated room that was directly above the sitting room they’d just left. Bookshelves lined half of one wall, and tall windows looked out to the garden and Duke Street below. Between the two windows overlooking the garden stood a beautiful desk with turned legs and drawer pulls shaped like flowers. A small landscape painting that looked rather old hung above it. Fiona was drawn to the vivid greens and blues of the rolling countryside and cloud-free sky.
“That’s a lovely painting,” she remarked, perhaps hoping to avoid whatever must come next but, of course, realizing she could not.
“It was my mother’s,” Mrs. Renshaw said softly. She gestured to the gathering of furniture in the center of the room—a small settee and three chairs. “Would you care to sit? I would address you by name, but I don’t know it. You are not a maid here.” There was no hint of accusation, just a simple statement of fact.
Even so, Fiona tried to copy Cassandra’s confidence from earlier. “Lord Lucien hired me recently?” Despite her attempt at assurance, the statement came out sounding more like a question.
Mrs. Renshaw smiled but didn’t show her teeth. She was a very attractive woman. In addition to the comforting quality about her, there was a sophistication that made her seem older than she probably was. Fiona didn’t think she could ever attain such an attribute.
“I would know if he had.” Mrs. Renshaw still didn’t seem even slightly bothered by what had happened or that Fiona was trying to lie. “You are not a maid here,” she repeated, “so who are you then?” She sat on the settee, her back straight, and fixed Fiona with an expectant stare.
Fiona realized the time for prevarication had passed. She perched on the middle chair that was directly opposite Mrs. Renshaw. “I am Miss Fiona Wingate, ward to Lord Overton.”
Mrs. Renshaw’s dark brows arched briefly before settling back into their gentle curves. “I see.” To her credit, she didn’t say a thing about them kissing.
Oh God, they’d been kissing.
“And why are you here dressed like a maid?” Mrs. Renshaw prompted.
“I, ah, wanted to see the inside of the club. It was a terribly foolish endeavor. I’m rather new to town.”
“Yes, I’ve heard you mentioned. You hail from Shropshire?”
“A very small village there. I have no experience with…” Fiona looked about before continuing. “Any of this.”
“So you thought dressing like a Phoenix Club maid and stealing inside to have a look around would somehow help with your experience?”
“Er, I suppose.” Fiona again wondered about Cassandra. They’d clearly gone separate ways when they’d heard the voices on the men’s side. While Fiona had walked straight into her guardian, Cassandra had gone…where? “I wanted to see the inside of the club. It was a lark. And a foolish one at that. What is going to happen now?” Fiona plucked at the edge of her apron.
“Now that I know who you are, I’ll make sure you’re delivered to Lord Overton’s house.”
“Should I wait for him?” She didn’t really want to face him at the moment, but she would have to eventually. Unless he directed her return to Shropshire without even seeing or speaking to her. Fiona could imagine him doing that and indeed wondered if that’s what she deserved. After impersonating a maid and, even worse, kissing him.
“No, you needn’t wait. I imagine you’ll discuss this…matter at home.” She exhaled, and her brow
