the love and attention to detail that shaped every corner, every flowerpot, every window dressing.
She gripped Felicity’s arm as the door opened. It was too late to run. The scent of baking cookies greeted them as they stepped into the foyer. Could one be frightened of cookies?
Felicity pulled a card from her reticule and held it out. “The Ladies Wimberley have come to call. Lady Carrington is expecting us.”
The butler nodded and disappeared. A moment later he returned and beckoned them to follow him.
They stopped at the doorway. Felicity reached over and patted Marguerite’s tight hands. She mouthed a phrase – trust me – and then sallied forth.
Lady Carrington reclined on a settee, a pot of fragrant tea and a plate of cookies beside her. A book lay across her lap. She placed the book aside and stood. “I am delighted that you have come. I must confess my curiosity kept me awake half the night. I could not imagine what need the two of you would have of me.”
Were ladies really so direct? Marguerite’s mother had always insisted on coyness – although Marguerite had never actually seen her put her words into action.
Felicity settled on a couch and spoke. “Violet, do you so doubt the merits of your company that you think we would only visit if we needed something?”
Violet gestured Marguerite to a chair. “No, I never doubt the pleasure,” she almost purred the word, “of my company. But, I don’t believe you came here seeking pleasure.” She spoke to Felicity, but her gaze was fastened on Marguerite.
“You would be wrong then. Pleasure is exactly what we’ve come about. When in doubt, consult an expert.”
“Do explain.” Violet curled along the chaise, like a cat in the midst of an endless stretch.
“Marguerite is confused by Tristan. I thought you could supply the answers.” Felicity spoke as if she were commenting on the weather.
Though Marguerite knew she had darkened by twenty shades of red, her only comfort was that Lady Carrington looked equally shocked.
“You want me to advise . . . I mean you think I can tell how to . . . ” Lady Carrington sputtered to a halt.
“Well, yes, I do.” Felicity leaned forward. “I see two extra cups. Would you like to pour the tea or should I? I know it would be unusual, but you do seem a trifle – choked at the moment.”
Was this going to be another conversation where Marguerite did not actually need to speak? For the first time this did not seem such a bad idea.
“And what of you?” Lady Carrington turned to Marguerite. “Do you also think that I can explain what – gads, I don’t even know how to say it, and I am not afraid to say anything. You do know that Tristan and I –“
Marguerite felt her flush fade as she realized what Lady Carrington was about to say. Felicity had been wrong. Lady Carrington and Tristan had been lovers.
“Oh, stop it, Violet.” Felicity interrupted both Lady Carrington’s words and Marguerite’s thoughts. “Look at the poor girl. She’s turned whiter than a ghost. There really is no need of your pretense in front of us. I’ve spoken to Lady Smythe-Burke. I know it was you who fetched her and began this whole charade. Hardly the action of a jealous mistress. Don’t torture Marguerite. You know and I know that there was never anything between you and Tristan. He told me all about you and Westlake.”
It was Lady Carrington’s turn to blush. “I can’t believe that he – “
Marguerite was still recovering from the shock that Lady Carrington had fetched Lady Smythe-Burke, the realization that Tristan’s dear friend and Lady Carrington’s past lover, was the austere Duke of Westlake was too much. She grabbed for the tea Felicity had just poured and downed it in a single gulp. It was too bad ladies did not drink whiskey.
Felicity took it all in stride. “I was surprised myself when Tristan first discussed it with me. Then I took it as a great compliment. He trusted me – then of course.” She stopped. “That really isn’t important. We have other matters to discuss.”
Marguerite was disappointed. She had wondered how many other revelations were to come her way.
Lady Carrington leaned back and stretched her arms above her head. Again, Marguerite was reminded of a contented cat. “So you do not believe Tristan and I are lovers. Don’t you think that’s a bit naïve?”
Marguerite was not sure whom she addressed.
“No.” Felicity was firm in