Her shoulders were the solid picture of dignity, wide and imposing. Her bosom thrust proudly aloft, although it was crushed into her new corset to make it appear smaller, pressed against the plain, elegant black buttons of her green and gold plaid day dress, the perfect uniform for her new position as governess.
It was her features that killed the effect.
Mena’s tongue touched the healing split in her lip and she realized the swelling had gone down dramatically in the three days since she’d been rescued from Belle Glen. Her eye had blackened and swelled until she couldn’t see from it. But she’d applied cold compresses provided by Lady Northwalk, and finally her features were beginning to look like her own again. Though the color from both bruises remained angry.
Much like the man who’d put them there.
Millicent LeCour’s fiancé, Christopher Argent, had snapped Mr. Burn’s neck easy-as-you-please. Mena wondered if the actress knew what her intended was capable of. She must, for one only had to gaze upon Argent to ascertain that he was a lethal man. The arctic chill in his ice-blue eyes only melted for the actress and her cherubic son, Jakub. Mena would be ever grateful to the man, as he’d pulled Mr. Burns off her unconscious body, saving her from the indignities the monster had intended to inflict.
Mena felt as though she should be horrified at having witnessed the ending of a life. But she was glad, grateful even, that Burns was no longer able to torment the helpless. And more thankful, still, that these two women had taken her under their respective wings, going so far as to pay for a new trousseau made by the most sought-after seamstress in all of London, as well as a bevy of undergarments, shoes, and haberdashery.
She suspected that Madame Sandrine was in the employ, as well as a tenant, of Dorian Blackwell, and thereby likely used to keeping secrets.
“There you have it,” Millie encouraged. “I think that captures the effect precisely. No one would dare to doubt your confidence and authority.”
“I’ve never had any authority … or much in the way of confidence, for that matter.”
“That’s why it’s called acting,” Millicent prompted, moving to make way for Madame Sandrine as the tiny, dark-haired Frenchwoman bustled in with a basketful of frippery. Setting it down, the seamstress bent to check the hem of the final dress to be added to Mena’s new trousseau. “And I’ve found that, frequently, whatever you convey you can trick yourself into believing.”
“Millie’s right, dear.” Farah abandoned her tea to a side table and stood to join her friend. “Often we must seem to have confidence, and in doing so it tends to appear.” Her clear gray eyes inspected Mena’s face with just the right mix of sympathy and encouragement.
“Your wounds will heal,” Millie reassured her. “They already look much better. I think we’ve concocted a brilliant story with which to explain them.”
“A brilliant story all around, I’d wager,” Farah agreed. “And this position is not forever. Dorian has already started on your emancipation from the insanity verdict, though the process is infuriatingly slow.”
“Let’s go over the lines again.” Though she had the demeanor of a seductress, Millicent LeCour possessed the single-minded work ethic of an officer drilling a regiment. “What is your new name?”
Mena took a deep breath, trying to be certain everything was stored correctly in her memory to match the entirely new persona Dorian Blackwell had created for her. “My name is Miss Philomena Lockhart.”
“And where are you from?”
“From Bournemouth in Dorset originally, but these past four years from London, where I was employed as a governess.”
“I still think we should change her name entirely,” Farah suggested. “What about something rather common like Jane, Ann, or Mary?”
Millicent shook her head emphatically. “She doesn’t look like any of those women, and I know that it’s easier to keep track of a lie if there is a shred of truth to it. She’ll answer to the name Philomena because it is her own. And it’s common enough. We selected Bournemouth because it’s near Hampshire, where she was raised, and she’s familiar with the town and can call it to memory if need be.”
Farah considered this, tapping a finger to the divot in her chin before declaring, “You’re right, of course.”
Miss LeCour’s ringlets bounced around her startlingly lovely face when her notice snapped back to Mena. “Whom did you work for in London?”
“T-the Whitehalls, a shipping magnate and his wife.”
“Their names?”
“George and Francesca.”
“Who were their children?”
“Sebastian, who is off to Eton, and Clara, who is now engaged.”
“Engaged to whom?”
Mena stalled, her eyes widening, then she winced as the bruise around her eye twinged with the movement. “I—I don’t remember going over that.”
“That’s because we didn’t.” The actress selected another truffle with the patient consideration of a chess master. “I was demonstrating that you’re sometimes going to have to improvise. Just say the first plausible thing that happens to appear in your head.”
“My head seems to be frighteningly empty of late.” Mena sighed.