Still, the sweat continues to pool in the small of my back. The heat is so intolerable that I am tempted to wave Mr. Holcroft’s will in my face like a fan.
Instead, I place it on the desk.
The way I lay it down gently is a feat of unimaginable control because what I really want to do is fling it onto the floor as if it were on fire.
“Regardless, I think it is safe to say all three of us were right,” Sarah adds as she strides deeper into the room until she reaches her sisters, who are all regarding me with grim humor. “She is a spy, a fortune hunter,anda dunderhead. And now we have the unpleasant task of revealing her true nature to Seb. Margaret must do it because she is the oldest. Eleanor and I will lend our support—silently.”
My heart squeezes at the prospect of the scene with Sebastian.
He will defend me!
Aware of my investigation, he will not believe for a moment that I am the spying fortune hunter bent on?—
“Spy?” I say sharply, looking Mrs. Dowell in the eye, my humiliation forgotten as I repeat the utterly baffling accusation. “You think I am a spy?”
Mrs. Dowell jeers at my efforts to affect innocence. “It is what I expect from a practiced liar. But it is over now. Drop the facade and admit the truth.”
I smile.
The situation is grave, and despite the strange fiction the three sisters have concocted in their heads, I am still standing over their father’s desk in his study.
Clearly, I am guilty ofsomething.
But spying?
What rot!
Honestly, what does that term even mean in this context?
Does she think I am working with a secret cabal of French patriots to gather information that will ultimately free Boney from St. Helena? If that is the case, then what strategic value does she imagine her father’s will has?
Ishea spy for the British government?
“She seems to possess a modicum of intelligence after all, or at the very least a strong sense of self-preservation,” Eleanor murmurs.
As if to refute her statement, I say, “I do not understand. For whom am I meant to be spying? Is this about the war? Does your father work for the Alien Office?”
Sarah dissolves into a gale of laughter and casts gleeful looks at her sister. “Can you conceive of anything more detrimental to England’s war effort than our sire as an exploring agent? We would have lost years ago,” she says before assuming a sobering expression to glare at me. “Lord Eldon—you answer to him.”
Her candor draws a glare from Mrs. Dowell.
“You may stop scowling at me, Margaret,” Sarah says impatiently. “I do not see the harm in telling her what we know. If she realizes there is no point in keeping up the charade, she will admit the truth more freely and be on her way.”
In theory, her approach is valid, as I am prepared to tell them everything to avoid extending the encounter. The longer it goes on, the likelier Mama will find out about it, especially if Mr. Holcroft is drawn into the fray. My only hope of resolving this quietly is to convince the sisters I am investigating, not spying.
But I cannot make a persuasive argument until I understand the charge.
And the charge is nonsensical.
Spying for Lord Eldon?
I, Flora Hyde-Clare, lately of Bexhill Downs, working at the behest of the Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain, have traveled to Bedfordshire to spy on a gentleman farmer?
What a fantastical story these three sisters have woven!
Curiously, I tilt my head to the side and ask Sarah why I would spy for Lord Eldon. “And I mean that in both senses—thatis, what do I stand to gain by doing his bidding and also what does he stand to gain by having me do his bidding?”
Mrs. Dowell scoffs at what she describes as my tactic to make them appear foolish. “Just because itsoundsridiculous does not mean itisridiculous.”
