Mira clenched her sweaty hands into fists and waited for the axe to fall.
But no one said anything.
Even Lady Randolph, usually so voluble, was speechless in the presence of so much high nobility.
The clock was ticking.
Someone ought to say something? Whatever it was that they normally discussed at teatime.
Even she, a lowly housemaid, could tell that something was not quite right about this situation.
For heaven's sake!
If they were about to call her out already and have her thrown in Newgate, let it be done and over with already. Because this was simply unbearable. Unbearable!
Completely unnerved, she cleared her throat. "Lovely weather today, is it not?"
The duke's frown deepened.
A corner of Apollo's lip curled upwards.
Miss Cullpepper looked at her in surprise.
The princess raised an eyebrow.
All heads turned now to watch the soggy sleet slide down the windowpane.
Mira almost sagged in relief. At least they were no longer looking at her.
But she found that it only lasted a few seconds, for the duke's head snapped back almost immediately to resume his forbidding stare.
Lady Evangeline emitted a gurgle of delighted laughter. "You are so right! Fabulous weather, indeed!"
She jumped up and down in her seat, grabbed both Mira's hands in hers, and beamed, leaving Mira entirely flummoxed.
What on earth was she so happy about?
"Miss Taylor."
Mira jumped at the duke's dark, deep tone.
"Pray tell us where you are from."
"F-Fowey, Your Grace."
"And that would be where, precisely?"
"South Cornwall, Your Grace." Mira knit her forehead together anxiously. The conversation was almost identical to the one she'd had with Princess Florentina at the opera.
"And you would be how old?"
Itwasidentical, the interrogation.
She licked her lips. "Six-and-twenty, Your Grace."
Lady Evangeline nodded as if she'd given the correct answer to an arithmetic question.
"Fowey. That would be the little farming village on the west coast near St Ives," the duke observed.
