“Oh, that’s good isn’t it?” Liza grinned.
Mira shook her head and whispered, “You didn’t see how she looked at me.”
February 8, 1889: Morning
The Royal Crescent was a curved setof connected buildings with Palladian columns and grand windows that overlooked a large green space with sheep grazing upon it. The Sherards had taken up residence in number eighteen for the duration of their stay in Bath. Mira’s stomach turned itself into knots as her carriage followed the curve of the road in front of the Crescent and came to a stop.
A footman strode out of the house, opening the carriage door before she had even reached for the handle. She took his offered hand, stepping out onto the pavement, her breath clouding the air. The footman gave half a glance to the interior of the carriage, closed the door, and paid the driver before Mira could take out her purse.
“Is it only you today, Miss?” the man asked.
“Yes. Did I misunderstand the invitation?” She tried to keep her words even as her anxiety spiked. Could she do nothing right?
“It’s not my place to say. The Sherards are waiting for you in the parlor. If you’ll come this way.”
She gave a short nod and followed the footman into the house. He announced her arrival and left her at the mercy ofByron’s family.
The first things she noticed about this particular parlor were the chairs. It appeared as if the Sherards kept with the accepted style of armchairs for gentlemen and chairs with deeper seats and no armrests for the ladies. Miss Penistone, Mira’s etiquette teacher at finishing school, had never elaborated on the “whys” so Mira wasn’t exactly certain what the point of it was. Perhaps it was a ploy for better posture.
In yet another social blunder, Mira’s family preferred armchairs as a general rule. Mira in particular enjoyed reading a book near the fire with her legs over one arm and her back resting against the other.
Castel occupied one of the two armchairs in the room, albeit with a much more appropriate posture, but he stood when she entered. Byron was standing by the mantle. His mother and sister had arranged themselves on the only two wide, armless chairs with their skirts splayed out like china dolls. A tea tray sat on a low, Japanese-style table in the center of the room.
“You came alone?” Mrs. Sherard said, the statement bearing only the slightest resemblance to a question.
“I did, ma’am. The invitation did not indicate whether my brother or the Renaldis would be welcome.”
A crease appeared on the older woman’s forehead. “I see.”
Byron stepped forward. “Won’t you have a seat?”
Mira nodded. At least she was aware of the rules in this circumstance. She avoided the unoccupied armchair and took a seat on the only sofa in the room. Mary wrinkled her nose, but Mira couldn’t decide if she had made the wrong decision or if that was Mary’s way of acknowledging her presence. Once she was seated, Byron poured her a cup of tea and took up residence in the other armchair.
“I trust, from what Ambrose has told me, that you too had a pleasant trip from London?” Mrs. Sherard asked.
“Yes. It was enjoyable enough.” She glanced at Byron. What was she supposed to say? What were they even supposed to talk about? She fell back on the safe, albeit boring, topic. “I’m glad the weather has kept.”
“The weather is almost always amiable in Bath,” Mary said. “Why, it hasn’t snowed all winter and the rain has been fairly warm for the season.”
“That is fortunate,” Mira said. “When did you come down?”
“Just after Christmas,” Mrs. Sherard said, then changed the subject entirely. “I have come to understand that you have been in my son’s employ since September. Is that correct?”
“As his secretary, yes.”
“And this is why you have a key to his rooms?”
“Yes.” Mira tried to ignore the way her cheeks heated. She took a sip of tea. “Initially, it was so I could more easily help him with his memory loss.”
“Yes, well,” Mrs. Sherard lifted her chin, “I understand that his memory has improved in recent months. Although, not well enough for him to remember to inform me of it himself.”
Byron shook his head. “As I told you before, I was on a case. Several cases, actually.”
“With how much you rely on writing things down, I would think you would be more familiar with paper and pen,” Mrs. Sherard said. A small smile came to her face as she raised her teacup to her lips. “Or is it the envelope that eludes you?”
Mira inhaled some of her tea, looking up at Byron’s mother, trying not to choke. Had that been... a joke?
Mrs. Sherard turned her full attention back to Mira abruptly, and it was as if the smile had never existed. “Now then. I am told that your uncle is a merchant, is that correct?”
