She wondered if Brandon would see things so generously. She glanced down at the last few entries.
30 June 1818: If I ever get my hands on that husband of yours, I shall kill him. He’s been gone for over three weeks with nary a word. We are running out of time with the babe due in another month. I am desperate for a plan. I cannot stave off the fear of danger. There is word that Harlowe has taken off for France. What shall we do now?
Nathaniel.
Maeve’s heart ached for Corinne and her caretaker and Nathan. She closed the diary, knowing, but dreading the fact that Brandon had every right to it. Perhaps it would help him in regaining his memory. She slipped it back into the velvet bag and placed it back in the safe and locked it away. She propped her elbows on the desk and rested her chin on closed fists.
What had been Rowena’s last plan? It would be much too intrusive to ask Lorelei. Would Lorelei even have an idea? It didn’t seem likely. Still, a slight niggling tugged at Maeve’s memory but slipped from her grasp. She hadn’t truly become good friends with Lady Kimpton and Lady Brockway until just before Harlowe had been discovered on that ship.
Maeve pushed away from the huge desk in the small, enclosed room, and strolled out to the entry hall. A silver salver on the entryway table was devoid of invitations. Word had spread, and she’d become a societal pariah, apparently.
Letting out a sigh, she started up the stairs and Ina came to the base, holding a tray of enticing treats. The aroma filled the hall, and Maeve’s stomach gave an unladylike growl.
“From the kitchens, milady.”
Maeve stared at the tray with suspicion. Ina’s skillset in the kitchens did not match Agnes’s which didn’t say a whole lot. In Agnes’s case it couldn’t be helped. She was a lady’s maid, not a French chef.
Ina smiled encouragingly. “There be fresh scones.”
That sounded as wonderful as they smelled, but a week ago the scones Ina had provided had been, well, frankly, inedible. Maeve wrinkled her nose, trying to find a way to decline without offending her.
Ina pressed on. “Cook will be most disappointed if ye send ’em back.”
Her words brought Maeve around. “Cook? We have a cook?”
“Well, poor Agnes was runnin’ herself ragged, if ye don’ mind me sayin’ so.”
“I see. And I supposeCookjust happens to be your daughter?”
Ina’s belly laugh filled the hall. “Course not, milady. She be me sister.”
Maeve narrowed her eyes on Ina. “Does Agnes know about this?”
“I was t’ tell her on the morrow.”
Maeve went back down the stairs and selected one of the scones. It was still warm from the oven. She took a bite and thought she might faint from its buttery softness. “Does your sister know how to prepare pheasant?”
Ina beamed. “That she do, milady.”
“All right. She can stay—”
“Thank ye—”
“Not so fast. Upon the condition Agnes does not mind. Her opinion is important to me. Do you understand what I’m saying, Ina?”
“Aye, milady. Will ye be wantin’ tea with your scones?”
“Yes.” Maeve went back up the stairs to her bedchamber. Agnes was sitting on the bench beneath the window. “Hello, dear. How is Penny doing in her new bed?”
Agnes cracked the window a couple of inches and rose from her seat. “She was excitable, but I think she’ll acclimate well.”
Maeve turned around, allowing her to unfasten her gown. “Can you tell me more about this Jervis character?”
“I don’ know much, milady. He’s a hoodlum, to be sure.”
“What do you mean?”
“Only the craftiest of the pinchers escape him.”
