Fiona folded the document into thirds and slipped it into the reticule she’d borrowed from Charlotte. There was only one thing left to do: show the patent to Lord Chester. Once the contract was signed, she and Edward could go to the magistrate and iron out this issue of the assault charges.
Then…Well, she wasn’t sure what would happen then. It didn’t quite bear thinking about.
***
Fiona and Charlotte had one unified goal when the carriage arrived at the house: to get Fi to her rooms as quickly as possible without being seen.
“Fiona” had yet to meet the Duchess of Wildeforde, and they wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible.
It wasn’t just the duchess she was avoiding. Edward’s staff had proved reliable, but Her Grace had arrived with her own retinue of people who would likely take any sign of her to their mistress in a heartbeat.
So they moved quickly. Simmons had the door open before they hit the top step, and as they entered, he, Charlotte, and two footmen formed a tight circle, masking her as they crossed the foyer.
“Thank you,” she murmured. But before they could take the first step—
“Simmons!” The duchess’s voice was nails on chalkboard.
The butler froze. Assisting Fiona was one thing, ignoring a summons from the lady of the house was something else altogether. He pivoted on the spot, a surprisingly graceful move that still managed to preserve Fiona’s anonymity.
“Was that Miss McTavish I saw entering with my daughter?”
Dash it.
Charlotte broke away from the group. “Good afternoon, Mother.” She curtseyed low.
“Who is your guest?”
Fiona stepped outside the circle of protection, not willing to make Charlotte lie for her. Fiona was telling enough lies for everyone.
She also curtseyed, taking the time to fasten a relaxed expression on her face. “Fiona McTavish,” she said as she rose. “We met last year at Lady Amelia’s dinner party.”
Charlotte took a step forward, putting herself between them. “We assumed you must be resting, Mother, after your illness and the ordeal of your trip. Otherwise, we would have come to see you directly.”
Her Grace arched a brow, clearly not believing a word her daughter said. “Come.” She waved her fingers and made for the sitting room, turning with a frown when she realized the girls weren’t following her.
Charlotte had Fiona’s hand in a viselike grip, holding her firmly in place. “Fiona and I must be going. She doesn’t have a lady’s maid, which is why she’s here, and so Grace is going to have to do both our hair and dress us for tonight. We should have started hours ago, truly.”
The duchess stepped close to them, grasping her daughter’s chin in her long, bony fingers. Charlotte winced.
“It’s fine, Char.” Fiona stepped forward, forcing the duchess to step back, releasing Charlotte. “I’m certain we can spare a few minutes.”
Charlotte gave Fiona a wary glance and took her hand, giving it a small squeeze, before linking elbows. Like men to the gallows, they followed the duchess.
Steeling herself with a deep breath, Fiona entered the sitting room, fully prepared to face a dragon and instead finding herself facing a milquetoast-looking fellow whose gaze traveled the length of her, in clear assessment. He had not one single interesting feature but when his eyes met hers, she couldn’t look away. He was dangerous in the way sulfur dioxide was dangerous—invisible yet capable of choking breath from the lungs.
“Let me introduce you to my guest,” the duchess said. The dual thread of viciousness and glee made it quite clear why Edward and his siblings loathed her. “Inspector, Miss Fiona McTavish. Miss McTavish, Inspector Patterson, from the Home Office.”
Fiona curtseyed again, wobblier this time, eyes on her feet. Ed had told her that she was—Finley was—under investigation. She hadn’t taken it seriously enough.
A misstep.
“Miss McTavish. I believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting your brother. On Bryan Road. Last week.”
The blood drained from her face. Thank goodness for Charlotte’s steadying grip because Fiona’s knees almost buckled. She hadn’t met the inspector, not as Fiona or Finley, but she had been on Bryan Road last week when she was trying and failing to engage with distributors. Which meant the Home Office had been following her for some time. Perhaps ever since her father had first visited.
“That’s possible, sir,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Finley has been in town for several weeks now.”
“And when did you arrive in town?”
