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“How terribly difficult it must be for you to venture out in public with your appearance so badly altered,” Mrs. Flockton continued. “I am very sorry for you.”

Indignation burned through Benedict’s veins. There was no true sorrow in the condescending woman’s heart. No one with an ounce of tender feeling would say such things to a young lady she barely knew.

“I confess,” Caroline said, “it was hard at first. But I recently met some rather wonderful people who have taught me that whether my skin is smooth or scarred is not truly important. After all, few of us have the luxury of choosing our outward appearance.” She raised her chin a fraction, and when she spoke again, there was an extra measure of strength to her voice. “I daresay you were not born with gray hair, Mrs. Flockton. A friend who has not seen you since your youth, however, may be shocked at the change in you.

“If she is wise enough to realize that the color of your hair does not define the person you are within, she will likely say nothing about it. If she takes the time to recognize that your gray hair signifies years of experiences, she will perhaps ask what you have learned since the change occurred. If, however, she is small-minded enough see your gray hair as something lesser than brown or blonde, she may choose to draw attention to it as a way of elevating herself or simply because she has nothing of more value to say.”

It was all Benedict could do not to cheer. He refrained. Not because he considered it the right thing to do but because one look at his mother’s face told him that he needed to hold his praise for a few moments longer.

“Well!” Mrs. Flockton said in tight-lipped fury. “I must say, I am surprised that you consider it your place to moralize so freely, Mrs. Granger.”

“I am the daughter of a vicar, ma’am. I have far too much respect for his work to consider myself worthy of teaching others anything so personal in nature. Basic kindness and decency, however, is something that I hold in high esteem. If, by sharing my thoughts with you, I have veered from that path, I apologize.” She turned to Benedict’s mother. “Please forgive me for interrupting your tea, my lady. It will not happen again.” And then she lifted her hand from Benedict’s arm and walked out of the room.

“Well, I never!” Mrs. Flockton’s face had turned an ugly puce.

“Never?” Balling his fists, Benedict fought against his mounting anger. “An excellent word choice, ma’am. I daresay you have never exhibited the bravery of Mrs. Granger. Nor the poise, grace, or quiet strength it takes to move forward after a life-threatening battle with an insidious disease.” He flexed his fingers. He had to make this short, or there was no accounting for what he would say. “Might I suggest that before you point out another’s flaws in so public and unkind a manner again, you take a moment to consider your own. They may not be so visible as a scarred face, but I assure you they are there.”

Mrs. Flockton’s complexion turned from maroon to alabaster. She emitted a choked gasp. Beside her, her daughters stared at him with eyes wide and mouths agape. He’d said enough.

Turning his back on the odious woman, he bowed to his mother. “Excuse me, Mother. I must attend to our other guest.”

“Thank you, Benedict.” He had been abominably rude to Mrs. Flockton, but unless he was very much mistaken, he saw pride shining in his mother’s eyes. “Please tell Caroline that I shall join you both shortly.”

He exited the room without looking back.

When there was no sign of Caroline in the entrance hall, Benedict knew a moment of panic. A quick glance at the nearest window confirmed that the rain had yet to abate. Surely she had not left the house.

Stokes was standing at the front door, and Benedict made directly for him. “Have you seen Mrs. Granger, Stokes?”

“Yes, my lord. She was just here.”

“Did you call for a carriage?” Benedict asked.

“I offered to, my lord, but she refused it.”

Benedict took a step toward the door. If Caroline had left on foot, he was going after her. Inclement weather aside, after how hard she’d worked in the Simkinses’ kitchen, she could not possibly have sufficient strength remaining for another long walk. “I need my hat and cloak, Stokes. Right away.”

“Yes, my lord.” The butler reached for Benedict’s hat. It was on the table, exactly where he’d set it when Benedict had returned to the house. Right beside Caroline’s.

“Wait!” Benedict pointed to Caroline’s bonnet. “Did Mrs. Granger leave without her hat?”

“No, my lord. She chose to stay indoors a little longer with the hope that the weather would improve.”

Benedict spun around, his gaze crossing the large entrance hall again. “Then where the deuce is she?”

“Last I saw her, my lord, she was taking the servants’ stairs toward the kitchen.”

* * *

Caroline had made it only halfway down the servants’ stairs before the trembling set in. Heaven help her. What had she done? Lady Farwell had always shown her every consideration, and Caroline had repaid her kindness by insulting her guest and walking out of her parlor without so much as a thank-you or a curtsy. And she’d left Benedict to clean up the mess. Pressing a shaky hand to her mouth to stifle a sob, she stumbled down the remaining steps.

The door at the bottom opened into a narrow passage. The smell of roasting meat filled the air, coming from the kitchen up ahead, and a hum of voices and clatter of pans suggested that the servants were busily preparing the evening meal. Cook would be there, too, and Caroline needed to speak with her. But not until she had her emotions in check.

Immediately to her right, a small door led to the maids’ closet beneath the stairs. In the middle of the day, the tiny room was rarely accessed, and during the many games of hide-and-seek that Caroline had played at Farwell Hall, it had been her favorite—and most successful—hiding place.

She opened the door. The space within seemed smaller now than it had when she was young. Mops and brooms leaned against the wall in one corner, a stack of pails beside them. A shelf of dusters and bars of soap hung above a collection of coal scuttles. Lifting her skirts to avoid the dusty scuttles, she stepped inside and softly closed the door.

Now darkness encompassed her. She took a few deep breaths, attempting to stem her tears. Her emotions were so muddled she hardly knew why she was crying. Today, for the first time, she’d allowed herself to feel something when she was with Benedict. To feel something for Benedict. Like a flower that had been starved of sunshine and had finally been offered light, she had turned to him and had experienced warmth and the promise of a new bloom. But then Mrs. Flockton had spewed her poison.