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As unpleasant a miss as she was, Miss Milbourne was preferable to Adelinda.

Jemmah’s stomach flopped sickeningly, and she swallowed. What a nauseating notion, rather like eating moldy, maggoty pudding.

Adelinda and Miss Milbourne didn’t merit him, and somehow, instinct perhaps, or because Jemmah had loved Jules so long—couldn’t remember when she hadn’t, truth to tell—she simply knew, neither woman would make him happy.

His Annabel Bright might have, for she seemed gentle and kind the one time Jemmah met her.

That awful, unforgettable day her heart had splintered into pieces like stomped upon eggshells when Jemmah learned Jules was to marry the doll-like in her perfection, dainty, and altogether exquisite young lady.

And when Annabel had died, Jemmah had wept, great gasping sobs into her pillow at night—cried for Jules’s devastation and heartache.

She couldn’t fathom weeping like that if Miss Milbourne, or even Adelinda had been the one to die, and Jemmah winced inwardly at her uncharacteristic spite.

Thank goodness, to her knowledge, Aunt Theo’s invitation to tea didn’t include Miss Milbourne, and because Mama barely tolerated her sister-in-law, more often than not, she turned down the invitations as well.

Adelinda seldom rose before noon and had no more interest in taking tea with their aunt than cleaning grates or chamber pots.

Neither of which she’d ever done, unlike Jemmah.

She couldn’t help but observe that her aunt’s feelings toward Mama seemed quite mutual. In fact, Jemmah had suspected for years, but most especially since Papa’s death, that her Aunt Theo’s cordial mien and continued hospitable offers were for Jemmah’s benefit.

That, and also so Mama wouldn’t put an end to Jemmah’s visits.

Which was as unlikely as Mama suddenly favoring Jemmah.

She also knew full well that Aunt Theo paid Mama a monthly allowance intended to assist with the girls’ needs.

Jemmah never saw any of it, not a shilling.

In fact, when she’d asked for new stockings for tonight, she’d received a resounding slap for her impertinence. The nubby, mended stockings rubbing against her toes, as well her tender cheek were other reasons she’d sought sanctuary in Aunt Theo’s parlor.

For certain, Jemmah’s toes would sport blisters by morning.

Some weeks, tea with Aunt Theo’s and hearing her aunt’s encouragements were all that kept Jemmah from wallowing in self-pity or having a fit of the blue devils.

Treated scarcely better at home than the Daments’ maid-of-all work, Mary Pimble, Jemmah treasured the time at Aunt Theo’s. They were the only hours free from insults or demands that she perform some chore or task for Mama or Adelinda.

“Dandridge.” The voice rose to an irritated screech on the last syllable.

Tap, tap, tappety-tap.

“Open this door!”

TAP

“I must insist.”

Miss Milbourne might be admired for her persistence.

If it didn’t border on unhinged.

Jemmah dipped her head in the entrance’s direction, and her voice, a mere vestige of sound, asked, “Have you an arrangement with her?”

No need to ask who her was, since Miss Milbourne continued to hiss and scratch like a feral cat sealed in a whisky barrel.

“I most emphatically do not. Miss Milbourne has convinced herself that I shall concede to my mother’s and uncles’ preference, but she’s gravely mistaken.” Jules grasped Jemmah’s hand, gently yet firmly enough she couldn’t pull away without some effort. With the forefinger of his other hand, he traced her jaw. “I mean what I said, dear one. Please allow me to call upon you tomorrow. I’ve missed you more than I can say.”

“Your Grace—”