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According to Imogene, he’d left his wife, Albertina, and Athena destitute.

Theran had never seen this side of Athena before—a side he was positive she contrived to keep hidden from him, but which didn’t surprise as much as it ought to have done. Perhaps the fruit didn’t fall far from the tree, given what he knew about her mother and father.

“Do you even know who your parents are?” Athena goaded with calculated and cutting cruelty. “Are you a by-blow born on the wrong side of the blanket and therefore must engage in employment?”

Athena was one to talk. She’d accepted her generous wages without hesitation each month.

Heads bobbed together as guests whispered to one another at the ugly exchange.

Aunt would not be pleased if she caught wind of the kerfuffle. Which she assuredly would. Nothing went on in Mottford Hall that Aunt Melvelia didn’t eventually learn about.

Except for the slightest flaring of her nostrils, Miss Mayfield’s composure didn’t alter. Nor did she color as would most young women when flustered.

Theran had to credit her self-control.

Nevertheless, he’d bet his favorite horse Athena had hit a raw nerve. The signs were there if one looked closely. The abrupt shadowing of Miss Mayfield’s brilliant green eyes. The contraction of the delicate line of her jaw. The squaring of her shoulders in an unconscious act of defense.

A queer feeling rooted around behind his ribcage—an inexplicable desire to protect her against Athena’s uncharacteristic nastiness.

“Parentage does not assure gentility, a person’s moral character, or basic decency,” Miss Mayfield said in a perfectly pleasant tone. Eyes bright, she bowed her mouth a fraction. “As you have aptly demonstrated.”

Touché.

Despite his disdain for public scenes, Theran couldn’t help but agree with her witty assessment.

Pure loathing shot from Athena’s eyes, and she half-raised her hand.

Blast and rot.

Elongating his strides, Theran hurried to close the distance between him and the women before an all-out row commenced on the terrace. A horrific image crowded his mind—screeching women pulling each other’s hair and their nails raking the other’s face as enthralled guests looked on.

Aunt Melvelia would have an apoplexy.

“I would not, Athena,” he said low and tense. “You are being observed.”

She froze and cast a half-sullen, half-guilty glance toward him. Her cheeks ablaze with color, she curled her fingers into her palm, lowered her hand, and slid a covert peek around.

Several people had stopped to stare outright at the women. Theran forced his lips to curve into a congenial smile and stepped nearer, turning so that his back partially blocked the intrigued onlookers’ view.

As for Miss Mayfield, she appeared coolly unaffected by the attention being directed their way and that she’d nearly been publicly slapped. Except…in the depths of her eyes, if he looked closely, anger and chagrin smoldered.

Dropping his attention, he took in her balled hands.

She’d wanted to slap Athena too. Or punch her.

The difference was, she hadn’t given in to the urge and had conducted herself with admirable decorum. It made a person contemplate which woman was truly a lady and which was a hoyden. Or termagant.

“This person is impertinent beyond measure, Theran,” Athena pouted. Voice lowered but shaking with outrage, she said, “She does not know her place and has insulted me. I demand she apologize and her employer be notified of her insolence.”

In other words, Athena would have Miss Mayfield dismissed because she’d offended her.

Athena needed to grow thicker skin. People had a choice whether to become offended and fly into a dust. Besides, she was not without guilt. She’d tossed a few vicious verbal darts too.

He’d heard her.

Theran took Athena’s elbow and pointed the fuming woman toward the house. “Athena, I require a word with Miss Mayfield in private. Why don’t you take a few moments to compose yourself and perhaps even rest a short spell since Bernadine will be entertained for some time to come?”

A trickle of sweat slithered down his spine. Already warm, the day promised to become sweltering. He’d far rather be riding in his shirtsleeves, swimming in the pond at Atherley Hall, or enjoying the shade in the garden off his library.