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What did that mean? She was trying to figure a way to press him without making it seem that she was overly fixated on Simon and his party, when he passed her the paper.

“This is for you.”

This indenture was written in the top left corner, in large letters. The rest of the vellum was covered with writing done in a tight, small hand.

She scanned it, trying to make sense of it. “Is this a deed of some sort?”

“It is, and you will notice your name there.”

“My name?”

“Yes, it’s for your cottage in Greychurch.” He paused. “At least I hope it’s your cottage in Greychurch. It looked the part. Let us just say it is the deed for a cottage in Greychurch.”

“I beg your pardon?” She was thoroughly bewildered. “Why would my name be on a deed for a cottage in Greychurch?”

“Because you own it.”

“Impossible.”

“Not impossible. I bought it, and now I’m transferring it to you.”

She burst into tears.

He shot to his feet. “Miss Brown!”

She waved him off—but she did accept the handkerchief he produced—and croaked, “Why would you do that?”

“I continued to reflect, after our previous discussion, on your remuneration. I concluded that I have been underpaying you for years. I also considered how I would retire tenants at Mollybrook. Why should I not do the same for you? When you are ready, of course. This is not meant whatsoever to suggest I want you to leave. I merely want you to know that your future is secure.”

Diantha had two reactions at the same time. One was a groundswell of relief so powerful it made her feel almost faint.

The second was a sinking feeling that he must know. Why else would he have said that—Your future is secure?

But if he knew, would he not have addressed the matter with her? If he knew, would he not be angry, or upset, or … something?

She decided to allow herself, for one night at least, to sink into the feeling of relief. To let it win out over suspicion. After all, the only way Lord Harcourt could know what she’d done was if Simon had told him. She didn’t think he had. She still, after all that had unfolded between them—or perhaps because of it—trusted him.

“And,” said Lord Harcourt, rising from his desk, “should you at any point decide you aren’t interested in a cottage in Greychurch, it is easily sold.”

22

Party Central

Simon had asked Olive Morgan to arrive early, and here she was, looking like a popinjay herself. “Will you join me in my library for a moment?” he asked.

“Of course. And you’d better get your fill of looking at my hat while we’re here, for it won’t do to have the host of the party gawking at me the whole time.”

“It is a most … striking piece of headwear.”

It contained several small birds of unknown provenance nesting in a mass of what appeared to be seagrass.

“Please, sit.”

“I have become known for my fanciful hats, and who am I to disappoint my admirers?” she said breezily. Olive was a mysterious sort. On the surface, she was blithe and, he’d always thought, a bit shallow. But he had come to suspect that she had hidden depths.

That didn’t mean she wasn’t manipulative.

Which he hoped to harness to his advantage this evening.