Once Upon a Maiden Lane (Maiden Lane #12.5)(6)

“Because Mary has visitors.” Lady Caire bent to kiss both her son and her daughter and hurry them on their way before pulling Mary aside. “My dear, there is a viscount, a countess, and a dowager marchioness in the sitting room waiting to talk to you. Do you have any idea what all this is about?”

Mary felt her face heat guiltily at the confusion descended upon her employer’s house. “I’m so sorry, my lady. There were two gentlemen who accosted me and told me a very…strange story yesterday in the bookshop, but it was too bizarre to be believed.”

“Indeed?” Lady Caire looked at her searchingly. “What was the story?”

Mary bit her lip. “I…I’d rather not say, if you don’t mind. It was a jest, I’m sure.”

She hated to look like a fool in front of Lady Caire—or, worse, as if she somehow longed to rise above her station.

For a moment fierce hatred of the too-beautiful viscount flared in her chest. However had he found her?

“A jest with a countess and a marchioness involved? That seems very unlikely, doesn’t it?”

It did rather when put like that. Mary felt her mouth go dry with apprehension.

“Goodness, how odd the entire situation is.” Lady Caire shook her head and started up the grand staircase to the first floor, where the sitting room lay. “Well, don’t despair, we’ll soon have this—whatever it is—sorted out. I’ve taken the precaution of asking Lord Caire to have tea with our visitors.” She paused outside the doors to the sitting room and gave Mary a quick hug. “You are very dear to me, Mary. Always remember that.”

With that the doors to the sitting room were opened.

Inside, Lord Caire was facing off against his guests, the ghost of a cynical smile on his lips. He was a rather intimidating man, tall and commanding and with striking white hair that he wore clubbed back.

Opposite him was Lord Blackwell.

Mary’s heart gave a little jump at the sight of the wretch. If anything, he was even more dashing than she’d remembered him.

The viscount was busy matching Lord Caire stare for stare. They reminded Mary a bit of two tomcats in a standoff in an alley. She almost expected one to arch his back and growl. Lord Blackwell’s coat was emerald green today over a soft gray waistcoat that made his black hair shine as glossy as a raven’s wing—in striking contrast to Lord Caire’s ivory head.

Lord Blackwell was impossibly handsome.

She could feel her face heating even as he stood at their entrance and swept them both a bow.

He straightened, smiling—with those blasted dimples—and said, “Miss Whitsun, what a pleasure to see you again.”

Mary glowered at him. How dare he bring his…his prank to Caire House?

But then a feminine voice said, “Cecilia.”

Mary turned.

A woman with graying blond hair covered by a pretty lace cap was rising from a settee. Beside her, still sitting, was an elderly lady, her hair gone completely white, her eyes sharp and snapping under the sagging skin of her eyelids.

Neither of the ladies looked like the type to indulge in japes at the expense of a serving maid. She’d never thought that Lord Blackwell would take his jest this far. What could he be thinking?

The younger lady covered her mouth, and Mary could see tears filling her eyes.

Lord Caire drawled from his chair, “My lady, Lady Angrove, may I introduce you to Mary Whitsun. Mary, this is the Dowager Marchioness of Durnham and the Countess of Angrove.”

Mary sank into a deep curtsy, though her knees were trembling. This was like some sort of nightmare. Any moment the ladies would realize that she wasn’t who they thought her to be, and she would be humiliated.

“I believe you already know Viscount Blackwell,” Lord Caire continued.

Lord Blackwell’s blue eyes sparkled at her as he said, “Indeed. We met yesterday at a bookseller’s.”

Mary took a fortifying breath and said firmly, “You must stop this jest at once, my lord.”

“But I’m afraid it isn’t a jest, sweetheart.” His expression was sober now, and there was almost a regretful look in his eyes.

That scared her more than anything else.

“She looks just like my Joanna,” Lady Angrove exclaimed softly. Her face had paled. “I cannot believe it. After all this time.” She pressed a lace-edged handkerchief to her mouth. “Oh, you have no idea how long we looked for you, Cecilia. I wept every day for months.”

Mary glanced at Lady Caire, unsure of what to do.

Lady Caire cleared her throat. “Perhaps if you explained who—or what—you think Mary to be?”

“Martha believes that this girl is her daughter, Lady Cecilia Albright.” The marchioness spoke for the first time, her voice throaty and her enunciation very precise.

Lady Caire inhaled sharply.

The marchioness nodded. “I see you’ve heard the story—rather hard not to, really.” She looked at Mary, beckoning with a hand gnarled by arthritis and age. “Come here, gel.”

Mary approached the old lady and stood before her. Surely they would see that she couldn't be—

The marchioness motioned impatiently. “Closer. My eyes aren’t what they used to be. Kneel here in front of me.”

Mary lowered herself directly in front of the marchioness, so close her hands touched the old lady’s skirts. Lady Angrove sat beside her mother and seemed to hold her breath.