Page 86 of Surrender Your Grace
“Both of them?”
Maggie nodded. “Rather telling, isn’t it? We may not yet know which treacherous shrew orchestrated it—but it’s only a matter of time.”
Chapter 25
Following a quiet breakfast three days after the disastrous ball, Maggie intercepted Cici in the hallway. Andrew had left for the day. The dowager and Lady Conaway were bundled up for a walk in the park, leaving the two younger women alone.
“You won’t believe what I’ve learned,” Maggie whispered.
“So soon?” Cici asked, eyes widening.
They fell silent as two maids exited the dining room with clattering trays. Once they had gone, Maggie grabbed her arm. “Not here. Come with me.”
She led her down the corridor to the rarely used ladies’ withdrawing room. Once inside, she shut the door and crossed to the tea table, sweeping aside a vase of hothouse roses and spreading out a stack of notes.
“I’ve separated them by color—pink for Lady Winslow, blue for Elizabeth. Floral print is everything else—miscellaneous clues that don’t yet fit into either camp.”
“You’re alarmingly organized for an amateur investigator,” Cici observed.
“I prefer ‘brilliantly methodical.’” Maggie grinned. “If your life weren’t at stake, this would be fun.”
Cici blinked at the array. “And you learned all of this in just three days?”
“Not just me—Mary helped. Your idea of including her was inspired. Some people were eager to share their gossip with me, but others refused to say a word the moment they realizedI was a Sommerville. Mary was able to coax the truth out of maids, porters, street vendors, even a flower girl outside Covent Garden. She’s more effective than the best inquiry agent.”
She grabbed Cici’s hand and pulled her down onto the settee.
“Let’s start with the obvious suspects. Lady Winslow has motive—jealousy, wounded pride. Andrew dismissed her for someone younger, more beautiful, and vastly more interesting.”
“He said she actually believed she could lure him back.”
“Then let’s add delusional to the list,” Maggie muttered, scribbling another note. “She has a long history of barbed remarks and social sabotage. But there’s one problem.”
Cici arched a brow in question.
“She hasn’t a penny to her name. Living on loans and borrowed gowns. Her debts are mounting, and her creditors’ patience is wearing thin. If someone hired a professional to harm you, it wasn’t her. She couldn’t afford it.”
“What about the man with the cane?”
“No one in Mayfair seems to know him. He must be an outsider.”
“Could Elizabeth have brought him in?” Cici asked.
Maggie hesitated then shrugged. “Possible. But your sister’s financial habits aren’t much better. Madame Marchand—her modiste—was full of complaints. Elizabeth ordered fifteen gowns and accoutrements preseason, demanded a rush job, and then failed to pay.”
“But Papa would pay. That doesn’t make sense.”
“All I can say is the woman was livid. And here’s where it gets worse. Madame Marchand told me the rumor about your questionable parentage was already circulating before the ball. She heard it from her shopgirls, who heard it directly from Elizabeth—during fittings.”
“Loudly, I assume.”
“Of course. No discretion, no shame.”
Cici exhaled, slow and shakily. “My father’s hair was the same shade of red as mine before it turned white. His sister—Aunt Drusilla—had hair even redder than mine. And the figure?” She sniffed. “Andrew insists I’m wasting away. I’ve had every dress in my wardrobe taken in.”
“I’m on your side, dearest. I’m just relaying what was said.”
“Why would Madame Marchand tell you all this? Doesn’t she fear losing Elizabeth’s business?”
