“It begins to seem to me, sir, that as a female, there’s nothing I can do that won’t bring public censure down on my head.” The unfairness of it all chafed at Maggie’s soul.

Mr. Entwhistle set his teacup and saucer on the tray. He threaded his fingers, resting them on his slim midsection. “I would advise you to try and see it the way the outside world has come to see it. You, inside that great house for years on end. Yes, yes. I know it was illness, and then mourning your father and aunt. But to everyone else it seems that you’ve long been an invalid. Someone too frail and weak to be taxed with the management of such a great estate.”

She stared at him. “Is that what you believe?”

“What I believe, ma’am, is that your father—God rest his soul—should have never let that Seaton woman come to Beasley Park. If not for nursing her, you would still have your health, and perhaps be in a position to maintain a more tangible hold on the estate. I did warn Squire Honeywell. For such a creature to come here, in her wretched condition, and spouting such fanciful tales—”

Maggie’s body jerked to attention. “Tales? What tales?”

“Eh?” Mr. Entwhistle blinked at her. He seemed to have lost his train of thought.

“Jenny Seaton,” she reminded him. “You said she came to Beasley Park spouting tales.”

“Ah, that old yarn.” He rubbed the side of his face. “I only heard it secondhand, mind you. And a woman like that will make up all manner of things to excuse her conduct, especially when that conduct results in—”

“Yes, yes, I shall take it with a grain of salt. Only tell me what it is you heard.”

Mr. Entwhistle’s expression turned weary. “It’s a tale as old as the hills, Miss Honeywell. She claimed to have thought herself married to the fellow who left her in that condition. That it was only later—far too late to rid herself of her sinful burden—that she discovered it had all been a wicked trick on the fellow’s part.” He shook his head. “An improbable story. One that conveniently absolved her of any guilt in the matter.”

Maggie looked at him in disbelief. She’d never before heard any such thing. Not from her father or anyone. Could it be true? Had Gentleman Jim truly convinced Jenny Seaton that the two of them were married?

But how?

And to what end?

St. Clare had said that his late father had been fond of ill-conceived pranks, but to trick a young woman into a sham marriage? And why would he need to? It couldn’t have been in order to have his way with her. Jenny was already plying her trade in Market Barrow. Her favors would have come cheaply enough. Marriage wasn’t at all required. Unless…