“Allow me,” another woman said, her voice less outraged than Lady Hargrove’s. Actually, she didn’t sound angry at all, only concerned. “I’ll just take her inside.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Renshaw. I’m sure she could do with some tea. Or something.” He guided Fiona toward a young woman, perhaps in her middle or late twenties, with glossy brown hair and a kind expression. There was an intangible grace about her, an air of confidence and capability that was instantly soothing.

Fiona had the sense Mrs. Renshaw took care of things and people, but then she did oversee the ladies’ side of the club, so perhaps that was her nature. Careful to keep her head down, Fiona went eagerly to the woman’s care. Mrs. Renshaw guided her toward the house, keeping them away from the small group of people who’d gathered outside. Fiona could only see them from the corner of her eye. She didn’t dare turn her head.

When they reached the door to the house—that led into the ivory and gold sitting room in the corner—Fiona gave in to temptation. She turned her head and spied Overton walking back toward the ballroom. His body was still rigid, his head high, and his features inscrutable.

This was such a disaster.

As Mrs. Renshaw ushered her into the sitting room, Fiona thought of Cassandra. Where was she? Hopefully, she was hidden.

“I’m Mrs. Renshaw, and I oversee the Ladies’ Phoenix Club. We’ll take the backstairs up to my office.”

Fiona hesitated, wondering if she should tell her about Cassandra. But Mrs. Renshaw was already moving into the narrow servants’ cupboard that also contained the stairs down to the lower floor—the origination of this excursion that was not turning out to be the adventure Fiona had planned.

However, it was, whether expected or not, an adventure.

They went up instead of down, and Mrs. Renshaw led her into yet another gorgeously decorated room that was directly above the sitting room they’d just left. Bookshelves lined half of one wall, and tall windows looked out to the garden and Duke Street below. Between the two windows overlooking the garden stood a beautiful desk with turned legs and drawer pulls shaped like flowers. A small landscape painting that looked rather old hung above it. Fiona was drawn to the vivid greens and blues of the rolling countryside and cloud-free sky.

“That’s a lovely painting,” she remarked, perhaps hoping to avoid whatever must come next but, of course, realizing she could not.

“It was my mother’s,” Mrs. Renshaw said softly. She gestured to the gathering of furniture in the center of the room—a small settee and three chairs. “Would you care to sit? I would address you by name, but I don’t know it. You are not a maid here.” There was no hint of accusation, just a simple statement of fact.

Even so, Fiona tried to copy Cassandra’s confidence from earlier. “Lord Lucien hired me recently?” Despite her attempt at assurance, the statement came out sounding more like a question.