Constantine cleared his throat uneasily, feeling the burden of responsibility so keenly. He did not know they had sent an agent to Argentina. “You may rest easy, Your Grace. There is no doubt,” he promised. “I’ll do my duty.”

Birchwood peered at him long and hard before reaching for his arm and giving it another squeeze. “Don’t fail me, lad. I’ve had too much disappointment in my life. Far too much. I don’t need to see all of this”—his gaze lifted to the ceiling and surrounding room—“go to a stranger.” He released a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping a bit. “And unless I want to endure my dear wife’s disappointment tonight, I’d best get dressed for dinner.”

“Quite so.” Con nodded, glad for the end to the awkward conversation.

Together they departed the office and made their way to their separate rooms.

Chapter 11

Nora had to admit it. Bea knew what she was about when it came to dressing a lady.

Nora’s hair had never looked so fine as it did now, piled atop her head in loose waves with two fat ringlets falling to drape over her bare shoulder. No wonder Bea had been so distressed to find herself Nora’s maid. She’d been idle under Nora. It was a waste of her many talents.

She’d never worn the peach gown before so had not thought to protest when Bea chose to pack it—or chose to lay it out for this evening.

Now she knew she should have protested.

In fact, she should have better surveyed all the gowns Bea had selected for the trip. Naturally, she had pulled from the new wardrobe Nora acquired upon Marian marrying Warrington. They were all gorgeous clothes, much more fashionable than anything she ever wore. Nora ignored most of them, preferring her old familiar dresses.

Bea had packed none of those. Of course.

Staring at her reflection, she tugged at the bodice cutting into the swells of her breasts. “Is it possible that I’ve . . . grown since last fitted for this dress?”

Bea straightened from where she bent over, Nora’s day dress in her arms. “Most definitely. That was well over a year ago.”

Nora turned the scowl from her own reflection to Bea.

Bea pointed at each of her swelling breasts. “Those have definitely grown.”

She shook her head. “I can’t wear this!”

“You’ve nothing else to wear and it’s perfectly appropriate. Fashions are a little more daring in Town. You’re not going to raise any eyebrows.”

She gripped her bodice with two hands and fought to tug the neckline higher, jumping lightly on the balls of her feet.

Bea swatted her hands away. “Stop that. You’ll tear the fabric.”

She worried if she bent over in the slightest she might burst free. “This is unendurable,” she muttered, trying to stuff the swelling flesh deeper inside her gown.