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Chapter Six

Two of the girls squealed and jumped up and down. The third sank into a chair. Morgana gestured for them all to sit.

‘I cannot make any promises to you.’ Morgana looked at each of them in turn. ‘I have not been able to find a proper tutor’—an improper one, she meant—’but I can teach you to walk and talk and dress in a refined way. I can show you how to make economies and I can teach you the proper value of items.’

Their expressions were much more decipherable now. Desperation was gone from their faces.

Morgana went on. ‘But there are things about pleasing men I do not know—’

‘Oh, we know how to please men,’ laughed the bold girl.

‘Yes. Of course…’ Morgana blinked, unable to hide her embarrassment. ‘Well, then. Let me know who you are.’

The bold girl spoke first. ‘My name is Katy Green. I’m from Derbyshire, at least I was until I came to London.’

She pointed to the dark-haired beauty, ‘This is Rose O’Keefe. The new girl.’

‘I am not really one of Mrs Rice’s girls, miss.’ Rose spoke with a pleasing Irish lilt. ‘I overheard these two talking. To be sure, says I, t’would be grand to come along.’

Rose was an enchanting vision of dark and light. In the proper clothes, she would cause heads to turn wherever she went. Her success as a courtesan seemed already a fait accompli.

Morgana gave an inward sigh. What sort of life was she offering the girl?

Better than Mrs Rice, she must remember.

‘I am pleased to meet you, Miss Green and Miss O’Keefe.’ She turned to the third girl. ‘And you are?’

‘Mary Phipps, miss.’

Morgana had a dozen questions on the tip of her tongue for this girl. What had happened to her? Why was she one of the girls in Mrs Rice’s glove shop? How could someone, so like Morgana herself, be reduced to harlotry? But poor Mary’s energy had been spent. Morgana would save her questions for later. There would be time enough. Mary and the others would be staying for a while.

‘I am happy to meet you as well, Miss Phipps.’

Miss Phipps, looking ashamed, averted her eyes.

Katy gave her a kind, almost motherly look, although Mary was clearly the elder of the two. ‘Mary is a bit quiet, miss. We’ll have to liven her up. Men like spirit, I say.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Morgana cleared her throat. It would be a monumental task to transform quiet, subdued Mary Phipps into the likes of Harriette Wilson.

The enormity of transforming any of them into scandalous women who earned their livelihood by men’s largesse descended upon Morgana like a sudden downpour. She mentally shook herself, thrusting away cowardice and determining to set herself to the tasks before her, one step at a time. That was how to battle self-doubt. Charge ahead. Perform the task. Save the deluge of emotions for later.

Was that how poor Mary survived? Did each of these girls set themselves to the task and suffer their emotions later?

Uncertainty came creeping back. Morgana curved her hand into a fist. Time to act. Worry could come after. She turned to Lucy. ‘We must find places for everyone to sleep, Lucy. Is there room abovestairs?’

‘We will manage, miss,’ Lucy assured her.

‘And tomorrow morning we must find other dresses. Plain ones. These will not do at all.’

‘We must wear plain dresses?’ Katy frowned.

‘Yes, you must. In this neighbourhood, you must not attract any notice. I cannot tell you what trouble there would be if our… our courtesan school is discovered.’

‘School?’ laughed Katy. ‘Fancy me going to school!’

‘Please do not speak a word of it,’ Morgana begged. Not only was the enormity of the task ahead threatening to engulf her, but the risks as well.

Lucy led them out of the drawing room, and Morgana rang for Cripps, who immediately presented himself.

‘Cripps, we have three guests in the house.’ She spoke in crisp tones. She knew she must think of some way to explain the girls’ presence in the house, but that was a task she could put off for later.

His brows rose an infinitesimal distance. ‘Very good, miss. Do you require me to rouse Mrs Cripps to make rooms ready?’

Morgana was equally uncertain of the housekeeper’s opinion of their guests. ‘That will not be necessary. Lucy will see to their lodging.’

His brows rose another notch. Lucy would have been the last of the household staff Cripps or his wife would have chosen for such a task. ‘May I inform Mrs Cripps which rooms will be occupied?’

Morgana gave him what she hoped was a quelling look. ‘We shall address such matters tomorrow.’

He blinked twice. ‘As you desire, miss. How else may I serve you tonight?’

‘I will not require anything else. Thank you, Cripps.’

The dignified butler bowed and left the room.

Morgana sank back on to the sofa. How would she explain all this to Cripps and his wife? And the other staff? And Miss Moore? She dropped her head into her hands. How could she explain the presence of these girls to respectable Miss Moore?

She sat erect again and lifted her chin. She would simply manage it. She must, because she would not be responsible for sending any of those girls to Mrs Rice, that horrid creature.

Morgana stood and resolutely walked out of the room and up the stairs to her bedchamber.

Sloane relaxed in the coffee room of White’s, nursing a brandy and vaguely watching the other gentlemen. He wondered how many of them resented his ease and welcome here. He was a member and there was not a thing any of them could do about it, not even the Earl who had acknowledged him as a son. A legacy from a grandfather, a man with whom Sloane shared no blood ties, made it possible.

Years before, when the Old Club and the New Club merged into White’s, the present Earl’s father had arranged to have all his sons and grandsons and great-grandsons guaranteed membership for the next hundred years. The old man died before knowing that a rotten apple had appeared in the barrel.

As a young man Sloane had refused to set foot in White’s. Anywhere his father was welcome, Sloane disdained, but now the wisdom of age prevailed.

If he was to take his place in society, he must appear where society gathered, and gentlemen of importance appeared at White’s. This night he’d played a few sedate games of whist, careful to fold his cards before winning too much lest he be accused of fleecing the true sons of the ton.

In Sloane’s darker days, his next meal had often depended on the turn of a card. The hungrier he became, the more skilfully he played, until he could count fairly well on living high as long as there was a nearby card game.

In fact, one marathon round of whist last autumn had deepened his pockets considerably. With such an abundance of riches, it dawned on him to change his game.

In these difficult economic times, wealth was gaining prominence over the elevation of one’s birth. Soon nabobs and cits would amass enough wealth to buy all the power and influence his father’s generation believed to be their birthright. Sloane, however, need not wait for such a day. Sloane had the status of birth, counterfeit though it was. He had more capital than his father. All he needed was a respectable reputation and nothing would stop how high he could rise.

He’d been scrupulous about his behaviour since making his appearance in the beau monde. All the ton knew of his past was mere rumour. If they had heard of some of the things he’d done to survive, or some he’d done in the service of his country, they would surely blackball him, but he’d given them nothing to remark upon these last months. What was more, he was in a fair way to contract a respectable marriage.

That thought did not conjure up an image of the delectable Lady Hannah. Rather, Morgana Hart flashed into his mind. Sloane frowned. Morgana Hart was unpredictable and much too apt to engage in ruinous escapades. Sloane could not afford to have her drag him down with her. He ought to avoid her.

Even though she lived next door.

Sloane took a sip, letting the brandy slide down his throat and warm his chest. Did her bedchamber share a wall with his? he wondered. Was she at this moment undressing for bed, perhaps sitting in a filmy shift, brushing her long silky hair? Sloane set his glass down on the table so sharply that some heads turned at the sound.

He must cease these rakish thoughts.

At that moment, three gentlemen entered the coffee room, one tall, but thin and slightly stoop-shouldered. Though this grey-haired man leaned on a cane, an aura of power still emanated from him. The two men with him were mere moons to this man’s planet. He turned and caught sight of Sloane.

Sloane, glass in hand, met the man’s eye and nodded.

His father, the Earl of Dorton, stood stock still.

Sloane knew what to expect, and the anticipation made him wish to laugh at the sheer predictability of it all. The Earl’s gaze would gradually move away and he would turn his back, acting as if he had not even seen this unnatural son. He would do as he had done all of Sloane’s life. Act as if Sloane did not exist.

Sloane was mistaken. The Earl marched directly towards him. Sloane’s brother, Viscount Rawley, and his nephew, David, must have been equally surprised. They’d gaped open-mouthed at the Earl’s destination.

Sloane stood, never straying from a direct gaze into his father’s eyes. ‘Good evening, sir.’

The Earl glared, but did not speak. Sloane’s brother and nephew scrambled up behind. Keeping his eye on his father, Sloane turned the corner of his mouth up in the same insolent smile that in his boyhood used to earn him a hard slap across the face. His father’s lips pursed in response.

‘Would you care to sit down?’ Sloane asked with an expansive gesture of his hand.

Without speaking, the Earl waved to his son and grandson to take seats. The Earl leaned heavily on his cane as he lowered himself into a chair. Sloane did not miss the effort. But the man who levelled a steely gaze directly at him was more like the one who used to strike terror in a young boy’s heart.

No longer, however.

Sloane, with studied casualness, took a sip of his brandy, then asked, ‘Shall I signal for more drinks?’

His father glared, his brother shifted uncomfortably and his nephew watched warily. Sloane took that as agreement and gestured for the server to bring more glasses. Sloane poured the brandy and handed each a glass.

He raised his drink in a toast. ‘To this cosy family party.’ None of them responded.

The Earl finally spoke. ‘I want to know what your business is, boy, and I want to know now.’

Sloane gave an inward smile at the term ‘boy.’ He’d not been a boy since the age of ten, when this man made certain his eyes were wide open as to the circumstances of his conception. ‘My business, sir?’

‘You know what I mean.’ He tapped his cane on the carpet. ‘What are you scheming? I tell you, I’ll not have you courting respectable young ladies and throwing your ill-gotten money around on respectable residences.’ The Earl leaned forward. ‘The word is out that you took Irwin for everything he’s got. The man’s all done up.’

‘Irwin?’ Sloane lifted a brow. Irwin had been the owner of the town house, the man who’d been desperate for cash. ‘Your information is sadly amiss. I do believe my funds came to the man’s rescue.’

David spoke up. ‘That is true, Grandfather. Irwin lost a fortune at Madame Bisou’s hazard table. Wasn’t Uncle Cyprian at all.’

The Earl of Dorton wheeled on his grandson. ‘And what do you know about that establishment?’ He raised his voice. ‘I’ll not have you frittering away your allowance on cards and women. I can cut your monies in half, you know.’

Sloane felt a tremble inside, as if he were still the child who had so often received such a rebuke. ‘Keep your voice down, sir.’ He spoke with a low, steady tone. ‘You make a spectacle of yourself.’

His father erupted. ‘I make a spectacle of myself?’ His voice grew louder.

Sloane leaned towards him across the table. ‘Cease this at once, or leave this table.’ Something in his eyes must have convinced the Earl, because the old man clamped his mouth shut.

Sloane leaned back and took a lazy sip of his brandy. ‘That is better.’

The Earl looked about to explode. ‘You are not welcome here, Cyprian,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Go back to whatever dung-heap you emerged from.’

Sloane’s every muscle tensed. He’d not realised his father’s barbs could still injure him. He’d be damned if he’d show it. ‘As you have so graphically informed me, I was conceived upon and reared upon Dorton land, and I have no desire to return to it.’

‘See here, Cyprian—’ Rawley began, but Sloane quelled him with one glance.

‘Good gracious,’ cried David. ‘Can we not converse in a civil manner? It would bring credit to us all if we presented the appearance of congenial relations.’

From the mouths of babes, thought Sloane.

David’s rebuke had effect. Both the Earl and his son leaned back and sipped their drinks.

His father began again, in quieter tones. ‘What are your intentions toward the Cowdlin chit? Cowdlin’s a friend of mine and I demand to know.’

Sloane bristled at his father demanding anything of him. He was about to retort in kind when he caught the pleading expression on his nephew’s face.

He answered as mildly as he could contrive. ‘I have made no offer for Lady Hannah at present, but Cowdlin will not oppose my suit. He approves of my fortune, if not of me.’

‘Hmmph,’ muttered the Earl. ‘Then he is a bigger fool than I thought.’

‘Oh, I am certain he is indeed,’ agreed Sloane with equanimity.

The Earl of Dorton leaned forward again. ‘You do not belong here, Cyprian. You do not belong among the quality. Go back to whatever cellar or… or gaming hell you came from, and leave decent people alone.’

‘Grandfather!’ David whispered in a shocked tone.

Sloane felt his body flinch, just as it used to when he was a boy. ‘I do belong here, Father,’ he said coolly. ‘You gave me the right when you acknowledged me as your son. As your son, I am invited to all the society events. I have vouchers for Almack’s and a box at the opera. As your father’s grandson, I am a member of White’s. I have you to thank for all this, Father.’

For a moment his father looked like an old man, but the moment was fleeting.

When he stood, he looked as formidable as ever. ‘I will not have you here, boy, do you hear me?’ His voice was equally as strong. ‘I will not have you here.’

With another flick of his fingers, the Earl signalled his son and grandson to leave with him. Sloane stood as well, making sure his father felt his eyes boring into him. As all three walked away, the Earl in the lead, David turned back and gave Sloane a look of sympathy.

* * *

‘They are gone?’ Mrs Rice looked up from her desk in a room above her glove shop.

The man, solid and stocky, brushed off the sleeves of his brown coat. ‘We have searched all the rooms and they are nowhere to be found.’

‘I sent them to the shops. Did no one see them return?’ Mrs Rice laid down her quill pen, displeasure seeping into her voice.

‘No one, ma’am.’ He shifted from one foot to the other. ‘The other girls think they ran off. There’s some belongings missing.’

‘Things of mine?’ Her voice rose. ‘I will not tolerate it if they have stolen from me.’

‘Worthless trinkets, ma’am,’ he responded. ‘Their own trifles, the girls say.’

Mrs Rice stared vacantly. ‘It does sound like they have run away.’ She waved her hand at him dismissively. ‘Well, search for them, Trigg. Bring them back. I will not have my girls coming and going at a whim. It vexes me.’

‘As you wish, ma’am.’ He turned and left.

Mrs Rice slammed her palm down on the desk and rose from her seat. With two girls short, she might have to turn men away this night. That was not good for business. She could kick herself for not having moved faster to bring that maid into the house before her mistress came calling. The termagant. That one had enough tongue for two sets of teeth, with all her talk about needing a tutor. A tutor for what?

At first Mrs Rice thought the lady was asking for lessons on how to set up a molly shop of her own, but that was too ridiculous for words. She’d since decided that a long Meg like that one probably wanted to learn how to get a man for herself.

It was a good thing, because she would not have made a good madam or a good molly. She’d talk the gentlemen right off the bed to run screaming down the street.

Mrs Rice gave a little laugh, the sound echoing off the walls of the room. Still, it would have been a lark indeed to see a lady of that one’s ilk making her living on her back.

Mrs Rice wiped her eyes as her laughter subsided. She’d have another stab at the maid, if she got the chance, if Trigg could discover where she was employed.

And when she got those other girls back, she’d give them such a flogging they would never dare leave, at least not until they were too worn out to be of any use.

Chapter Seven

When Morgana woke the next morning, it seemed the very air was charged, as if the house were inside a huge electrifying machine, but Morgana knew any sparks that flew would be due to her own decisions. The porcelain clock on her bureau chimed six times. Morgana threw off the covers and was halfway dressed when Amy crept in, expecting merely to tend the fire.

Did Amy know of their guests? She must, but the girl did not reveal it. She did not even remark upon Morgana rising so early. Morgana meant to breakfast with her grandmother and Miss Moore, who always rose at dawn.

After breakfast she begged Miss Moore to take a walk with her. Miss Moore settled her grandmother in her sitting room with her maid for company, and the two ladies walked the short distance to the park, one of the footmen providing a discreet escort.

‘Goodness, it is chilly this morning,’ said Miss Moore as they crossed the park. ‘It is fortunate Lady Hart did not come with us. It would be bad for her lungs.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ agreed Morgana, uncertain how to begin.

She’d tossed and turned all night, even rising once and wandering to the window at the exact moment Sloane returned to his house. Realising he would be undressing and climbing into a bed so close by had not helped her fall back asleep. But those wakeful hours did yield the semblance of a plan.

Morgana had decided that she needed to speak to Miss Moore before Mr and Mrs Cripps or any of the other servants. She had a reasonable expectation that generous salary increases would ensure the servants’ co-operation and silence. But if prim Miss Moore could not be persuaded to go along with this scheme, Morgana did not see how she could proceed.

Morgana could not force a respectable lady like Miss Moore to endure a situation abhorrent to her. And she could not send Miss Moore away. With Miss Moore went her grandmother. Without her grandmother, Morgana would be forced to go to her Aunt Winnie’s house, and the girls, Lucy too, would have nowhere to go except to Mrs Rice.

Morgana glanced back at the footman, who, enjoying the fine morning air, seemed uninterested in the conversation between the two ladies. Still, she spoke quietly so he could not overhear. ‘I must talk to you, Miss Moore.’

Miss Moore gave her a fond smile. ‘Is it about the three young ladies who are staying in the house?’

‘You know about them?’ Morgana glanced at her in dismay.

‘Oh, yes.’ Miss Moore nodded. ‘Dilly told us first thing that there were three new girls. How did she put it?’ Miss Moore paused, but there was a twinkle in her eye. ‘The likes of which she’d never seen.’

Morgana inwardly groaned. Dilly, her grandmother’s lady’s maid, was an old retainer, nearly as old as her grandmother.

‘Oh, I suppose everyone knows.’ Morgana gave a helpless shrug. ‘But I suspect they do not know the whole, and that is what I must tell you…’

Morgana explained to Miss Moore as well as she could. She withheld her plan to seek Harriette Wilson’s assistance as a bit too much information, emphasising instead that the girls, Lucy included, would be lost to a terrible life unless Morgana helped them.

Miss Moore listened with an unremitting frown on her face that caused Morgana’s spirits to sink. They had come to the banks of the Serpentine, where two graceful-necked swans glided through the water.

Morgana stole a glance at the lady’s companion in her dark grey dress that matched the hair peeping out from her black bonnet. Miss Moore followed the swans with her eyes, but made no comment on the shocking tale.

Morgana blurted out, ‘Oh, I know it is scandalous, and I know you must be wondering if I belong in Bedlam, but, please, Miss Moore, say something!’

Miss Moore continued watching the swans. ‘I was a girl once, Miss Hart. As hard as that might be for you to believe.’

‘Of course.’ Morgana had no idea where this was leading.

‘There were soldiers billeted in my town when I was young and green and foolish. When they sailed to the Colonies, I discovered I was with child. I was only eighteen.’

Lucy’s age, Morgana thought.

‘My parents would have nothing to do with me. They sent me away. If it had not been for your grandmother taking pity on me, I do not know what I should have done. She took care of me and made me her companion.’

Morgana’s heart had thoroughly melted. ‘What happened to your baby?’

Miss Moore’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I… I had had very little to eat. Sometimes I didn’t have a roof over my head. Lady Hart found me at my lowest. She did what she could do, but the baby did not survive his birth.’

Morgana reached over and grasped the older woman’s hand. ‘I am so sorry.’

Miss Moore gave an embarrassed smile and blinked her tears away. ‘It was a long time ago, but I well know what those girls of yours are facing. If you can give them a better life, a way to survive on their own, I shall help you!’

Morgana impulsively wrapped Miss Moore in a hug, blinking away tears of her own. ‘I promise you, Miss Moore, you shall not regret it. You shall have a pension for life, I guarantee it!’

Miss Moore gave a little laugh. ‘Oh, your grandmother arranged that years ago, before she became… feeble.’

Morgana wished she could have known the woman her grandmother had been. At this moment she was fiercely proud to be her granddaughter.

With the footman still oblivious, Morgana and Miss Moore walked back, arm in arm, quietly hatching plans of how to transform a maid, a harlot and a very ordinary girl into sirens of Greek legend. Rose O’Keefe, Morgana explained, would have no difficulty.

Sloane saw the two women from a distance. There was no mistaking Miss Hart’s graceful posture and purposeful stride. He did not think he knew the other lady, but, if he kept to his course, his trajectory would put him on their path.

For a brief moment he considered turning the corner to avoid them, but he did not. He had little to do that morning. He had little to do almost every morning, thanks to the very efficient Mr Elliot. And Sloane was a man easily bored. At least Miss Hart would provide a diversion. She never bored him.

The woman who accompanied her was older than she and no one he recognised. When they came close enough, Miss Hart met his eye with a friendly smile. Sloane quickened his step.

‘Good morning, Mr Sloane.’ She was in high colour and he sensed an air of excitement about her, as if she were about to explode with good news.

Glowing as she did like a sparkling morning sun brightened his own mood—as well as bringing some baser senses to life. He touched his hand to his hat. ‘Miss Hart.’

She introduced the lady with her as Miss Moore, her grandmother’s companion. Miss Moore’s face was nearly as flushed with excitement as Miss Hart’s.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose. She was up to something. He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘What are you about, Miss Hart?’

She responded with great exuberance. ‘We have had a delightful morning walk in the park.’

He glanced from one lady to the other. ‘That is all?’

Miss Moore averted her gaze and hid a smile. Miss Hart fluttered her lashes at him, all innocence. ‘That is all,’ she said brightly.

Fustian, he said to himself.

‘Do you attend the musicale this evening, Mr Sloane?’ she asked.

It was the sort of chitchat that made for conversation among the Mayfair set, but Sloane was not fooled. She was changing the subject.

He tilted his head and gave her a slow smile. ‘You presume I was invited?’

‘Oh.’ Her cheeks gained even more colour than the brisk morning air had given them. ‘I confess I did presume. It was bad of me to ask, I know. It smacks of lording it over another person who might not have received an invitation. I dislike that above all things—’

He laughed. ‘Enough, Miss Hart. I am among those whose presence is requested.’

Her eyes danced with merriment. ‘I did not know you were a jester, Mr Sloane.’

Her eyes, sparkling like the finest topaz, entrapped him. It took a moment for him to respond. ‘I am many things, Miss Hart.’

She lowered her lashes, before meeting his gaze again. ‘Well! I suppose we must not detain you, must we? I do hope you have a good day.’

Miss Moore, her smile softening, regarded him with a curious look. ‘I am pleased to have met you, Mr Sloane. Good day to you.’

He felt suddenly reluctant to leave them, to leave the circle of sunshine that was Morgana Hart.

‘Good day, ladies.’ Sloane bowed to them both and proceeded on his way, resisting the impulse to look back.

Morgana, feeling breathless, set off at such a brisk pace that she had Miss Moore puffing to keep up. She slowed.

‘What a handsome gentleman,’ Miss Moore managed between breaths.

‘Do you think so?’ Morgana said stiffly. She laughed and entwined her arm in Miss Moore’s again. ‘Yes, indeed. He is a very handsome man. More like a Spanish guerrilla than an Englishman, do you not think?’ And every bit as dangerous—to her heart.

Miss Moore chuckled. ‘I do not have any notion what a Spanish guerrilla looks like.’

‘Exactly like Mr Sloane!’ Morgana laughed again, but her laugh soon subsided. ‘He may be handsome, but he is also the gentleman Lady Hannah has her eye upon. I suspect he will offer for her soon.’

‘Lady Hannah and such a man?’ Miss Moore exclaimed. ‘I cannot credit it.’

‘Just so. She is the type all gentlemen want, you know.’

Much to Morgana’s mortification, Miss Moore gave her a sympathetic glance. Morgana wanted to protest that she had no marriage aspirations. It was not necessary to feel pity for her.

Still, when she thought of the tall, exciting, valiant Mr Sloane, she wished, as she had never wished before, that she were a woman he would look upon to marry.

By the time they entered the house, Morgana had shaken off such nonsense. Why should Mr Sloane desire her for a wife when other men did not? It was nonsensical.

She and Miss Moore walked up the stairs to Lady Hart’s sitting room, and found the elderly woman rocking in her chair, smiling pleasantly, while Dilly worked on some mending.

‘You need not stay, Dilly,’ Miss Moore said. ‘I am sure you have much to do.’

‘Very good, miss.’ Dilly patted Lady Hart’s hand before she walked out of the room.

Miss Moore sat in the seat Dilly vacated. ‘What will you tell the servants, dear?’

Morgana remained standing, too restless to sit. ‘I thought to tell Mr and Mrs Cripps exactly what I am about, and seek their advice as to the rest of the household.’

Miss Moore shook her head. ‘Oh, no. No, indeed. I do not advise it.’

‘Why not?’

Miss Moore’s expression took on the same haunted look as when she recounted the sad events of her life. ‘People do not take kindly to women who have lost respectability. If the household staff know who you have taken under your wing, they will fear the loss of their own reputations. Believe me, Morgana, they will leave your employ and they will talk to their next employers. You will be ruined.’

Morgana folded her arms across her chest and wandered to the window to look out on the garden. Lucy knelt among the flowers, pulling at weeds. She did not mind keeping her affairs private from prying eyes and gossips, but it seemed a folly to try to hide anything from the servants. They always knew whatever went on. Better to be forthright and hope for the best.

She watched Lucy, from this distance, looking so small and vulnerable. She might gamble her own future on the goodwill of those in her employ, but she had no right to risk Lucy’s or the other girls.

She turned to Miss Moore. ‘What shall we tell them, then?’

‘We shall tell them the girls are my nieces, come to London to learn town manners so that they might be employed.’

‘That does not explain Lucy,’ Morgana reminded her.

Miss Moore was undaunted. ‘Everyone can see Lucy is unhappy. We shall tell them you have generously included her in the lessons, so that she might seek more compatible employment.’

Morgana gave Miss Moore a sceptical look. The story was preposterous. She took a deep breath. It would nevertheless afford the servants some protection, should the whole business fall apart. They could honestly say their mistress lied to them.

A few minutes later, with Miss Moore at her side, Morgana summoned Mr and Mrs Cripps. The butler and housekeeper listened to the concocted story with impassive expressions. Morgana had the sinking feeling they believed not a word of the unlikely tale. They did not even blink when she added that all the staff would receive bonuses because of the extra work entailed in having three more household guests.