Page 13 of His One and Only Lady

Instead, he was reduced to arbitrating a spat between two grown women.

From the triumphant glint that entered Athena’s eyes and the satisfied sideways glance she darted Miss Mayfield’s way, she believed she’d won—that he intended to reprimand Miss Mayfield, or worse: inform her employer.

For some perverse reason, Theran didn’t want to grant her that unmerited victory. Imogene had told him that Athena had a vengeful streak, and jealousy often influenced her behavior. In truth, he’d assumed she’d outgrown those childish tendencies long ago. Apparently, such was not the case.

He guided her a few steps away from Miss Mayfield. “Miss Mayfield wishes to speak to me regarding something she overheard when she found Bernadine.”

Athena went still and noticeably paled. She swallowed and her brown eyes, unusually wide, blinked several times. Her focus swung to Miss Mayfield and then back to Theran.

Almost guiltily.

“Over…overheard?” The word emerged as a strangled croak.

Intuition fairly screamed a warning in his head. Eyes narrowed, he studied her. “Yes. In the secret garden.”

He knew the garden well. As children, he and his older cousins often played hide-and-seek there or caught frogs in the fountain. They’d even camped outdoors there on a few occasions.

During his aunt and uncle’s annual house party, the private garden was also an escape from the activities and bustle. Few guests ventured so far from the house, and fewer still relished the isolation the garden provided.

Except, Miss Mayfield had. Else she’d not have found Bernadine.

Athena gave a little artificial laugh, which sounded similar to a bow torturing an untuned violin string.

“Surely you cannot trust her, Theran.” Clutching at his sleeve, Athena said in a ferocious whisper, “She’s a stranger, after all. And you heard how unpleasant she was to me. I would not put any faith in a word she says. Servants are notorious gossipmongers, spreading tattle hither and yon.”

He dashed a glance toward Miss Mayfield, gratified that she appeared the epitome of indifference, even though she must’ve heard every unflattering word.

“Be that as it may, Athena, she has made the request, and as it concerns Bernadine, I shall hear her out.”

Athena opened her mouth to argue, but Theran shook his head. “I’m not discussing it further with you. Go along, Athena. You appear quite overwrought, and I’m certain you do not wish to become the subject of chinwags. I believe I saw Lady Clutterbuck earlier, and I need not tell you what a chinwag she is.”

Appearances meant everything to Athena—like mother, like daughter.

After another swift, antagonistic glare toward Miss Mayfield, studiously studying the flagstone pavers she stood upon, Athena gave a grudging nod. “All right, but I beg you not to be taken in by that creature. You know her not at all. Whereas you and I have been family for six years.”

Theran merely inclined his head and then watched her disappear into the house. He had thought he knew Athena, and yet he’d learned more than one new thing about her this day.

Not flattering things either.

“Miss Mayfield. I’ve secured my aunt’s salon for our conversation.” He extended his arm to the door Athena had sailed through seconds before. “After you.”

She veered her attention to the empty doorway then nodded.

“Of course, Mr. Rutland.”

He fell in step beside her, their shoes echoing on the polished parquet floor. She looked neither right nor left at the landscape paintings gracing both sides of the passageway but kept her pert profile straight ahead. She was very well trained. They walked in silence until they arrived at the salon’s entrance.

Theran opened the door and stepped aside for Miss Mayfield to enter.

The parlor reflected his aunt’s eclectic taste, her preference for bold colors, and her enjoyment of gewgaws. Overstuffed armchairs covered in a floral brocade so gaudy they hurt the eyes to gaze upon sat at right angles to a sofa covered in the same unfortunate fabric. At least a dozen colorful, ruffled, and tasseled pillows occupied the seats. Gewgaws and whatnots smothered the doily-covered tables and shelves.

Miss Mayfield wandered to the center of the room and gazed about curiously—perhaps slightly aghast. The salon was quite a shock to the unprepared. The room reflected his aunt’s innate vitality and unapologetic zest for life.

Several framed scriptures in neat needlepoint graced the walls, and Aunt Melvelia’s spectacles lay atop her well-worn Bible on the table beside her favorite seat on the sofa. A needlepoint footstool of a cat sat before his aunt’s preferred cushion.

After looking up and down the corridor, Theran paused for a second before shutting the door behind them. If Miss Mayfield had been a lady of quality, the door would’ve remained partially open. But as Theran didn’t want anyone overhearing their discussion, and she was obviously in service, he’d chosen to shut the door.

It spoke to the perversity of the ton how no one fussed about the reputation of a servant, but an unchaperoned young woman of station could be considered compromised in the same circumstance. Another reason he had little use for le beau monde.