Page 107 of When We Touch

“Oh, yes, Fiona.”

“Fiona! You’re fired. You must leave instantly!” Mrs. Whitley cried.

“No, you’re not fired,” Maggie said, casting a stern glance in the woman’s direction. She might have been Charles’s housekeeper for many a year, but Maggie did not intend to have her place usurped. And she was angry, as well, because Mrs. Whitley either knew something, or was an idiot. Fiona seemed to be their connection to Arianna.

“Where is she?” Maggie demanded sharply.

Fiona seemed frozen.

“Fiona, listen to me, and listen well. In her mood, she could easily place herself in harm’s way. Tell me, where is she?”

“I don’t know, m’lady, honestly, I swear, I don’t know!”

Maggie sat calmly at the foot of the bed. “Mrs. Whitley, will you please tell Mr. Mireau for me that he must make himself at home? I’ll be speaking with Fiona for a few minutes.”

“But, my lady! You may need me,” Mrs. Whitley protested. “I am the head housekeeper! If there has been something going on—”

“Beneath your very nose?” Maggie said. “You needn’t worry. I will deal with this.”

“But my poor Lady Arianna!”

“My stepdaughter. Yes, the poor innocent. Mrs. Whitley, please convey my message to Mr. Mireau. This is my household, like it or not, and I will deal with matters my way. If you can’t accept that . . . well, I will give you excellent references.”

Mrs. Whitley pursed her mouth, but then snapped her lips as tightly shut as if she were a clam. She turned abruptly and left.

“Now, Fiona,” Maggie said firmly.

Fiona stared at her. Then words seemed to rush from her lips. “I was never spying on you, really! I was supposed to have been . . . I told Arianna that you were really nice and decent, and I didn’t think that you’d ever do any harm to Lord Charles!”

“Fiona,” she said dryly, aware that the girl had seen her at her worst, “thank you for that vote of confidence. But it doesn’t matter.”

“You’re firing me, aren’t you? I guess you have to.”

“I’m not firing you! I need your help. Where is Arianna?”

Fiona shook her head, tears welling into her eyes. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

“But you know something.”

“I know that she . . . she wanted to get even with you.”

Maggie felt a chill. She said, “I’m more worried about her right now than myself. Talk to me, help me, please. When did she leave?”

“She’s been gone . . . a few days now.”

Maggie gasped. “You’ve been answering as her—for several days?”

“I’m so sorry. You’ve a right to be angry.”

“I am angry—but angrier with myself than I am with you. And I need you. Please. Fiona, you must tell me what you know.”

“I . . . I know that she met with a man. In Whitechapel.”

“In Whitechapel?” Maggie repeated, truly alarmed.

Fiona nodded miserably. “Where?”

“I can show you the pub.”