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Sophie hesitated before making a dismissive hand gesture. “No. No, that’s fine. Please continue.”

Anne gave a curt nod and disappeared behind the mahogany door. Sophie stepped inside, walking as though she weren’t in her own room, and sat down at her escritoire. She had nothing to write. She had finally gathered the courage to write the Darneys about books for Barnard’s education, the letter already discreetly posted. Besides, there was nothing appropriate enough about this morning to commit to paper.

She smoothed her hands down her skirts, as though she could capture the remembered feel of Rafe’s body there. Heaven above.

She should not have run out of the store like an offended mimp. But the strength of her feeling, the way her heart had expanded with ripples of ecstasy when he’d said he had no intention of pursuing Miss Penney any longer … It was like victory, flattery, and hope fused together. Powerful enough to frighten anyone, she was sure. But to someone who had sworn not to love?

“Miss, I took the liberty of washing your black cloak. I hope you don’t mind.”

Sophie whipped around in her chair. Anne was holding the last of the wrapped parcels: a large, lumpy, and decidedly cloak-shaped package.

“I found it,” the maid said slowly, “stuffed at the bottom of your wardrobe.”

“Oh. I can’t imagine how it got there.” Her pulse leapt, beating in her temples like hummingbird wings. Of course her lady’s maid had to be a paragon of propriety.

Anne closed the armoire doors, one by one, shutting the offending package inside. “If that will be all, miss?”

“Yes. That will be all, thank you.”

She was going to tell. Of course she was. Or perhaps she was planning something of a subtler sort. Blackmail, probably. True predestinated justice. But the gallery … No. Anne had not told of the gallery, either.

Sophie turned in her chair, draping her left arm over the back of it. “Anne?”

She had nearly reached the door, but her small feet stopped, skirts lapping at the polished toes of her shoes. “Yes, miss?”

“You don’t even intend to tell, do you?”

She still looked the part of the severe maid, hands bound behind her back and lips clamped together. “No, miss.”

Sophie’s free hand fidgeted over a lump in her skirts. “Why?”

“I am in your service, miss. ’Tisn’t my concern.”

“I should like to know why.”

Anne’s gaze dropped to the Moorfield carpet. She cleared her throat. “I told once, on my sister. I swore never to do it again.”

Sophie grew very still. “Please, sit.” She gestured toward the chair adjacent.

Slowly, Anne crossed the room, sitting in a crinkle of black skirts. Her ashen hands twisted together. She smelled of lye soap—almost offensively clean, scrubbed past the point of natural. “I haven’t much to tell, miss. And what I do have, I doubt very much will be of interest to you.”

“Well, we can determine the truth of that when you’re done, can’t we?” Sophie asked gently.

Anne didn’t mirror her small smile, but her eyes did seem to ease at the corners, growing larger. “It’s all been many years now. My parents had just the two of us girls. Louisa was the beautiful one. She was meant to marry a curate. Bring some security to our family, as it were.”

Sophie found herself wondering, for the first time, at Anne’s age. She spoke as if it were ancient history, but something in her tone made the tips of Sophie’s fingers tingle.

“He were a nice man. Not too old for her, neither, and she liked him well enough. She’d already accepted his offer when …” Anne wet her lips and bowed her head. “When she started slipping about with another.”

A small pop stood apart in the quiet room. Sophie looked at the maid’s hands and realized her clasp had grown tight enough to crack her knuckles.

“I realized what she was about right away. We shared a bed, y’see. She only thought I’d not tell.”

“But you did.”

Anne nodded. “Worst mistake I ever did make.”

Sophie swallowed. The room was growing warmer, seeping toward her from all angles. “Why do you think that?”