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“You aren’t leaving, are you?” asked Lady Winman. “I had hoped that I wouldn’t have to face them all alone this time.”

She gave the countess a grim smile. “I’m afraid I won’t be attending meetings any longer.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve been invited to step down from the committee because apparently I’ve ‘misrepresented’ myself or some such tosh.”

“I don’t understand,” said Lady Winman, but the countess’s eyes flickered over Sylvia’s shoulder. “Mrs. Monroe.”

Sylvia’s hands clenched as she turned to face Claire, who stopped abruptly in the middle of the pavement.

“Mrs. Monroe, listen to this absurdity. Lady Nolan has asked Mrs. Pearsall to resign from the committee,” said Lady Winman with disbelief.

Instead of the surprise and indignation Sylvia had expected to see in Claire’s eyes, she saw something else. Relief.

“That is a shame, but I’m sure our chairwoman has her reasons. Now, I really must go in or risk being late,” said Claire, dipping her shoulder to round them.

“But Mrs. Pearsall—”

“What reasons would Lady Nolan have to ask me to resign, Claire?” Sylvia cut across the countess.

“I don’t know,” said Claire, a few shades paler than she had been the moment before.

“How did you find out about the shop?” she pushed. “Did you follow me one day because I wouldn’t take tea with you? Or was it just the fact that you had to know? You are, after all, one of the most shameless gossips I know.”

Lady Winman began to edge away. “I think perhaps I should leave you both to speak.”

Claire squared off with Sylvia. “I don’t think I like what you’re accusing me of.”

“I’ve always been so very careful,” Sylvia said.

Claire scoffed. “Careful? You forget that when I met you your accent would still slip after two glasses of wine. You should know best, Sylvia, that a well-made dress does not make a shopgirl any less of a shopgirl.”

There it was, the crack in Claire’s resistance.

“Why did you do it?”

Claire lifted her chin. “I simply did what I thought was best.”

“What is best?” She laughed bitterly. “Best for whom? You?”

“Hugo.”

When Claire said Sylvia’s husband’s name with such tenderness and pain, the final missing piece fell into place and at last Sylvia knew.

It was Claire.

Claire was the woman who had written those letters. Claire was the woman Hugo loved.

How stupid Sylvia had been. What an absolute and utter fool.

“But you’ve been my friend for years,” she whispered.

“I wasn’t your friend,” spat Claire. “Why would I ever be friends with you?”

“But all of the luncheons, the teas, the dinners,” she said, scrambling for words as her entire world shifted. “You were so kind to me when Hugo and I first met. You were the bridesmaid at my wedding.”

“I loved him from the moment I met him. Can you imagine the irony of it?” Claire laughed. “Newly married and I fall in love with Rupert’s best friend because Hugo happened to be abroad during our engagement. But what could I do? I couldn’t leave Rupert without creating a scandal, so I pretended that everything was wonderful. That nothing could be better than sitting next to Rupert at every dinner and concert while Hugo was just out of reach.