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Aunt Dottie’s arched brow puts a stop to my words. “I suspect her version of the story is rather different from mine. She never did believe me. But you see, this”—she waves a hand over the papers—“is exactly how it started for me. First there were the pictures of us. Me and Hugh. Doing things like this.” She uses her spoon to smack the photo of me and Mariano and the Jag. “And then there were all the other photos.”
Mummy always described Aunt Dottie’s scandal in the most vague terms: “Your aunt’stroubles, back when she wasyoung and foolish and in her prime. She paid a high price. A high, high price.”
“Naughty Dottie. That’s what they called me in the headlines. Those pictures ruined god knows how many marriages.”
“I thought—” What I knew about Aunt Dottie is rearranging itself, like some sinister kaleidoscope.
“You thought that was your mum’s nickname for me?” Aunt Dottie lets out a bitter laugh. “No. That was all the papers’ doing. After the Firm forced Hugh to take back his ring and I ran away here.”
“TheHugh Hapersby? Albert Hugh Edwin George Peter Hapersby? The prince? You were—”
“Engaged. All completely secret, of course, because, as I said, the Firm— They made him think I’d cheated, you see. Started a smear campaign to ruin me and force the end of our relationship. They must have had a photo of me with every man I’d ever brushed past on the sidewalk and given a meaningless smile to. Except none of it was true. There’d never been anyone else—never has been, though god knows I tried after that, which only made it all worse…”
Aunt Dottie blinks, as if bringing herself back from somewhere else. She reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Your young man. Mariano. He was so sincere, so passionate. He came after you. Don’t you see what that means? He wants you, Lolly darling. No matter what else has gone on, he wants you. And he looked so…devastated.” My blood rises, the throb of my pulse bounding in my ears. There is no one on my side, not even Dottie. “Is there anyone who might want to keep you apart, because this has the smack of something manufactured.”
An image floats through my brain: Stephanie’s haughty face as she smacked me with her crop and then mocked me outside Teena’s stall. But that’s impossible.
Dottie presses on. “Are you really so certain he’s not telling you the truth?”
“I am.” I bloody am. And I’m not listening to any more of this rubbish. “Mr. Wiggins and I will be upstairs.” And then, not meaning to flounce, I do the best impersonation of a prima donna that has ever set foot in this house. And that’s saying something.
OFFICIAL SECRETS ACT
Mariano Arias. The Great House. The Cotswolds, England.
The sight of Lolly’s face smeared in tears, crumpled in pain, is stamped into my brain. I can hardly bear it. I have to find a way, now, immediately, to take that untruth from her. She thinks me aliar. Me? A liar? I…
First I have to dispatch the business with Pippa, make sure she has done what she said she would do, then find Lolly and show her, tell her, make her see. I am no liar. I am hers. I didn’t do the things she thinks I did. This is the kind of nonsense we can clear up with a single discussion if only she would permit me to speak. We will right ourselves. We have to. Then I will work to bring back her laughter.
Her face, though. So much pain.
My gut twists and my brain churns, and the more I think, the worse it seems.Howam I going to show her it was little more than a prank? How do you prove a negative? Truly? I need to know!
It doesn’t take me long to find Pippa, who has secured a place for us in the Duke Humphries Lounge, a wing of the house I have not been permitted to enter before now. She rises from her couch and greets me with a kiss to each cheek. “Thank you for coming, darling. I appreciate it muchly.” She peers over my shoulder. “No Lolly?”
No Lolly. Not now. Not unless I find a way to twist the laws of logic to my purpose.
Pippa offers me a seat on a chaise opposite her. “Mariano. Before we speak, I’d like to introduce Mr. Ladd, who will walk you through the process…” She raises her index finger and a man appears from behind a pillar. “He’ll explain.”
This tall, wiry man with tortoise-shell-framed spectacles offers me his hand, which is clammy and cold. His shoulders are high on his neck. His eyes hooded and dull. “If I might ask for your phone?” Mr. Ladd is covered in a thin sheen of sweat.
Not what I was expecting, but I produce my phone.
“And, if you would be so kind, would you turn it off?”
“It’s off.” I place it back in my pocket, but Mr. Ladd scowls and tuts, hand outstretched. I surrender my phone to this over-anxious man who produces a flat, black leather wallet.
“This is a Faraday pouch, lined with five layers of nickel- and copper-lined fabric. It will not harm the phone. It simply means that if anyone has installed spyware on your device unbeknownst to you, they won’t be able to hear us.”
“I see.” I know the photos in the tabloids were bad, but this seems an altogether different magnitude of seriousness.
“Do you have any other electronic devices on or about your person?”
“I do not.”
“If sir would stand and raise his arms so that they are on the horizontal. Thank you.” He produces a wand, like the ones they use in the airports, and runs it over me—inner leg and all—paying particular attention to my shoes. “Seems to be in order, ma’am.”
The door opens and a maid enters and lowers a tea tray onto the table between Pippa and me. We are silent as she goes about her duties, and, as if by mutual agreement, no one speaks or moves until she has closed the door behind herself.
