She suspected that Madame Sandrine was in the employ, as well as a tenant, of Dorian Blackwell, and thereby likely used to keeping secrets.
“There you have it,” Millie encouraged. “I think that captures the effect precisely. No one would dare to doubt your confidence and authority.”
“I’ve never had any authority … or much in the way of confidence, for that matter.”
“That’s why it’s called acting,” Millicent prompted, moving to make way for Madame Sandrine as the tiny, dark-haired Frenchwoman bustled in with a basketful of frippery. Setting it down, the seamstress bent to check the hem of the final dress to be added to Mena’s new trousseau. “And I’ve found that, frequently, whatever you convey you can trick yourself into believing.”
“Millie’s right, dear.” Farah abandoned her tea to a side table and stood to join her friend. “Often we must seem to have confidence, and in doing so it tends to appear.” Her clear gray eyes inspected Mena’s face with just the right mix of sympathy and encouragement.
“Your wounds will heal,” Millie reassured her. “They already look much better. I think we’ve concocted a brilliant story with which to explain them.”
“A brilliant story all around, I’d wager,” Farah agreed. “And this position is not forever. Dorian has already started on your emancipation from the insanity verdict, though the process is infuriatingly slow.”
“Let’s go over the lines again.” Though she had the demeanor of a seductress, Millicent LeCour possessed the single-minded work ethic of an officer drilling a regiment. “What is your new name?”
Mena took a deep breath, trying to be certain everything was stored correctly in her memory to match the entirely new persona Dorian Blackwell had created for her. “My name is Miss Philomena Lockhart.”
“And where are you from?”
“From Bournemouth in Dorset originally, but these past four years from London, where I was employed as a governess.”
“I still think we should change her name entirely,” Farah suggested. “What about something rather common like Jane, Ann, or Mary?”
Millicent shook her head emphatically. “She doesn’t look like any of those women, and I know that it’s easier to keep track of a lie if there is a shred of truth to it. She’ll answer to the name Philomena because it is her own. And it’s common enough. We selected Bournemouth because it’s near Hampshire, where she was raised, and she’s familiar with the town and can call it to memory if need be.”
Farah considered this, tapping a finger to the divot in her chin before declaring, “You’re right, of course.”
Miss LeCour’s ringlets bounced around her startlingly lovely face when her notice snapped back to Mena. “Whom did you work for in London?”
“T-the Whitehalls, a shipping magnate and his wife.”
“Their names?”
“George and Francesca.”
“Who were their children?”
“Sebastian, who is off to Eton, and Clara, who is now engaged.”
“Engaged to whom?”
Mena stalled, her eyes widening, then she winced as the bruise around her eye twinged with the movement. “I—I don’t remember going over that.”
“That’s because we didn’t.” The actress selected another truffle with the patient consideration of a chess master. “I was demonstrating that you’re sometimes going to have to improvise. Just say the first plausible thing that happens to appear in your head.”
“My head seems to be frighteningly empty of late.” Mena sighed.
Farah made a sympathetic noise. “You’ve been under a lot of strain. Millie, perhaps she needs a break.”
“No.” Mena shook her head, receiving a sharp look from Madame Sandrine. Remembering herself, she stood as still as could be. “No, I’ll try harder.”
“What is Clara’s fiancé’s name?” Millie pressed.
“Um—George?” She plucked the first name that arrived in her head.
“That’s her papa’s name,” Madame Sandrine corrected from below her in her thickly accented voice.
A hopeless sound bubbled into her throat; even the seamstress was better at this than she. “I’ve always been a terrible liar,” Mena fretted, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Never mind an actress! I’m never going to be able to pull this off.”
“Nonsense!” Millie planted fists on her perfect hips draped with crimson silk. “You are strong, Mena. This is going to be nothing at all compared to what you’ve already survived.”
No one had ever called her strong before. In fact, she’d been berated for being such a mouse. Perhaps strength wasn’t so much her virtue as survival. And she had survived, hadn’t she? Because of the kindness of these exceptional women.
A sudden rush of gratitude filled Mena until her throat swelled with emotion. “I—I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you both for what you’ve done. Not just the rescue, but the clothes, the new life, securing me employment. I only hope I don’t let you down, that I can remember all we’ve concocted here and do it justice.”
Millie tossed her curls, eyes snapping with sparks. “I wish you didn’t have to use it. That we needn’t send you far away. But your husband and his parents are on a rampage to find you. Lord, they’re such—”
Farah put a staying hand on her friend’s arm. “You’re going to do just fine,” she encouraged.
“I still say you can stay with us,” Millie offered. “Christopher shot a member of your family to save my life. Our home in Belgravia would be the last place in London anyone would look for you.”
Mena’s eyes stung again at the unlimited generosity of these women. “You can’t know how much your offer means to me, but the police do know that I confessed my family’s crimes to save yours. Chief Inspector Morley knows that we are close, I feel that I would be putting your fiancé’s new career in danger.”
Millie’s frown conveyed her frustration, but she didn’t argue the point. Christopher Argent had once been the highest-paid assassin in the empire. Now, because of his love for Millie, he was trying a career in law enforcement on for size. Considering what had happened with Mr. Burns, Mena wondered if the big man was suited to the job.
“We all agree that getting you out of London will be safer for you should your husband or agents of the crown come looking for you here,” Farah reminded them gently. “And arrangements have been solidified in Scotland. Lord Ravencroft has already said he would meet your train tomorrow afternoon.”
The bottom dropped out of Mena’s chest, sending her heart plummeting into her stomach. She still wasn’t certain how she’d gone from being a viscountess, to a prisoner at Belle Glen, and then a phony spinster governess in such a short time.
Madame Sandrine stood, the seamstress’s eyes wide with disbelief. “You are going to work for the Demon Highlander?”
“T-the what?” Mena gasped, unable to keep a telling tremor out of her voice. “The who?”
Farah winced, which did little to allay Mena’s growing panic.