Time to panic. Terry Yardley held her breath and listened. Someone was coming up the long, circular driveway to the old Carrington mansion. No one was supposed to be here until Saturday. “Darn,” she whispered, eyes wide, nerves jangling. She’d counted on a good two days to get things under control—and to work up an explanation as to why she was here, and not her father—the real butler. She set down her feather duster and looked around at the long, carpeted hallway. She'd just finished dusting the family portraits that lined the hall, polishing up each ancient Carrington, getting them ready to greet their current family members. Ordinarily this work would have been assigned to the maid, but no maids had appeared as yet, so Terry was doing it. Why? Because she was the butler, that’s why. She’d known from the beginning it was going to be tricky pulling this off. Butlers weren’t usually female. Especially not young, relatively attractive females such as she was—if she did say so herself.
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