To say the most, it was seven days and nights so chock-full of bustle from dawn to nearly dawn again that it was no wonder that events and places and things were concentrated upon almost without exception, leaving the various souls of Glynde mansion little free time in which to think about anything save their own particular problems. Trixy was perhaps the most preoccupied inhabitant of the mansion, and not without reason. If she had found it difficult to reconcile herself to the idea of being a reluctant blackmailer, the notion of being considered mistress material had all but shocked her into speechlessness. As she had relived that last embarrassing conversation between herself and the duke—and she relived it almost hourly, much to her disgust—she had at last come to the conclusion that she had handled herself quite well under the circumstances, while the best she could say about Harry’s part in the whole affair was that he had behaved with all the finesse of a greased pig attempting to navigate its way along a tightrope strung fifty feet above a sty.
