Marguerite stood with Felicity before the door of the dainty townhouse. Could a townhouse be dainty? The windows were narrow, but in proportion with the home’s lean lines. It was a home. That was a strange thought, but still it was true. Violet, Lady Carrington lived in a home. Even before the door opened, Marguerite could see the love and attention to detail that shaped every corner, every flowerpot, every window dressing. She gripped Felicity’s arm as the door opened. It was too late to run. The scent of baking cookies greeted them as they stepped into the foyer. Could one be frightened of cookies? Felicity pulled a card from her reticule and held it out. “The Ladies Wimberley have come to call. Lady Carrington is expecting us.” The butler nodded and disappeared. A moment later he returned and beckoned them to follow him. They stopped at the doorway. Felicity reached over and patted Marguerite’s tight hands.
