Free A Spy in the House by Y. S. Lee

and the family — quite intimately.”
    His lips twitched in a familiar way. “Intimacies can spring up so quickly, can’t they? That between you and Mr. Gray, for example . . .”
    Angelica’s expression underwent a sudden change from bored irritation to avid interest.
    Mary frowned at him repressively. “I’m afraid
intimacy
is entirely the wrong word, Mr. Easton. Mr. Gray merely showed polite concern for my injury.”
    “Mr. Gray’s ‘polite concern’ was extreme,” James persisted. His mouth curved in a mocking smile. “Few husbands show such tender care to their wives.”
    Angelica’s smile was hard and brittle. “Michael Gray fawns over all young females,” she snapped. “It is his greatest fault. Papa says so,” she added, as though that settled the matter.
    George turned to her immediately. “I hope he does not tire you with such cloying attentions, Miss Thorold.”
    “He wouldn’t dare!” Angelica tossed her head like a rebellious heroine in a novel. “He knows his place.”
    “I’m relieved to hear it.”
    “I hope you, too, know your place, Miss Quinn,” drawled James.
    Her face flushed with anger. “Are you lecturing me, Mr. Easton?”
    “No, I am merely observing that young women in your . . . position . . . sometimes find themselves in rather awkward situations.” He managed to make the word “position” sound particularly offensive.
    Mary drew herself up in her chair, spine like a plumb line. He was alluding to more than the wardrobe incident. Fragments of last night’s conversations came back to her: he was accusing her of being someone’s mistress. But whose? Thorold’s? Michael’s?
    James lounged back in his chair, crossing one ankle over the other knee. “Merely that governesses and paid companions occupy such a delicate place in the social hierarchy. . . . If a secretary — or another male — behaves inappropriately toward them, what recourse do the poor things have?”
    Mary was livid. “You have a distinct interest in the powerlessness of women and strong ideas of where they do and do not belong.”
    Angelica suddenly spoke, her cheeks scarlet. “Are you — are you casting aspersions on my family, sir?” From the quaver in her voice, it seemed that she, too, had heard something about the former parlor maid.
    The cursed man looked amused at the reaction he’d created. “Oh dear, I seem accidentally to have offended both of you. I beg your pardon, Miss Thorold.”
    Once again, Mary fought the urge to punch him.
    Angelica still looked vexed.
    George jumped in anxiously. “My dear Miss Thorold, my brother was speaking generally; no reflection upon you or your household was intended.” He turned to his brother ominously. “Isn’t that right, James?”
    “That’s right, George.” James’s tone was mild and suggested that all this fuss was someone else’s doing.
    Angelica’s neck remained stiff, but in a few moments she relented. “I suppose it is a compliment that you respect my intelligence enough to discuss such matters with me.”
    “Naturally, my dear Miss Thorold.” James’s voice held a suspicion of laughter, but Angelica seemed to enjoy his use of “my dear.” He turned that dark, persuasive gaze onto Mary. “Miss Quinn, I do hope we understand each other?”
    She widened her eyes in mock innocence. “I believe we do, Mr. Easton.”
    “I am so relieved.” Quite suddenly, James stood up. “I’ve been enjoying myself so much that I nearly forgot my next appointment. Thank you for the tea and the delightful conversation.”
    George looked startled. “What appointment?”
    James smiled. “No need for you to rush off, Brother. I’ll see you this evening.”
    Angelica blinked, her little pink mouth agape. It may well have been the first time a gentleman had left her company before she dismissed him. “Oh. I see.” She blinked again, then rallied. “Good-bye, then. Until next time?”
    “Until then. I’ll see myself out. Good afternoon,