Holmes manages my house. You manage my business affairs,” he answered, referring to his housekeeper.

“I just thought Mrs. Holmes has quite a lot to manage at the moment. She doesn’t need another worry.”

“Mrs. Holmes is the very model of efficiency. She’ll be fine.” He crossed the room and pointed to a small, worn overnight case. “Is this one yours?” When he saw her nod, he picked up her case. “Let’s go, then. The car is waiting.”

Poppy’s brow furrowed as she glanced back at Sophie’s set of suitcases but there was nothing she could do now, and so she followed Randall down the sweeping staircase and out the front door.

Mrs. Holmes was waiting outside the big brick house for them.

“Not to worry about a thing, sir,” she said to Randall, before turning to Poppy and whispering in her ear, “Poor lamb. He must be devastated.”

Poppy wouldn’t have described Randall as a poor lamb, or all that devastated, but Mrs. Holmes had a very different relationship with Randall Grant than she did. “He’ll recover,” Poppy answered firmly. “He’s been caught off guard, but he’ll be fine. I promise.”

Randall’s black Austin Healey two-seater convertible was parked at the base of the stairs in the huge oval driveway.

He put Poppy’s overnight bag in the boot, and then opened the passenger door for her. The car was low to the ground and even though Poppy was short, she felt as if she had to drop into the seat and then smash the pink gown’s ballerina-style tulle in around her so that Randall could close the door.

“This is a ridiculous dress to travel in,” she muttered.

She’d thought she’d been quiet enough that he wouldn’t hear but he did. “You can change on the plane,” he said.

“What plane?” she asked.

“My plane.”

“But that was for your honeymoon.”

“Yes, and it can fly other places than the Caribbean,” he said drily, sliding behind the steering wheel and tugging on his tie to loosen it.

“Speaking of which, should I begin canceling your travel arrangements?”

“My travel arrangements?”

She flushed. “Your...honeymoon.”

He gave her a look she couldn’t decipher. “I may have lost my bride at the altar, but I’m not completely inept. Seeing as I made the reservations, I will cancel them.”

Her hands twisted in her lap. “I’m just trying to help.”

“I’m sure you are. You are a singularly devoted secretary, always looking out for my best interests.”

She sucked in a breath at the biting sarcasm. “I’ve always done my best for you.”

“Does that include today?”

“What does that mean?”

“What do you think it means, Poppy? Or have you suddenly become exceptionally good at playing dumb?”

* * *

Dal wanted to throttle Poppy; he really did. She knew far more than she was letting on but she was determined to play her role in whatever scheme she and Sophie had concocted.

He was disgusted, and not just with them, but with himself. He’d always believed himself to be an excellent judge of character, but obviously he was wrong. Sophie and Poppy had both betrayed his trust.

He hated himself for being oblivious and gullible.

He hated that he’d allowed himself to be played the fool.

His father had always warned him not to trust a woman, and he’d always privately rolled his eyes, aware that his father had issues, but perhaps in this instance his father had been right.

Dal’s hand tightened on the steering wheel as he drove the short distance from Langston House to the private airport outside Winchester. There was very little traffic and the sky was blue, the weather warm without being hot. Perfect June day for a wedding. This morning everything had seemed perfect, too, until it became the stuff of nightmares.

He gripped the wheel harder, imagining the headlines in tomorrow’s papers. How the media loved society and scandal.