The morning sun filtered weakly through the tall windows of the Hensley estate. Annabelle stood before the grand iron gates, her hands cold despite the warm air.
She had rehearsed what she would say a dozen times on the drive here, but now that she was standing in front of Victoria’s mansion, her courage wavered.
The guard opened the gate after a short phone call. “Mrs. Hensley is expecting you,” he said politely, stepping aside.
Expecting her? Annabelle frowned. Carson must have told her.
She walked up the marble steps, each one echoing against the silence. When the maid opened the door, the familiar scent of roses and old money filled the air. The house was just as she remembered—immaculate, elegant, but cold.
“Miss Annabelle,” the maid said softly. “Mrs. Hensley is in the sunroom.
