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an indulgence to his daughter, as she loved to play in them. It made her hopeful he would be willing to splurge on other indulgences.
    Suddenly, Leticia spied a greenhouse tucked back against the trees, about thirty yards from the side of Bluestone Manor.
    What better place for a little girl to hide? She made her way down a sweetly curving path lined with rosebushes (trying not to breathe in as she passed) to the greenhouse door.
    â€œHello?” she called out, ducking her head inside. And was greeted with a whole new world.
    â€œOh my . . .” There was really nothing else to say. It was warm in the greenhouse—that was to be expected. But the air was heavy with damp, misting with it, like after a warm summer rain. Long trailing vines crawled all the way up to the ceiling, reaching for more and more sunshine, greedy little things. One cabinet was lined with vials of tincture in varying shades of amber and brown. An unintelligible set of numbers and letters were written on the vials in wax pencil.
    There were rows upon exact rows of pots with dirt in them, each also numbered and lettered. Some had sprouts of green coming up, some did not.
    Well of course, some did not—those pots that were barren were in the back row, far away from the light.
    â€œEveryone needs a little light to grow,” she hummed to herself as she picked up one of the back-row plants and moved it to the front. Even she, with her aversion to any plant, knew that.
    â€œWhat in the hell are you doing?”
    Leticia whipped around so fast she nearly dropped the pot she was holding.
    There, in the greenhouse doorway, stood an Amazon. A mess of blond hair escaped the braid that ran down her back, the felt hat she wore flopping to the side, the brim bent back. She was wearing a loosely fitted gown on a wiry frame—one that Leticia could tell was wiry because she had the skirt tied up and between her legs, exposing her limbs to the knee. And everything, from the top of her hat to the toes of her work boots, was covered in dirt.
    Leticia didn’t know what was more shocking—the woman’s outfit, or the look of utter murder on her face.
    â€œI said what the hell are you doing?” the woman said again, her eyes falling to the pot in Leticia’s hands. “Did you move that?”
    â€œI . . . it wanted light.”
    â€œThat’s the control group! It’s not supposed to have light!” She stalked forward and wrenched the pot from Leticia’s hands. Goodness, the woman was as tall as most men. “You idiot,” she mumbled under her breath.
    â€œWhat did you just say?” Leticia gasped.
    â€œI said, ‘you idiot,’ ” the woman repeated coldly and clearly as she meticulously positioned the pot back in its old space.
    Leticia’s eyes narrowed. She drew her head up, forced her shoulders down. She may not be as tall as this person, but she could damn well make her presence felt. “I don’t know what your position is in this house but it has just been seriously compromised,” she said in her coolest, calmest countess voice.
    â€œMy position?” The woman’s head came up as she eyed Leticia. For the first time, Leticia could see that she was younger than she’d initially thought, with a clear blue gaze that bored into her foe. “My position is daughter of the house. And I’ll thank you to get out of my greenhouse!”
    Leticia felt all the blood drain from her face. “Daughter?” she said, her countess voice faltering. “You’re Margaret Babcock?”
    Not a little girl. Not by half. No, Margaret Babcock was fully grown, and it seemed, spitting mad.
    â€œYes,” Margaret grumbled, taking a little notebook and pencil out of her pocket. “And you’re still in my greenhouse.”
    â€œI . . . I believe we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. My name is Leticia—Lady Churzy, and