Margaret Abernathy found the journal six months after Robert died....Then a name appeared that she’d never heard before.

Charles was a master of his craft, known far and wide for his lush rose bushes and sprawling ivy. But there was one flower that had always eluded him—the delicate and elusive lady slipper orchid.

Millicent sighed. At sixty-two, she had weathered enough society storms to know that scandal was as inevitable in their circles as rain in an English spring. “And you’re certain it was him? The fog has been terribly thick these past evenings.”

Lyra’s head snapped up, her eyes, usually so veiled, flashing with a desperate hope. She moved to the bars, her fingers clutching them, knuckles white. “They… they bought me,”

Harold listened intently, his expression serious. “Those townies are all bluster. But you gotta be careful. Don’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you scared.” He then grinned, his eyes twinkling. “Though I gotta admit, using Maharani as backup was a stroke of genius!”

This week, I invite you to step inside the misty world of Greystone Hall and spend a few moments with Annabelle Greystone.