Читать книгу Promise Me Tomorrow - Candace Camp - Страница 11

MARIANNE SMILED DOWN AT HER DAUGHTER. One of her favorite things was teaching Rosalind, who had a quick mind and a ready wit. At nine, Marianne thought she was approaching the age where she would need a tutor. The Quartermaine girls had had a beleaguered governess, a round little brown wren of a woman over whom the three girls had run roughshod. Though Marianne’s knowledge was adequate for the basic subjects she had been teaching up until now—and she could still, with her extensive reading, do a passable job of teaching literature and history—she knew that to be educated as a lady was, she needed someone who could teach music and drawing adequately, as well as mathematics, French, and possibly Latin, as well. Marianne had always thirsted for knowledge. Though the orphanage had seen to it that they were able to read, write and do figures, they had been given no opportunity to venture into the upper realms of education. Most of what Marianne had learned she had gotten from books, which she had read over and over at every opportunity.

They were in the kitchen, books and tablets spread out on the table, deep in a lesson combining vocabulary, spelling and handwriting. Across the table from them, Betsy was enjoying a late morning cup of tea, while Winny, with help from Della, was beginning to prepare dinner. Rosalind, tongue firmly between her teeth, was carefully writing with the stub of a pencil.

“Beautiful,” Marianne encouraged her, watching the copperplate writing slowly unfold. “Now what is that word?”

“S-p-e-c-u-l-a-t-e. Speculate.”

“Very good. Do you know what it means?”

Rosalind looked at her, her big blue eyes, so like her mother’s, serious in her small face. “Mmm. Is it like speculation?”

“Yes. Speculation is the noun form of the word. Speculate is the verb. Do you know what speculation is?”

Rosalind nodded, pleased that she knew the answer. “Yes. Gran taught me yesterday evening when you were gone.”

“Gran?” Marianne turned toward Betsy, who was the only grandmother Rosalind had ever known. Betsy, who had only a rudimentary education, hardly seemed the type to engage in vocabulary lessons.

Betsy gazed back at her guilelessly, her hand halting with the cup of tea halfway to her lips. Marianne’s eyes narrowed. “All right, Roz. Exactly what is speculation?”

“Well, it’s where you ante up a certain amount of money. Gran and I did a ha’pence. Only the dealer antes up double. Then he gives everyone three cards, and—”

“A card game?” Marianne swung to Betsy. “You were teaching her a card game?”

Betsy shrugged. “Just a simple one, to pass the time.”

“It was fun, Mama, and I even won!” Rosalind said excitedly. “Gran says one day she’ll teach me loo, but that takes five people, and we couldn’t get the others to play. They’re always too fidgety when you’re at a party.”

“Betsy, I told you about teaching Rosalind to gamble!”

“She has a natural gift,” Betsy protested. “It’s a shame, it is, to waste it. I never met anyone who caught on faster.”

“Rosalind is not going to be a cardsharp.”

“Of course not. But it never hurts to be able to pick up a little pocket money when you need it.”

Marianne groaned and closed her eyes. She heard a muffled snort and looked over to see Winny and Della smothering their laughter.

“Go ahead and laugh, all of you,” Marianne grumbled.

“I’m sorry, Mary,” Winny said, still smiling. “It’s just—she looked so cute, sitting there, holding those cards and dealing them like a professional.”

Marianne could well imagine it, and even her own lips twitched at the thought. “Honestly, Betsy,” she said, trying to remain stern. “She is only nine years old.”

“I know. That’s what makes it so amazing. I’d ‘a thought she was much older, the way she played.”

Marianne smiled. “Well, in the future, please, could you teach her something besides gambling games? And don’t teach her any of your tricks, either.”

Betsy widened her eyes innocently. “Tricks? Why would I teach the child any tricks?”

“You taught me one last week,” Rosalind pointed out. “You know, about how if you prick the ace with a pin, you can feel it as you deal, but it doesn’t show, and—”

“Betsy! That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

Betsy shrugged. “Well, of course, if that’s what you want. But it seems to me that a girl can always use a leg up, if you know what I mean.”

Shaking her head, Marianne resumed the lesson. It was useless, she knew, to try to get Betsy to understand the desire she had for Rosalind to lead a normal life. She didn’t know how she was going to achieve it, but Marianne was determined that Rosalind grow up not knowing poverty and want and lack of love—or the fear of living outside the law.

The rest of the lesson passed without incident, for Rosalind wanted no delays for her afternoon treat: Piers had promised to take her to fly kites. Promptly after dinner, they set off, and Marianne, faced with the prospect of an afternoon free, decided to visit the lending library.

It was one of her favorite things to do. She loved to read, a habit that everyone else in the house found a trifle odd. She was used to that attitude. All the children in the orphanage had found it even stranger. She had hidden her reading from everyone at the Quartermaine house, sneaking books out of the library in the Hall and spending her entire afternoon off reading in a special place she liked to go down by the brook. When she moved to London and started living with Harrison and Della, she had discovered the joys of a lending library.

So she tied her bonnet beneath her chin and set off. When she was a half block from the lending library, she saw a young lady walking toward her, trailed properly by her maid. As she drew closer, she recognized the young woman’s features.

“Miss Castlereigh!” Marianne was surprised by the quiet leap of pleasure she felt upon seeing the woman she had met the night before.

Penelope, who had been walking along with her eyes down, glanced up, and a smile lit her face. “Mrs. Cotterwood! What a pleasant surprise.”

“Yes. Isn’t it? I was just on my way to the lending library.” Marianne looked at the book Penelope carried. “It looks as though that is where you have been.”

“Yes, it is.” Penelope’s smile grew wider. “Do you enjoy reading, too?”

“Oh, yes,” Marianne confessed. “It is my favorite pastime.”

“Really? Me, too.” Penelope looked delighted at finding a fellow bibliophile. “Mama calls me a bookworm. But books are so much more…exciting than real life. Don’t you think?” Her eyes shone behind her spectacles. “I am quite addicted to the gothic sort of books, with mad monks and haunted castles and evil counts. One never finds that sort of thing in real life.”

“No.” Marianne dimpled. “Though I expect we should not enjoy it so much if it really happened to us.”

“I’m sure you are right.” They stood for a few minutes, chatting about their favorite books. Then Penelope reached out a hand impulsively and touched Marianne’s arm. “Do come visit me, won’t you? We can talk about books and such. I would love for you to meet my friend Nicola, as well. I am sure you would like her.” She hesitated uncertainly. “I—I hope I’m not too forward.”

“Goodness, no. I would be delighted to come.” It was an opportunity that Marianne would not dream of passing up, but she knew that she would have agreed even if it had helped her not at all. She liked this shy girl, and it was an unusual pleasure for her to get to talk to someone about books.

“That’s wonderful.” Penelope told her where she lived, a tony Mayfair address that confirmed Marianne’s initial impression of her mother’s social standing.

Behind Penelope, the maid stirred and said warningly, “Miss…”

“Yes, I know, Millie.” Penelope smiled apologetically at Marianne. “I wish we could talk longer, but I am supposed to meet Mother at my grandmother’s house, and I don’t want to be late.”

“Then I won’t keep you.” Marianne felt sure that the fierce Lady Ursula would ring quite a peal over her daughter’s head if she inconvenienced her.

“But you will come to see me?”

“I promise.” Marianne said her goodbyes and continued on her way to the lending library.

PENELOPE TURNED AND HURRIED OFF toward her grandmother’s house. She knew that her mother would not be well pleased at her making friends with someone she barely knew, and she did not want to make it worse by arriving late.

Rushing into the drawing room of her grandmother’s house, however, she found her mother in a pleasant mood. Lady Ursula smiled at Penelope, saying, “There you are, dear. My goodness, you look quite flushed. These girls…” She flashed a coy look across the room at the two men who had stood up when Penelope entered the room. “Always running about, looking at frills and geegaws.”

Penelope, following her mother’s gaze, understood Lady Ursula’s mellow attitude. Lord Lambeth and Lord Buckminster had come to call on her grandmother, the Countess of Exmoor, and while Lady Ursula dismissed Bucky as a “fribble,” she, like most of the other women in Society, was dazzled by Lord Lambeth. Penelope groaned inwardly. Frankly, Lord Lambeth made her a trifle ill at ease, and she was certain that he had absolutely no interest in her, despite her mother’s fond hopes regarding London’s most eligible bachelor. Though he was polite to her, the only reason he called on them was because he was friends with Bucky.

“Actually, I was getting a book from the lending library,” Penelope corrected her.

Lady Ursula frowned at her horribly. “Now, dear, you don’t want the gentlemen thinking you’re a bluestocking, do you?”

“I’m sure I don’t know why she should care.” The Countess spoke up for the first time. “Any man worth having admires a woman with a brain. Isn’t that right, Lord Lambeth?”

“But of course, my lady,” Justin replied smoothly. “After all, look how much you are admired.”

The Countess laughed. She was a tall, regal woman whom age had bent only a little, and it was clear that she had been a beauty when she was younger. “You are such a flatterer, Lord Lambeth. Fortunately, you are quite good at it.” She turned to her granddaughter. “Come here, child, and give me a kiss and show me what book you got.”

Penelope did as she was bid, kissing the Countess’s cheek and dropping onto the low stool beside her chair. While the Countess took her book from her hand and examined it, Penelope decided that it was better to get her news out now while her mother’s protestations would be tempered by the fact that Lord Lambeth was present.

“I met Mrs. Cotterwood while I was out,” she began.

Both Buckminster and Lambeth straightened at her announcement.

“Did you?” Buckminster asked admiringly. “By Jove, I might have known you would be the one who’d know how to find her. You always were a downy one.”

At his words, Lambeth turned and looked at him consideringly. “Were you trying to find her, then?”

“Well, I—that is—” Color rose in Buckminster’s cheeks. Finally he said, “Thought Nicola would probably want to invite her to her little soiree on Friday. You know. Have to send an invitation.”

“Ah. I see.” Justin thought that he did see, indeed. It was rare for his friend to be so interested in a woman. That certainly complicated the matter a bit. He glanced over at Penelope and saw that she, too, was watching Bucky, a wistful look on her face. He wondered what she made of it.

“Who?” Lady Ursula demanded. “Who is this Mrs. Cotterwood?”

“You know, Mama, the lady we met last night at the party. That woman you know, Mrs. Willoughby, introduced us.”

“I scarcely know Mrs. Willoughby—encroaching woman! I doubt that any friend of hers is someone we want to know.”

“Perhaps she is no more a friend of Mrs. Willoughby’s than you are,” Penelope suggested.

Her mother’s eyes narrowed, somewhat suspicious that Penelope in her quiet way was making game of her. But Lord Buckminster said seriously, “There you go. Probably Mrs. Willoughby was encroaching to her, too. Mrs. Cotterwood is perfectly respectable, I’m sure.”

Lady Ursula’s pursed mouth made clear her opinion of Lord Buckminster’s ability to judge respectability. She turned toward Lord Lambeth. “Is she known to your family, Lord Lambeth?”

“Oh, yes,” Justin replied easily. “I’ve been acquainted with Mrs. Cotterwood for some time.”

Penelope shot him a grateful look as Lady Ursula remarked, somewhat reluctantly, “I suppose that she is all right, then.”

“I invited her to call on us,” Penelope went on, pressing her point.

“Without asking me first?”

“Well, you were not there,” Penelope pointed out reasonably, “and I quite liked her.”

“Are you going to call on her, Pen?” Lord Buckminster asked, blithely unaware of Lady Ursula’s disapproving look at his use of Penelope’s nickname. “I would be happy to escort you.”

“I’m afraid I cannot. I don’t know where she lives,” Penelope confessed. “She did not tell me, and I didn’t think to ask.”

Buckminster’s face fell so ludicrously that Lambeth had to smother a laugh.

“Who is she?” the Countess asked. “Have I met her?”

“I don’t think so, Grandmama. She is very nice—and she’s beautiful, as well.”

“Ah. A rare combination, to be sure.” Lady Exmoor smiled at her granddaughter.

“Yes. But that isn’t even the best part. She likes to read. We had a nice chat about books. She had read this one I borrowed, and she said it was thrilling. In fact, that’s where I met her. I was coming from the lending library, and she was going to it.”

“I hope I shall meet her.” The Countess looked across at Lord Buckminster, who seemed to have sunk into a gloom, and Lord Lambeth, whose attention was focused on a tiny piece of lint he was picking from his trousers. “But I am afraid we are boring our visitors. Lord Buckminster came to see if we had had any word from Thorpe and Alexandra.”

“Oh! And have you?” Penelope’s interest was diverted.

“Yes. I got a letter from Alexandra this morning. They are still in Italy on their honeymoon—Venice now, it seems. She waxed quite ecstatic over the beauty of it, but she did say that they planned to come home shortly.”

“Good. I shall like to see her again.”

“Yes. I say, that will be bang-up,” Lord Buckminster agreed, abandoning his glumness. “Thorpe’s a good chap.” He paused. “Lady Thorpe, too, of course—well, what I meant was, not a chap, of course, but still—though I don’t know her all that well—I mean—”

“Yes, Bucky,” Lady Ursula stuck in blightingly. “I feel sure we all know what you meant to say.”

“Er—yes. Quite.” Buckminster subsided.

“I feel sure you will be very glad to have Lady Thorpe back, Lady Castlereigh,” Lord Lambeth said blandly to Ursula, observing her through half-closed lids.

The Countess smiled faintly and carefully avoided looking at her daughter. Lady Ursula colored. Most people in the ton knew how little she had believed that Alexandra Ward was her long-lost niece when the American heiress had arrived in London a few months ago, and how vigorously she had fought against the Countess’s accepting her as such. When finally it had been proved, she had given in with ill grace.

“Of course I will,” she told Lord Lambeth, reproof tinting her voice. “Now that I am sure that Alexandra is really Chilton’s child, I am fond of her, as I am of everyone in my family.”

“Naturally.” Given the fact that he had never seen any evidence of true fondness from Lady Ursula toward her daughter or son, Lambeth supposed that perhaps she was as fond of Alexandra as she was of others in her family.

He did not know all the facts of the case, not being close friends with the family or Lord Thorpe. However, ample gossip had passed around the ton this Season for him to know that the Countess’s son, Lord Chilton, and his French-born wife had been visiting in France at the outbreak of the revolution twenty-two years earlier. They and their three children had been reported dead, killed by the mob. This spring, at the beginning of the Season, an American woman had shown up in London and had somehow proved that she was in reality Lord Chilton’s youngest child. It had ended with the long-lost heiress marrying Lord Thorpe. The whole story, in Lambeth’s opinion, sounded like something out of a lurid novel of the sort Penelope professed to enjoy.

Lambeth’s purpose in persuading Buckminster to call on Penelope and her family had been accomplished. He had not found out the secretive Mrs. Cotterwood’s location, but he had discovered all that was to be gotten out of Penelope. It would be enough, he reasoned. A book lover—not what he had expected of that redheaded temptress—would return to the same lending library. A servant set to watch the place would soon find out where she lived.

Accordingly, Lambeth took his leave, having no wish to endure Lady Ursula’s presence any longer than was absolutely necessary. As soon as the front door closed behind him and Lord Buckminster, Lady Ursula turned on her daughter, scowling.

“Really, Penelope! Did you have to go on about those silly novels? One would think you could have made a little effort to impress Lord Lambeth.”

“Oh, Mama, Lord Lambeth has no interest in me,” Penelope replied, flushing with embarrassment. “I wish you would not say such things.”

Lady Ursula sighed. “Sometimes I quite despair of you, Penelope. Any other girl would have at least made a push to be appealing.”

“What nonsense, Ursula,” the Countess put in. “Lord Lambeth and Penelope would not suit at all. I wonder you can even think of such a match.”

“Would not suit? How could a marquess with a family back to the Invasion and barrels full of money possibly not suit?”

“I am sure I would not suit him, Mama. Everyone says he will eventually marry Cecilia Winborne, and even if he did not, well, I am sure that I am hardly his style.”

“Who a man flirts with and who he marries are two entirely different things,” Lady Ursula said pedantically. “Our family is as old and genteel as one could hope to find—the equal of Lord Lambeth’s and certainly better than the Winbornes, I should hope.”

Penelope gave up the struggle. She had found out long ago that it was useless to try to make her mother see reason. Her grandmother spoke quickly to forestall Ursula, who was gathering herself for another attack.

“Of course we are,” Lady Exmoor said. “Indeed, I wonder that you should think a Montford should marry an upstart like the Duke of Storbridge’s son.”

Ursula turned a startled gaze to her mother, then grimaced as she saw the twinkle in the Countess’s eyes. “Really, Mother, this is scarcely something to joke about.”

“I think it is precisely the sort of the thing to joke about. As if Penelope would want to marry Lord Lambeth. Do let us stop talking such nonsense.” She turned back to Penelope. “I have had a report from the Runner I set on finding Marie Anne.”

“Did he have any luck?” Penelope asked eagerly.

Lady Exmoor sighed. “Partially. I had told you that he found an orphanage outside London where a child named Mary Chilton had been taken, and it was the right time. When he went there, he found that the matron was retired, but one of her assistants still worked there, and she remembered the child. ‘Redheaded spitfire,’ was the way she put it.” A smile trembled on the older woman’s lips, and Penelope saw moisture in her eyes. “That sounds like Marie. He managed to worm out of them where the child went when she left the orphanage.”

The Countess paused and swallowed hard before she could continue. “She went into service at a local house.”

“Oh, no!” Penelope cried, reaching out and taking her grandmother’s hand. Lady Exmoor squeezed it hard, pressing her lips together to stop their trembling. “That’s awful! I mean, well, to think of my cousin having to scrub and clean.”

“Yes. For nobodies like those Quartermaines,” Lady Ursula added, her indignation roused by the slight on the family. “I’ve never even heard of them.”

“Local gentry,” Lady Exmoor explained. “Still, I don’t suppose it really matters who they are. The real problem is that she left there a few years later, and no one seems to know where she went. The trail just vanishes.”

“So that’s the end of it?” Penelope asked, disappointed.

“The housekeeper told him that she was friends with another maid. But that girl is gone from the house, too. The servants and family seem to be an unusually reticent lot. The Runner is inclined to think that there was perhaps some scandal involved in her leaving.”

Penelope’s eye widened. “This is terrible.”

The Countess sighed. “Well, at least the other man would have had no better luck, I guess. That’s the only bright side.”

“What other man?”

“There had been someone else at the Quartermaine house asking questions about Mary Chilton before my fellow came. The housekeeper remarked on it, wondering why so many people were suddenly interested in her.”

“And you think this other man is from—the Earl?”

Lady Exmoor’s mouth tightened. “I am sure of it. Who else would be looking for her? He knows I suspect him of having gotten rid of Marie Anne and Johnny—oh, if only that wicked woman had lived!”

Penelope knew to what woman her grandmother referred. It was her grandmother’s cousin and former companion, Willa Everhart. Recently, on her deathbed, Miss Everhart had confessed that twenty-two years earlier, she had conspired against the Countess to keep her grandchildren from her. During the dark days in Paris, after the storming of the Bastille, the Countess’s son, Lord Chilton, and his wife had been killed by the mob, who had mistaken them for French aristocrats. The reports that had come back to London had said that Chilton’s three children had been killed, as well. But in fact they had not died, but had been smuggled out of France and brought to London by an American friend of Lady Chilton’s, Rhea Ward. Mrs. Ward, lonely and unable to bear a child herself, had taken the baby, Alexandra, as her own and raised her in the United States, but she had brought the older two, John and Marie Anne, to the Countess’s home.

The Countess, prostrate with grief over the deaths of her son and the supposed deaths of his children, had taken to her bed and refused all visitors, so Miss Everhart had been the one who spoke to Mrs. Ward and took the two children from her. Mrs. Ward then left the country, thinking the children safe with their grandmother, but Miss Everhart had played the Countess false. Desperately in love with Richard Montford, the distant cousin who had become the Earl of Exmoor upon the death of Chilton and the supposed death of his son John, the true heir, she had taken the children to Richard instead. The existence of the boy John, she knew, would mean that her lover would lose the title and estates, and she counted on his gratitude for what she had done to tie him to her. The boy, Willa had told them as she lay dying, had been very sick with a fever and had died. The girl Marie, however, had been taken to an orphanage.

The Countess had immediately hired a Bow Street Runner to investigate Marie’s whereabouts, but she had realized that there was little she could do about Richard’s treachery. Willa had died immediately after telling them her story, and they had no proof or witnesses to show that the present Earl of Exmoor was the villain they all knew he was. He, of course, had denied the story and claimed that Willa was a madwoman who had undoubtedly acted on her own—if there was any truth to the story in the first place. Since the boy John was dead, even though not at the time or place they had thought, Richard was still the legal holder of the title. To accuse him of kidnapping the children and murdering John, as the Countess suspected, would do nothing but involve the family in an enormous scandal.

“But why would Richard be searching for her?” Lady Ursula asked, puzzled. “Richard doesn’t give a whit about her. I would think he would just as soon she stayed lost.”

“I am sure he does,” the Countess agreed dryly. “I think it is precisely for that reason that he is searching for her—to make sure she stays lost.”

Penelope sucked in a startled breath. “You mean…you think that he will kill her?”

“It’s not something I would put past him. I am sure he is desperate to maintain the lie that he has lived all these years. At the very least, he will put her on ship and send her off to America or India or some other remote place where I cannot locate her. She was five when it happened, after all. There might be some hope that she would remember what happened to her—or who had turned her over to the orphanage. She might even remember what happened to her brother.”

“Oh, my. I certainly hope that he doesn’t find her, then. Is there nothing further we can do?”

“Mr. Garner—that is the man whom I hired—says that he will try to track down this friend of Mary Chilton’s, Winny something-or-other. The housekeeper did know that she moved to London, though no one had any idea where she lived. Another one of the maids was friends with her but told Garner that she did not know where this Winny was now—even after Garner offered her money. But even if he finds the friend, I hold little hope that she will know where Mary Chilton is. After all, it has been over nine years since Mary left the Quartermaine house.”

None of what she had told them sounded good, Penelope thought, but she tried to put the best face on it that she could. She patted her grandmother’s hand. “Don’t worry, Grandmama. I am sure she will turn up just as Alexandra did. We Montfords are a trifle hard to do away with, you know.”

Lady Exmoor smiled at her. “Thank you, dear. I am sure you are right. We will find her.”

“Let us only hope it is before Richard does.” Lady Ursula, as always, had to have the last word.

MARIANNE LAID DOWN HER CARDS WITH a sigh. “You win—as usual, Betsy.”

“Hmmph.” The old lady narrowed her eyes. “It was easy enough. What’s bothering you, child? You played even more poorly than you normally do.”

Marianne smiled a little ruefully. “Nothing. It is just anxiety…not knowing, you see, whether Lord Lambeth will forget about me or go to the authorities. I don’t like this inactivity.”

In truth, she knew it was more than that, though she did not want to tell Betsy about her vague insecurities. The odd letter from Winny’s friend had disturbed her more than she cared to admit. Over the past few days, her thoughts had kept returning to it. What could this stranger want with her? It had stirred up memories, too, things from her days at the orphanage and at the Hall that she would just as soon forget. She kept thinking of that day when Daniel Quartermaine had cornered her in his bedroom as she was dusting his room, of the way he had begun to kiss and caress her, not letting her go when she told him no. She had finally begun to struggle, frightened, and it was then that he had slapped her and thrown her down on the floor beside the bed. His eyes had lit with a fierce, wild glow that she had not seen there before, and it had terrified her. She remembered the fear and disgust as his hands had moved over her and his tongue had thrust deeply into her mouth.

She could not help but think how differently she had felt the other night when Lord Lambeth kissed her, how her whole insides had turned to melting wax and her blood had hummed in her veins. Lambeth would have turned to force, too, if he had had the chance, she told herself. He was, after all, even more arrogant than young Quartermaine. No doubt he, too, thought that all women ought to feel honored to receive his advances. It did not mean anything that he had released her when she pulled away, or that he had not made a move toward her when she slapped him. It had been merely surprise that she would oppose him that had kept him rooted to the spot.

She remembered his golden eyes darkened with lust, his well-cut lips sensually full and soft, and she felt again that clenching deep in her loins that was both delightful and dissatisfying. It annoyed her that she continued to think about him.

Worse than the thoughts that had been plaguing her, however, was the strange sensation she had felt yesterday as she was walking home from the lending library, where she had gone to return the book she had borrowed two days earlier. As she strolled along, she had begun to have the oddest feeling at the base of her neck. She had stopped and turned, but she saw nothing out of the ordinary, just another person or two walking along as she was. All the way home, she had been unable to get rid of the impression that someone was watching her. Feeling foolish, she had looked around again, but this time there had been no one on the block but her. Still, thinking about the tingling along her spine made her want to shiver.

“Mrs. Cotterwood.” One of their two maids stood hesitantly at the door. “There’s someone here to see you. I—he’s in the foyer.”

Marianne looked at her, surprised. No one ever came to visit her. She eschewed any sort of intimacy with the Society flats. It occurred to her now that a visitor was so rare that the maid wasn’t even sure what she should do with the fellow.

“Thank you, Nettie.” She rose, glancing over at Betsy, who looked back at her with as much puzzlement as Marianne felt. Had the man who had been inquiring after her at the Hall managed to find her? Was it he watching her yesterday when she had felt those odd sensations?

Suppressing her fears as best she could, Marianne rose and went out into the hallway. She stopped cold when she saw the man standing in the foyer, hat in hand, smiling down at her daughter.

Lord Lambeth had found her.