Читать книгу Promise Me Tomorrow - Candace Camp - Страница 8

MARIANNE DREW A DEEP BREATH AS SHE surveyed the glittering crowd. She had never been to a party this large, nor one filled with so many titled people. She wondered what they would think if they knew she was plain Mary Chilton from St. Anselm’s Orphanage, not the genteel widow Mrs. Marianne Cotterwood.

She smiled to herself. The thing she enjoyed the most about her pretense was the idea of pulling the wool over the eyes of the aristocracy, of conversing with some blue-blooded member of the ton—who would have been horrified if he had known that he was speaking to a former chambermaid as if to an equal.

The thought settled her nerves somewhat. This might be a larger and more cosmopolitan set of people than she had deceived in the resorts of Bath and Brighton, but essentially they were the same. If one spoke as if one were genteel, and walked and sat and ate as if one had been trained to do so from birth, people assumed that one belonged. As long as she kept her lies small and plausible and was careful never to pretend to be someone more than the minor gentry, it was doubtful that anyone would sniff out her deceit. After all, most of the people here were too self-absorbed to spare much thought for anyone else, for good or ill. That was one of the traits which made it so easy to prey upon them.

Marianne regarded all members of the ruling class as her natural enemies. She could still remember the days at the orphanage, when the grand ladies would come on their “missions of mercy.” Well-fed and warm, they would stand in their elegant dresses that cost more than would be spent on any of the orphans in a year and look at them with pitying contempt. Then they would go away, feeling vastly superior and quite holy for their charity. Marianne had stared at them with anger burning in her heart. Nothing that happened to her after the orphanage had lessened her contempt for them. She had been sent into service at Lady Quartermaine’s house when she was fourteen, and there she had worked as a housemaid, emptying ashes from the fireplace, hauling water for baths, and cleaning, all for less than a shilling a day, with only Sunday afternoons off—and woe to her if anything was deemed ill-done or amiss. Of course, even that did not compare to what else had happened to her at Quartermaine Hall….

“It’s a lovely party,” Marianne’s companion said, and Marianne turned to her, firmly shoving aside her thoughts.

Mrs. Willoughby was a fluttery woman, so proud of her invitation to Lady Batterslee’s rout that she had simply had to invite someone along with her to witness her glory. Marianne was glad she had been the person with Mrs. Willoughby the day she received her invitation.

A party at the elegant Batterslee House was an opportunity that did not come along every day, and Marianne had seized upon it, even though it meant suffering Mrs. Willoughby’s stultifying conversation all evening.

Not, of course, that she meant to stay by Mrs. Willoughby’s side. She would stay with her long enough not to appear obvious—and to meet as many people as Mrs. Willoughby could introduce her to, for the chance to mingle with this many people who might invite her to other parties was almost as important as examining the treasures of the house. But as soon as she reasonably could, she meant to slip away and spend the evening exploring.

They were almost at the front of the receiving line now, just beyond the doorway of the ballroom. It was the sight of the ballroom filled with people whose clothing and jewelry cost more than most people would earn in a lifetime that had given rise to Marianne’s jitters. The room was enormous, all white and gilt and filled with mirrors. A small orchestra played on a raised platform at the far end, but the noise from the crush of people was so great that Marianne could barely make out a tune. The walls were lined with spindly-legged chairs, as white and gold as the room, except for the red velvet of their cushions. Tall candelabras were filled with white wax candles, and more such candles blazed in the chandeliers, setting off bright rainbows in the prisms that dangled beneath them.

It was a glittering, extravagant scene, made even more vivid and beautiful by the wealth of jewels that gleamed at the women’s ears and throats and wrists, a bounty of diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds, as well as the subtler shimmer of pearls. The men were uniformly clad in the black-and-white elegance of evening wear, but the women’s gowns covered a vibrant spectrum of colors. Silk, satin and lace abounded, and—despite the warmth of the August evening—even velvet. Looking at the rose silk of the woman in line before them, the peacock-blue satin trimmed with black lace of the woman in front of her, and the white tissue embroidered with gold thread that adorned their hostess, Marianne began to wonder if her own simply cut ice-blue silk evening dress was elegant enough. It had done very well in Bath, but here in London…

Marianne glanced around, hoping to assure herself that she was not out of place here. She stopped as her gaze fell upon a man leaning against one of the slender columns of the ballroom, only twenty feet away from her. He was watching her, and when she noticed him, he did not glance away embarrassedly, as most would have. He continued to gaze at her steadily in a way that was most rude.

He was tall and lean, with the broad shoulders and muscled thighs of a man who had spent much of his life on horseback. His hair, cut rather short and slightly tousled, was light brown, streaked golden here and there by the sun. His eyes, too, were gold, and hooded, reminding her of a hawk. His cheekbones were high, his nose straight and narrow; it was an aristocrat’s face, handsome, proud and slightly bored, as if all the world did not hold enough to retain his jaded interest.

The man’s gaze unsettled her. She felt unaccountably warm, and it was hard, somehow, to move her eyes away from him. He smiled at her, a slow, sensuous smile that set off a strange, tingling reaction somewhere in the area of her stomach. Marianne started to smile back, but she caught herself in time, remembering what he was and how she felt about his sort. Besides, a genteel widow did not stand about smiling at strangers. So she kept her face as cool and blank as she could, and raised one eyebrow disdainfully, then turned pointedly away from him.

Their hostess was only two people away from her now, expertly greeting her guests and sliding them along. She greeted Mrs. Willoughby with no sign of recognition on her face, then nodded to Marianne with the same polite, measured warmth. It was such a huge party that Marianne was sure there were many people there whom Lady Batterslee barely knew, which made it a perfect opportunity for Marianne, and silently she thanked her companion for inviting her to come along despite their casual acquaintance.

There were so many people, it was difficult to work their way through the crowd. Marianne did not see how anyone could find room to dance to the orchestra gamely playing at the other end of the room. Finally they reached the wall and were able to find two empty chairs. Mrs. Willoughby plopped down in one, fanning her flushed face, and looked around with all the enthusiasm of a career social climber.

“There’s Lady Bulwen—I’m surprised she’s here. They say she is only a step away from debtor’s prison, you know.” She shook her head, clucking her tongue in apparent sympathy, then plunged on, “That’s Harold Upsmith. Do you know him? An excellent gentleman, everything that’s proper—not like his brother James. An absolute wastrel, that one.”

“Indeed,” Marianne murmured. It took little effort on her part to keep the conversation going, only an occasional nod or comment to assure her companion that she was listening. It was her great good fortune that Mrs. Willoughby was a perfect combination of social climber and inveterate gossip. Before this evening was through, she would know as much about the ton as if she had been a member for years.

After a few moments, however, her attention was distracted by the imperious tones of a woman sitting to her right. “Don’t slouch, Penelope. And do try to look as if you’re having a good time. It is a party, you know, not a deathwatch.”

Curious, Marianne glanced to the side. The voice belonged to a large woman clad in an unfortunate shade of purple. Her bosom jutted forward like the prow of a ship, and her chin had a matching forward thrust. She, too, was watching the crowd like a predatory bird, interspersing comments about this or that eligible bachelor with commands to her young female companion. The girl in question sat between Marianne and the older woman, a plain slip of a thing in a white dress. White, Marianne knew, was considered the only appropriate color for an unmarried girl at a ball, but it was not a color that did anything for this particular young woman, merely emphasizing the colorlessness of her face. Nor was her appearance enhanced by the glass spectacles that perched on her nose, hiding her best features—a pair of warm brown eyes.

“Yes, Mama,” Penelope murmured in a toneless voice, her fingers clenched together in her lap. She reached up to adjust the spectacles that sat on her nose, and her fan, lying in her lap, slid off and hit the floor, bouncing over and landing on Marianne’s toe.

“Really, Penelope, do try not to be so clumsy. There’s nothing so unattractive as a clumsy female.”

“I’m sorry, Mama.” Penelope flushed with embarrassment and bent toward her fan, but Marianne had already retrieved it.

She handed it to Penelope with a smile, sympathy for the girl rising inside her. It must be bad enough to be sitting here against the wall, not being asked to dance, without having her mother carping at her the whole time.

“Thank you,” Penelope murmured softly, giving Marianne a shy smile.

“You’re quite welcome. A dreadful crush, isn’t it?”

Penelope nodded emphatically, causing the light to glint off her spectacles. “Yes. I hate it when there are so many people.”

“I’m Mrs. Cotterwood. Marianne Cotterwood,” Marianne told her. It was not proper to introduce oneself, Marianne knew, but she suspected that Penelope was not the sort to mind. Others, like Penelope’s mother, would meet such boldness with a rebuff.

But Penelope smiled and said, “I am Penelope Castlereigh. It’s very nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine. You must think me bold to introduce myself, but in truth, I find it excessively silly to sit here not talking because there is no one around at the moment who knows both of us to introduce us.”

“You are absolutely right,” Penelope agreed. “I would have introduced myself if I had more nerve. I’m afraid I am the veriest coward.”

At that moment, Penelope’s mother, who had been droning away the past few minutes, finally realized that her daughter was not listening to her and turned to see what she was doing. At seeing the girl engaged in conversation with a strange woman, she scowled and brought her lorgnette up to her eyes to peer disapprovingly at Marianne.

“Penelope! What are you doing?”

Penelope jumped a little, and a guilty look flashed across her face. She turned back to the older woman, saying brightly, “I was just talking to Mrs. Cotterwood. I met her at Nicola’s last week.”

Quickly, before her mother could inquire more deeply into the matter, she introduced Marianne and her mother to each other. Her mother, Marianne learned, was Lady Ursula Castlereigh.

On the other side of Marianne, Mrs. Willoughby leaned forward, saying with delight, “Oh, do you know Lady Castlereigh, Mrs. Cotterwood? Mrs. Willoughby, Lady Castlereigh. If you remember, we met at Mrs. Blackwood’s fete, oh, sometime last Season.”

“Indeed?” Lady Ursula replied in a voice that would have daunted a less determined woman than Mrs. Willoughby.

“Yes, indeed. I admired the dress you were wearing.” Mrs. Willoughby launched into a detailed description of a gown, popping up and moving around the others to plant herself in the empty chair beside Lady Ursula.

Marianne seized the opportunity to escape both women. “Shall we take a stroll around the room, Miss Castlereigh?”

Penelope brightened. “That would be lovely.”

It suited Marianne’s purpose to get away from the chattering Mrs. Willoughby, but she knew that she had proposed the stroll partly to help out Penelope, as well. Penelope, despite her social status, touched a responsive chord in Marianne. She could not help but feel for the poor girl, obviously shy, and just as obviously dominated by her dragon of a mother.

Penelope visibly relaxed as they moved away from Lady Ursula’s vicinity. Marianne glanced around them as they walked, automatically checking the room. There were few of the valuable items she sought in the large, open room. The only access to the doors was a series of long windows, open to alleviate the heated stuffiness created by the crowd of people. Marianne maneuvered Penelope in the direction of the windows.

“Ah,” she said. “It’s much more pleasant here.”

“Oh, yes,” Penelope agreed, following her. “The fresh air feels good.”

Marianne casually looked out. They were on the second floor, looking down at the small garden in the back of the house. There were no convenient trees or trellises nearby. Still, Marianne cast a professional eye over the window and its lock before she guided Penelope away.

As they walked, Marianne felt an odd prickling at the base of her neck that told her she was being watched. She turned her head, scanning the room, and after a moment she saw him—the same man who had been watching her earlier. As she looked at him, he sketched a bow to her. Warmth flooded her, a sensation she was unused to. She told herself it was embarrassment.

“Penelope…” She took her companion’s arm. “Who is that man?”

“What man?” Penelope stopped and looked around.

“Over there.” Marianne indicated him with her head.

Penelope adjusted her glasses, looking in the direction of Marianne’s gaze. “Oh. Do you mean Lord Lambeth?”

“The good-looking wretch with a superior smile on his face.”

Penelope smiled faintly at the description. “Yes. That’s Justin. He’s the Marquess of Lambeth.”

“He keeps looking at me. It’s most disconcerting.”

“I should think you would be used to men looking at you,” Penelope responded, grinning, looking at her companion. With her red hair, vivid blue eyes and creamy white skin, Marianne Cotterwood was stunning. Penelope had noticed her almost as soon as she had entered the ballroom. Marianne’s dress, though simpler than most here tonight, was the perfect setting for her beauty, showing off her tall, voluptuous figure; she had no need for the frills and bows that many women added to their clothes.

“Thank you for the compliment—I think.” Marianne smiled back at her. “But that is the second time I’ve caught him staring at me in the rudest way. And he doesn’t seem at all embarrassed by being caught doing it. He just stands there looking….”

“Arrogant?” Penelope supplied. “That’s not surprising. Lambeth’s quite arrogant. Of course, I suppose he has every reason to be. Everyone fawns over him, especially giddy young girls looking to marry.”

“He’s a catch?”

Penelope chuckled. “I should say so.” She looked at her curiously. “Do you mean you have not heard of him?”

“I’m afraid not. I have spent the past few years in Bath, you see, living rather quietly—since my husband’s death.”

“Of course. I’m sorry. I don’t suppose you would have heard of him. Bath is not the sort of place Lambeth frequents. Not exciting enough.”

“He’s a carouser, then?”

Penelope shrugged. “I don’t know whether he lives a wilder life than most men. But he despises boredom. Bucky says he will go to any lengths to avoid it. Last month, he and Sir Charles Pellingham placed bets on how fast a spider would build its web in the corner of a window at White’s.”

Marianne grimaced. “He sounds excessively silly.”

“Sir Charles is,” Penelope admitted frankly. “But Bucky says that Lambeth is a knowing one.”

“Who is Bucky?” Marianne asked.

Penelope colored slightly. “Lord Buckminster. He is a cousin of my good friend Nicola Falcourt.” She went on hurriedly, “He is considered quite a catch.”

“Lord Buckminster or Lord Lambeth?” Marianne asked quizzically.

Penelope’s blush deepened, “Well, both, I suppose, but I was speaking about Lord Lambeth. They say he’s rich as Croesus, and his father is the Duke of Storbridge, so all the matchmaking mamas consider him fair game.”

“I see.” No wonder the man felt no hesitation in staring so rudely. Probably most of the women at the party would be thrilled to have him notice them. Marianne glanced back in his direction, but he had gone. She and Penelope started their perambulation again.

“But I imagine it’s all useless,” Penelope went on. “Mother says that there’s an unspoken understanding between him and Cecilia Winborne that someday they will marry. It would be a perfect match. Her lineage is as good as his, and there has never been a scandal in her family—they’re all terribly priggish,” she added confidentially.

Marianne laughed.

Penelope looked a trifle abashed. “I’m sorry. I should not have said that. You must think me terrible. Mother says I am always letting my tongue run away with me.”

“Nonsense,” Marianne assured her. “I think you are most enjoyable company—and that runaway tongue is one of the main reasons.”

“Really?” Penelope looked pleased. “I am always afraid that I’m going to say the wrong thing—and then, when I’m expected to talk, it seems as if my tongue won’t even work.”

“I have often felt that way myself,” Marianne lied kindly. In truth, she had rarely been afflicted with shyness. The matron at St. Anselm’s had always maintained that boldness was her worst vice—the first in a long list, of course.

Her words cheered Penelope up, however, for she began to talk again. “Bucky likes Lord Lambeth, says he’s a ‘fine chap.’ But he quite frightens me,” Penelope added honestly. “He is so very proud and cold. Everyone says so. His whole family is that way. His mother is even scarier than he is.”

“She must be a terror, then.”

“She is. Personally, I think she and Cecilia Winborne are cut from the same cloth. But since Lord Lambeth quite disdains love, I suppose it won’t matter to him.”

“Mmm. They sound like a delightful pair.”

Penelope giggled.

“I say—Penelope!” A male voice sounded behind them, and the two women turned to see a man strolling toward them. He was tall and sandy-haired, with a pleasant face, and he was smiling as he looked at Penelope. “What good luck, to catch you without Lady Ursula around.”

Color dotted Penelope’s cheeks, and her soft brown eyes lit up. She held out her hand to him. “Bucky! I wasn’t sure if you would be here tonight.”

“Oh, yes. I left the opera early. Nicola’s mother will probably have my head the next time I see her, but I mean, really!” He paused, indignation clear on his face. “There’s only so much of that caterwauling a man can be expected to take!”

Penelope smiled. “I am sure Lady Falcourt will understand.”

“No,” he replied ruefully. “But she won’t say much, for fear I won’t escort her next time.” He turned toward Marianne, saying, “Sorry, frightfully rude of me—”

His words died as he looked into Marianne’s face, and the color drained from his cheeks, then came back in a rush. “Oh, uh, I—I say.”

It was all Marianne could do to suppress a giggle. Lord Buckminster looked as if someone had hit him on the head.

“Mrs. Cotterwood, please allow me to introduce Lord Buckminster,” Penelope introduced them.

“How do you do?” Marianne held out her hand politely.

“Oh. I say. Great pleasure,” Buckminster managed to get out, stepping forward to take her hand. As he did so, he stumbled, but caught himself. He took Marianne’s hand and bowed over it, then released her and stood grinning down at her foolishly.

Marianne sighed inwardly. It was obvious to her that Penelope had very fond feelings for “Bucky,” but the man seemed oblivious to them. It was just as obvious that he was entranced by Marianne. She had had other men react to her this way. Marianne knew that she had the sort of looks that attracted men, although she was not vain about it—most of her life, her vibrant good looks had been the source of more trouble than good fortune.

Usually an infatuated admirer was no worse than a nuisance; she had learned how to discourage and avoid them. This time, however, she worried that Lord Buckminster’s open admiration would make Penelope dislike her. She glanced at Penelope, who looked a trifle sad, but resigned, then at Lord Buckminster, who was still smiling vapidly.

“It is very nice to meet you,” Marianne said pleasantly to Lord Buckminster, “but I am afraid I cannot stay and chat. I must get back to Mrs. Willoughby, or she will wonder what has become of me.”

“Allow me to escort you,” Buckminster said eagerly, straightening his cuff and in the process somehow dislodging the gold cuff link. It dropped to the floor and rolled away. “Oh, I say…” The man looked with some dismay at the piece of jewelry and bent to retrieve it.

“Oh, no,” Marianne protested quickly. “You must stay here and keep Penelope company. I am sure that you have a lot to talk about.”

She slipped away immediately, while Buckminster’s attention was still concentrated on his cuff link. Her departure was a trifle rude, she knew, but she felt sure that Penelope would not mind.

Weaving her way through the throng of people, Marianne made her way to the door. Snapping open her fan and wafting it as though the heat of the crowd was what had impelled her to leave the ballroom, she strolled along the corridor past a pair of footmen. She glanced about her in a seemingly casual way, noting to herself the locations of doors, windows and stairs. She paused as if to admire a portrait, and as she did so looked out the window, checking its accessibility from the street. Then she wandered to her right until she was out of sight of the footmen.

She made a quick check to be sure that there were no other guests or servants around, then started down the hallway, looking into each room as she passed it. Every one, she saw, was filled with expensive items, from artwork to furniture, but she was concerned only with those things that were easy to transport and just as easy to sell, such as silver vases and ornamental pieces. She was primarily interested in finding the study, for she knew that it was the most likely place for the safe to be located. Finding the safe and the best entrances and exits was always the focus of her job.

She located two drawing rooms and a music room, but no study, so she turned and made her way back down the corridor. As she neared the wide hallway that crossed this one and led back to the ballroom, her steps slowed to a seemingly aimless walk, and she once again began to ply her fan and to look up at the row of portraits as if she were studying them. She crossed the corridor, glancing down it out of the corner of her eye. She could not see that anyone, either the footmen or the two men standing outside the ballroom door conversing, was paying any attention to her.

Once across the hallway and out of sight, she resumed her investigation, opening doors and peering inside. The second door she opened was obviously the masculine retreat of the house, though it appeared to be more a smoking room than a study. There was no desk, nor were there any books, but the chairs were large and comfortable, and there was a cabinet with glasses and several decanters of whiskey and brandy atop it, as well as a narrow table holding two humidors and a rack of pipes. The drawings on the walls were hunting scenes, full of dogs and horses.

With a smile of satisfaction, Marianne reached into the room, picked up the candlestick on the table beside the door and lit it from the wall sconce in the hall. Then she slipped into the room and closed the door after her. This was the most dangerous part of her mission, as well as the most exciting. There was no good reason for her to be in her host’s smoking room, and if someone happened to come in on her, she would be hard pressed to talk her way out of the situation. She could lock the door, of course, but if someone tried to get in, that would seem even more suspicious. The best thing to do was simply to work as quickly as possible and hope that, if she did get caught, a winning smile and a quick tongue would get her out of the situation.

Heart pounding, Marianne set the candle down on the table and began to go around the room, shifting each of the hunting prints aside to examine the wall behind it. The third picture yielded the prize: a safe set into the wall. She leaned forward, examining the lock, which opened with a key rather than a combination.

“I do apologize, but I really cannot allow you to break open my host’s safe,” a masculine voice said behind her.

Marianne jumped and whirled around, her heart in her throat. Leaning negligently against the doorjamb, one eyebrow raised quizzically, was Lord Lambeth.