Marianne had known Helena, the Marchioness of Harteford, since childhood. They'd lived on neighboring estates and had been inseparable as girls. Though fate had parted them, they had rekindled their friendship three years ago in London, when Helena had arrived as a timid newlywed and Marianne a newly minted widow.
Now Helena had twin boys and a devoted husband. Whilst Marianne was genuinely happy for her friend, she could not help the bittersweet pang in her chest. Envy, yes… but mostly guilt. For she had a secret she'd yet to share with her friend. And she didn't know if she ever would.
You will—once you get Rosie back. Then you'll tell Helena. About everything.
Pride and shame proved powerful sentinels against the truth. Moreover, Marianne had always kept her own counsel, and the years with Draven had only reinforced that trust should be doled out sparingly, if at all.
Tilda brought over a silk dressing robe. "Ready for your ablutions, then?"
Marianne was about to answer when a familiar scratching sounded on the door.
Tilda went to open it, revealing Lugo's imposing figure. "Why a giant of a fellow scratches like a mouse, I'll never know," the maid said. "Why don't you knock like everyone else?"
Something flashed in Lugo's black eyes, an emotion that Marianne recognized all too well. For years, Lugo had been Draven's manservant; one did not shed Draven's training easily. Though a freed slave, Lugo had been bound by debt to Draven, who'd delighted in abusing the large African. One time, Marianne had witnessed Lugo accidently breaking a glass. Draven had entered the room, and the look of malevolent glee on his face had curdled her stomach.
He'd been ready to horsewhip Lugo; she'd intervened, claiming the accident as her own. For while she, too, had endured Draven's sadistic side, his abuses toward her had been less violent. He'd enjoyed her beauty too much to leave visible scars. Whenever he'd beaten her, he'd taken care not to break her skin; he'd scarred her in invisible places, ones that did not interfere with his pride of ownership. Or with the image of the benevolent husband that he'd projected to the world.
After Draven's death, Lugo had become Marianne's trusted servant, filling the roles of butler, footman, and guard. Unspoken camaraderie existed between them: they were survivors of the same war. In his stoic way, Lugo had pledged himself to helping her find her little girl.
"Good day, my lady," he said. His baritone carried the flavor of his native Africa, and his deeply carved features had a mask-like formality. "You instructed that I inform you of any arriving correspondence." He bowed his closely shorn head and held out a folded note. "This just arrived for you."
Marianne's heart sped up a notch. In an instant, she was on her feet, yanking on her robe. With trembling hands, she took the letter from Lugo and broke open the wax seal. She scanned the brief lines. The words blurred as excitement gripped her.
"What is it, milady?" Tilda asked.
"An invitation," Marianne said breathlessly. "Ready the carriage, Lugo. We are going shopping."
6
An hour later,Marianne stepped into the Bond Street salon, one of the most exclusive in London. The tinkling silver bell announced her arrival, and within moments the famed modiste emerged from the back to greet her. As usual, Amelie Rousseau looked chic and severe in unrelieved black. A tight chignon confined her ebony hair, and her dark eyes snapped with energy.
"Bonjour, Lady Draven." Amelie kissed the air near Marianne's cheeks. "The day brings such surprises,non?"
"For me as well as you. I hope you have not been inconvenienced by this," Marianne said, "and you must allow me to compensate you for the use of your shop."
"Normally, I would not condone suchbrouhahaon my premises, but for you,chérie, I shall make an exception. And there must be no talk of compensation between friends."
"Merci, Amelie. Once again, I am in your debt." Marianne inclined her head. She had few friends and considered the clever dressmaker one of them.
"Pas du tout.'Twas your patronage, after all, that helped to launch my star. To this day, no one shines as bright as Baroness Draven." Amelie ran an appraising eye over Marianne's ensemble. "As usual, I was right about the marigold silk.C'est parfait."
Marianne smiled at the satisfaction in the other's voice. "Now, Amelie, if I may conduct my business...?"
"Mais oui.The, ahem,... gentleman is in the orchid dressing room."
Hearing the subtle contempt in the other's voice, Marianne said, "Though I am not at liberty to say more, this isn't an amorous assignation, Amelie. That I can assure you."
The modiste's narrow forehead smoothed. "I suspected as much. Your taste, my lady, has always been indisputable." She gave a quick nod. "You must attend to whatever intrigue awaits you. I shall remain in front to deter prying eyes."
Thankful that the other did not ask further questions—Amelie was nothing if not discreet—Marianne passed through the curtain to the back of the shop. Like everything in the modiste's domain, the space was spotless and elegant. She passed by two dressing rooms before entering the final room to the right.
She shut the door behind her. Standing in a far corner, Andrew Corbett turned in her direction. His tailored blue cutaway and buff trousers molded to his fit form. He held the spotted petal of an orchid between his manicured fingertips.
"Pretty thing, ain't it?" His eyes assessed her; in the daylight, the brown orbs had depths to them that the darkness of the bawdy house had obscured. A self-deprecating smile edged his chiseled lips. "Had to see for myself if it was real."
"Let us cut to the chase, Mr. Corbett," she replied. "How much?"
"Beg pardon?"
