With a start, Ambrose realized a gentleman was attempting to get by him. That, and the fact that his shaft had begun to stiffen in his smalls. With a silent curse, he stepped aside and vowed to banish Marianne Draven from his thoughts once and for all. No good could come of such wickedness. Though he had little to call his own, he could count self-discipline and good sense amongst his holdings.
Resolved, he checked in on his charge. The hairs on his nape prickled when no jaunty white feather came into view. He pushed past the startled man whom he'd just let by and began going through the aisles. He told himself Miss Fines had likely bent to examine a book on some lower shelf.
He raced past shelf after shelf. No sign of her anywhere.
It couldn't have been more than three minutes since you saw her last. Think, man. She has to be here somewhere.
A sudden chill raced up his spine, and he raced to the back corner of the shop. The door—the one he'd believed was locked—swung open on its hinges. He pushed through; the alleyway was shadowed and empty, nothing untoward…
Except for the single white plume lying in the dirt.
8
"Is everything quite alright, Marianne?"
The gentle voice returned Marianne to the elegant cameo blue drawing room. Helena, Marchioness of Harteford, sat on an adjacent curricle chair, a notch between her chestnut brows. Though she was fond of Helena, Marianne did not like the hint of worry in the other's wide hazel eyes. The last thing she needed was for her friend to pry into her affairs.
She'd written Bartholomew Black and received a scrawled reply this morning:Her Ladyship will be received by Mr. Black at ten o'clock sharp Friday night.Thinking of the plan she'd set into action, Marianne felt her pulse quicken. Tomorrow evening, she would be bartering with a cutthroat for Primrose's life.
At the moment, however, she had to get through tea.
"Everything is fine," she said lightly. "You needn't count me amongst your chicks, Mother Hen."
Helena's porcelain cheeks turned pink. "'Tis a habit, I suppose. Not that it seems to do me any good." She cast an exasperated look at her twin boys, who were currently busy taking apart the pianoforte. "I do so hate to disturb their explorations of the world, but at times their energy seems quite limitless. Perhaps I should take a firmer hand."
"You are a fine and loving mother," Marianne said. "Your boys and this new babe are fortunate indeed, dearest."
As Helena's blush grew deeper, her hand settling upon the lilac muslin folds over her belly, Marianne took a sip of the fine Darjeeling. The bitterness of the tea was no match for the emotion that leaked inside her breast. Helena was the finest of parents—which was more than Marianne could say for herself. It reminded her too keenly of her own failures, of how much Rosie had had to endure because of her recklessness. Her stupidity.
And, at times, another form of torment came from looking into Helena's sweet hazel eyes. They were so much like Thomas'... which was hardly surprising, given that Marianne's first lover—and Primrose's father—was Helena's dead brother. The trite tale might have been ripped from the pages of a gothic novel: poor country miss falls for her rich friend's older brother.
She could still hear Helena's innocent, chatty girl's voice:
Now that Thomas is home, Papa's invited over a legion of eligible misses. I like Lady Louisa myself—she's ever so accomplished and beautiful and a duke's daughter to boot. Mama says she'd make a lovely addition to our family, and I think Thomas is quite smitten with her. Why, he wore a dreamy smile all through tea...
Helena had never suspected that Marianne had put that expression on Thomas' face. Marianne had been with him in the meadow just a half-hour before the arrival of the Northgates' esteemed visitors. Thomas, heir to the earldom, had whispered promises as he took her amongst the shivering grasses.
We'll talk to Papa soon. Trust me, Marianne, you'll be my bride—
"Heavens, whatisplaguing you?" Helena's voice snapped Marianne back. "Clearly, something is amiss, and I do wish you would confide in me. As I have so oft done in you. I am no longer a silly innocent, you know—youcantrust me."
To gather herself, Marianne drank more tea. She did not doubt her friend's assertion. Since meeting up with Helena in London, she'd discovered the other had grown up a great deal. Indeed, Helena's fortitude had won her the devotion of her husband, the brooding Marquess of Harteford.
And therein lay the problem. Not every romance had a happy ending; in comparison, Marianne's own tale was a sordid one indeed. The familiar, uneasy mix of love and envy stirred within her. The truth was that she'd always felt lacking compared to her friend. Though Marianne had undoubtedly been the leader of the two, she'd secretly coveted all that Helena took for granted: wealth, doting parents, a childhood of privileged innocence.
Marianne's own mother had died during childbirth, and her father, a bitter, penniless country squire, had cared more for his hounds than his only child.
A gel, he'd rage when in his cups.What am I supposed to do with a good-for-nothing chit?
Marianne did not like to remember the past. What was done was done. And she knew jealousy was small of her. While she did not like herself for it, she at least recognized her own flaws. Sweet, virtuous Helena deserved every happiness; Marianne did not begrudge her for it. It did not, however, make Marianne eager to expose her own failures.
And what would she say?
By the by, Helena, your brother and I were tupping behind your back. We went to ask for your father's blessing; the earl said he'd disown Thomas before he let his heir marry a slut like me. Thomas died while trying to get back to me. Oh, and that old lecher I married? He kidnapped my sweet babe and consigned her to purgatory.
Marianne set her Sèvres cup down upon the coffee table. "Thank you, dearest, but nothing is the matter."
Helena chewed on her lip, and Marianne steeled herself for what was to come next. She was relieved by the change in topic.
