Promise Me Tomorrow (14 page)

“You
were
stealing,” Justin was spurred to defend himself. “I walked in on you looking at the safe!”

“Did I take anything?”

“Of course not. I caught you before you could.”

“Really, Lord Lambeth, what do you think I was going to do, stick the family plate under my skirts and walk out? Or would I just have stuffed it all in a pillowcase and slung it over my back? It is absurd.”

“You could easily have taken a few pieces of jewelry. Or perhaps you were doing something else—examining the place for your friends, say. Once I met young Piers and the others, I realized that you probably were operating as part of a ring of thieves. What do you do—use your beauty and apparent refinement to get inside the houses of the wealthy? Then you can locate the valuables, including the safe, for your less elegant friends to break into the house some night and swipe? Rather a nice plan, actually. I can see how it would be of great benefit—makes for a quick in and out, less opportunity of discovery. What I can’t decide is whether you have picked up the mannerisms and speech of a lady in order to play the role, or whether you were brought up as such and have since then fallen.”

“It really doesn’t matter to me what you think. But I wish you would stop trying to bamboozle me into thinking that you hold me in some esteem. The truth is that you think I am the lowest sort of person, that I would have no qualms about selling my body. As if the nobility were the only people who had any sort of morals!”

“I know that there are many good, honest people who are not noble or wealthy. But I would scarcely classify a thief or a pickpocket or a cardsharp as one of those!”

“At least you are being more honest. I realize what you think of me. Just don’t try to gudgeon me into thinking that you regard me in any other light. Your only interest in me is to keep me from fixing Lord Buckminster’s interest, and you would do almost anything—including plying me with flattery—to achieve that. Your tricks won’t work, sir. Now, if you will excuse me, I believe that I will go back inside and see if someone will show me to my room.”

She turned on her heel and strode away from him.

A
S
M
ARIANNE STARTED DOWN THE STAIRS
to join the others for supper, her eyes went to where Lambeth stood, chatting with another man, a few feet away from the door to the drawing room. He turned as she watched him and looked up at the stairs. Marianne quickly turned her head away, feeling a tell-tale blush creeping up her neck and hoping that he was too far away to see it. He would think that she had been looking for him—and, of course, she had to admit to herself that she had been, which made it even worse.

She glanced around the large entryway below, looking for Penelope or Nicola. Her stomach was dancing with nerves; she had never had to play her role in a situation like this, where she was with the people she was trying to deceive all the time. She could not let down her guard for even an instant. Her accent and carriage were second nature to her now; she wasn’t really afraid of making a slip in that regard. But she knew it would be all too easy to let loose a statement that, while uttered in perfect tones, would reveal that she had not been raised a lady at all. An opinion that did not match that of an aristocratic woman, or the relation of an experience that a lady would not have had, or the expression of some sort of knowledge that would be forever out of the ken of a well-bred woman—any of those things could sink her.

Worst of all was the fact that she knew nothing about most of the people that they knew. It would not be strange not to know the people of this “set,” of course, but they would know many people outside that group, and their names would come up in conversation, especially the prolonged sort of conversations that must take place at an extended party. It would look odd if she had to admit time and again that she did not know this person or that. She could pretend to know them, of course, but then, if somehow her lie came out, it would look even worse. The possibilities made her feel quite ill. So she looked for the comfort of a friend, not even noticing that she was regarding Penelope as a friend.

As she strolled across the entryway, she caught sight of Nicola and Penelope inside the drawing room itself, chatting with Lord Buckminster and a few other people. Penelope, she saw with some satisfaction, was looking much better tonight. That afternoon, she and Nicola had helped Penelope dress. Marianne had picked out a dinner gown in a dark, yellowish green that had suited Penelope’s coloring. Its simple style did not overwhelm the girl with frills and furbelows, as most of the clothes her mother chose did. When Penelope was dressed, Nicola and her personal maid arranged Penelope’s hair in a soft, pleasant style, pulled back to the crown of her head and falling in a few fat curls. Both the dress and the hairstyle suited her. But, Marianne thought, watching her, it was the increased color and animation in Penelope’s face that really enhanced her looks, and that, Marianne felt sure, was largely a result of being out from under the watchful, censorious eye of her mother.

Marianne started toward the drawing room to join them, watching Lord Lambeth from the corner of her eye. Her heart speeded up as she wondered if he would intercept her before she reached the door, not quite sure whether she hoped that he would or would not. But then Buckminster came striding out the door, ending her speculation. He came toward her, beaming, and Marianne, aware of Lord Lambeth’s gaze on her, returned the smile, holding out her hand to him.

“Lord Buckminster,” she said gaily, as if she had not seen him in ages, as he bowed over her hand. Then she tucked her hand into his arm, leaning cozily in toward him. “Shall we walk a little?”

Buckminster was of course pleased to acquiesce to this desire, and they took a slow stroll around the wide central hall. It occurred to Marianne that she might as well begin her role-within-a-role. It wasn’t really something she wanted to do, but she knew that it was the best way to quash Buckminster’s infatuation with her.

She smiled up at him archly. “I am sure Miss Castlereigh must be fuming.”

Bucky looked surprised. “Penelope? Why?”

“Why, because I have lured you away from her.”

“Penelope? Oh, no. She’s a good girl, Penelope, friend of mine for years.”

Marianne let out a tinkling laugh and gave him a pitying look. “Oh, really, Lord Buckminster. The girl is in love with you.”

It would do him good to be shaken up a little, Marianne thought. His way of thinking of Penelope as a chum was an impediment to his thinking of her as a woman he could love. Besides, Marianne had often noted that if a man discovered that someone had an interest in him, it often made him realize that perhaps he had an interest in her.

Buckminster looked at Marianne in astonishment. “No, you can’t be right.”

He turned to look back into the room at Penelope as if seeing her suddenly with new eyes. Then he shook his head firmly. “I am sure you are wrong.”

Marianne shrugged coolly. “Of course she tries to hide it. She knows she hasn’t a chance. Poor thing…it must be quite dreadful to be plain.”

“Penelope isn’t plain!” Lord Buckminster protested in shocked tones. He looked at Marianne in pained surprise. “I thought Penelope was your friend.”

Marianne chuckled. “Why, Lord Buckminster, didn’t you realize that a plain woman is the very best sort of friend for a woman to have? She is such a nice foil…and one never has to worry about her stealing your beaux.”

Buckminster gaped at her, his pleasant face stamped with shock. Marianne sighed inside. She hated having to make the man dislike her. They strolled on for a moment, and a troubled frown replaced the shock on Buckminster’s face.

After a moment, he said firmly, “I am sure you don’t mean that, Mrs. Cotterwood.”

“Heavens no, just a little jest,” Marianne replied. She had not really expected Bucky’s feelings to change in an instant, but she knew that her callous words would be like a worm inside him now, eating away at his regard for her. She began to flirt assiduously with him again. They were drawing close to Lambeth.

Lambeth and the other man bowed as they approached, and Buckminster stopped to introduce Marianne to the other man. He was Sir William Verst, one of Bucky’s and Lambeth’s friends, a horse-mad sort whose conversation primarily consisted of discussion of horses he owned and horses he was thinking of purchasing, with a few comments sprinkled in about horses someone else possessed.

Several other guests had arrived, and by the time they removed to the dining room for the meal, she had been introduced to most of them. Alan Thurston and his wife, Elizabeth, were there. Marianne had met them at Nicola’s party the week before, and she remembered that he was standing for Parliament. He had brought his secretary with him this time, a Reginald Fuquay. Marianne wondered whether it was because he had so much political business to attend to that he could not spend even a week without working or without his secretary—or because he simply wanted to appear to be that harried and busy. Fuquay, Marianne thought, looked much more like a distinguished statesman than Thurston, who was short and balding. Fuquay, on the other hand, was tall and elegantly slim, with dark hair. He was also, Marianne thought, a more interesting conversationalist.

Besides Sir William, there were two other unattached males who were friends of Lord Buckminster. The two were invariably together and made an amusing contrast. Lesley Westerton was short and slightly pudgy, with thinning, overly long blond hair. He spoke at length and with an often biting wit. Lord Chesfield, on the other hand, was dark, tall, thin and almost disconcertingly quiet. Both, Lord Buckminster assured her, were “bang-up fellows,” though he had to admit with some embarrassment that Westerton was not much of a rider. This, Marianne took it, was a flaw that loomed large with Bucky.

Rounding out their guest list were Edward Minton and his wife, an older couple who apparently had been invited by Bucky’s mother, and the couple whom they had met earlier in the afternoon, Sir George and Sophronia Merridale. Buckminster was quick to steer Marianne away from them.

“Took me an hour to get free of them this afternoon,” he confided sotto voce. “That woman talked so much it made my ears hurt. Thank God Penelope was there, too.”

He steered her in the direction of Penelope, who was talking with the tandem of Lord Chesfield and Lesley Westerton. Marianne, as soon as she was introduced to the group, proceeded to flirt like mad with both men, though it was Westerton who produced most of the banter. She could sense Bucky’s growing dismay beside her, but she steeled herself to do the job. Subtly she edged away from Buckminster, turning toward the other two men. After a moment, she expressed an interest in viewing a certain painting across the room, and obligingly Westerton offered her his arm. Chesfield, of course, came with them. Marianne resolutely kept her gaze away from Lord Buckminster as she left him to Penelope’s sympathetic care.

Westerton, she suspected, was more interested in their wordplay than he was in her, which fit her plans perfectly. She had no desire to add another swain to complicate matters. He was also, she found out, a great gossip. Sir George Merridale, he informed her, had married the voluble Sophronia for her fortune.

“Really?” Marianne turned speculative eyes on the pair.
Now
there
was someone she would not feel any qualms about taking possessions from.

“Oh, yes,” Westerton went on chattily. “Her grandfather was a Cit, you know. He bought his daughter’s way into a marriage with some sort of minor gentry—fourth son of a daughter of a baronet or some such thing. Went one better with the granddaughter and hitched her to Merridale. Sir George was penniless, I hear.”

“What about Mr. Thurston and his wife?” Marianne asked.

Westerton shrugged. “As far as I know, he is rather average in most ways. Decent family, decent money. I have heard he sowed a few wild oats when he was younger—who hasn’t? But now he is a rather dull fellow. His secretary, now, comes from an old family, but no money. Intelligent fellow—I’ve talked to him. Then there’s Verst—good gad, don’t get him started on horses—though I suppose there’s little else he’s able to talk about.”

Marianne chuckled. “You are rather hard on your fellow guests, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say a word against Lambeth,” Westerton protested, then added with a twinkle in his eyes, “Wouldn’t dare. Fellow’s dashed handy with his fists.”

“Well,
I
think he is far too proud for his own good.” Unconsciously she glanced across the room to where he lounged, elbow on the mantelpiece, talking to Lady Buckminster. He laughed at something the older woman said, his face alight with affection, and Marianne was aware of a twist of pain in her chest.
What would it be like to have Lambeth look at her like that?

Westerton arched a brow. “My, my, what do we have here? Has the future Duke of Storbridge made a misstep with you? Usually he’s a favorite with the females.”

“Not this female. I found him rude and arrogant.”

“What did he do? I am all agog.”

Marianne made a dismissive gesture with her hand. She had revealed too much by her statement. The last thing she wanted was for the gossipy Westerton to start trying to ferret out information about her and Lord Lambeth.

“He is rather proud,” Lord Chesfield said suddenly, startling them both. “Whole family is. It’s the duke thing.”

Westerton’s lips quirked at one corner, and he said seriously, “No doubt you’re right, Ches.”

At that moment Lord Lambeth turned his head, and his eyes fastened on their little group. He glanced from Marianne to Chesfield, then over to Westerton, his gaze as hard as stone.

“Oh, my,” Westerton murmured. “It appears I have made an enemy of
two
lords tonight.” He flashed a humorous look at Marianne. “Buckminster is one thing, but I’m not sure I want to incur Lambeth’s wrath even for your fine eyes.”

“Don’t worry. I doubt his anger is directed at
you.
Lord Lambeth and I…have had a few disagreements.”

“Mmm.” Westerton’s voice was noncommittal as he raised a hand in greeting to Lord Lambeth. “I wouldn’t be so sure, dear girl. The man looks positively proprietary.”

“He is rather set on owning things, I’ve noticed,” Marianne retorted, gazing at Lambeth with what she hoped was hauteur. “Pity he hasn’t realized that it doesn’t extend to people.”

Westerton’s eyes glowed with interest. “My dear Mrs. Cotterwood, pray tell me what Lambeth has done to inspire such enmity. I confess, you have me fairly twitching with curiosity. Should I challenge him for your sake?”

His words touched Marianne’s ready sense of humor, and laughter bubbled up from her throat. “No. I don’t think that’s required.”

“Good,” Chesfield commented. “Wouldn’t want to have to be your second, old chap.”

Lambeth said something to Lady Buckminster, then levered himself away from the mantel and started across the room toward them. The butler entered the room at that moment, however, and announced that dinner was served. Lambeth frowned, but stopped and returned to Lady Buckminster to do his duty, as the highest ranking man in the room, of escorting her to dinner. Marianne took Westerton’s arm with relief, and they made their way out of the room, well behind Lord Lambeth.

M
ARIANNE WAS UP EARLY THE NEXT
morning, as were most of the other guests, for the evening before, after supper, Lady Buckminster had announced that they had planned an expedition to White Lady Falls this morning. It was a ride of some distance, with a picnic served at the Falls itself, so they would have to get an early start. Marianne intended to use the trip and her own lack of riding skills to further her plan with Bucky. His mother had said that Penelope was an excellent rider, and, knowing Bucky’s interest in riding, Marianne hoped that the contrast between the two of them would show Penelope to advantage.