Promise Me Tomorrow (6 page)

R
ICHARD
M
ONTFORD, THE SIXTH
E
ARL OF
E
XMOOR
,
leaned back in his chair, contemplating the man standing in front of him. “Well, well…It’s been a while since we have talked, hasn’t it? Sit down, sit down.” He waved toward the chair facing his desk. “No need to stand there like a gapeseed.”

The other man shook his head, frowning. He was younger than the Earl, and there was only a hint of gray in his hair yet. He was conservatively dressed, though his clothes were well-tailored, and his features were attractive but not memorable. He was the sort of man one might pass on the street and never notice, but anyone who met him would immediately classify him as a gentleman.

“What is this all about, Montford?” he asked, his voice rough with irritation and something else, perhaps a touch of apprehension. “We are scarcely what one would consider friends any longer.”

“No. One would hardly recognize in you the flamboyant youth I once knew.”

“Flamboyant? Hardly. In a haze of opium and alcohol, more like. But as we both know, I have put that life behind me. I cannot conceive why you should wish to speak to me.”

“It is not so much ‘wish’ as necessity, dear chap. You have heard, I presume, the gossip about this American heiress who married Lord Thorpe, Alexandra Ward?”

“Of course. The Countess’s granddaughter whom everyone thought was dead. Is that what you called me here for—to rehash yesterday’s gossip?”

Richard did not answer except to give him a thin, tight smile that conveyed the opposite of amusement. His visitor looked at him for a moment, trying for an air of unconcern, but the tapping of his fingers against his thigh gave him away.

Finally, when the Earl said nothing else, he burst out, “What the devil does it have to do with me? She is your cousin, not mine.”

“Ah, but your past is intertwined….”

“Not with hers! I never saw the child. You said she was dead.”

“So I believed.” Exmoor’s hazel eyes hardened in his thin, almost ascetic face. “The damned woman lied to me!”

“I don’t know why you care. You had nothing to do with
her
disappearance. From what I heard it was her mother—her
supposed
mother—who pretended that she died.”

“Yes, but Alexandra’s return alerted them to the fact that the other two children did not die in Paris, either. The Countess knows that this Ward woman brought them to Exmoor House.”

“But you were not implicated, surely. I thought their disappearance was blamed on this woman who confessed, the Countess’s companion, and she is dead.”

“The Countess suspects me. She knows that I am the only person who would benefit from the boy’s death. For all I know, that fool Miss Everhart told her I was involved.”

“But she cannot prove it, or surely she would have by now.”

“Yes, and I don’t want her to be able to prove anything in the future. She won’t drag the Exmoor name through the mud for no reason, but if she were able to prove that I was involved, even the fear of scandal would not hold her back.”

“How could she possibly prove it? The Everhart woman is dead, and I certainly am not going to say anything. I have as much to lose as you.”

Again the Earl’s lips curled up in a cruel smile. “I know. That is why I sent for you. The Countess is looking for the girl, Marie Anne.”

The other man stiffened, his fidgeting hand going still. After a long moment, he cleared his throat nervously. “She cannot find her.”

“They’ve put a Bow Street Runner on it. I understand that he has tracked her down to the orphanage.”

“St. Anselm’s?” Sweat dotted the man’s lip.

“I’m surprised you remember.”

“How could I forget?” His mouth twisted bitterly. “Not all of us are blessed with your lack of conscience.”

Richard raised one eyebrow. “It wasn’t your boringly pedestrian morality I questioned. Frankly, I’m surprised you remember anything from that time.”

The other man pressed his lips together. “It was a sobering experience.”

“That was what caused you to give up your old life?” Richard’s voice was tinged with amusement.

“Yes. When I found myself standing in my room holding a pistol to my head.”

“How very dramatic.”

“I am sure the scene would have afforded you a great deal of amusement. But I realized then that I had to die or I had to change. I could not go on as I was. I chose to give up my vices. God knows, there were moments in the weeks that followed when I wished that I
had
pulled the trigger.”

“I, for one, am glad that you did not. I have a task for you.”

“A task?” He looked astonished. “You think that I am going to do something for you? I paid my debt to you when I took those children for you. I wouldn’t lift a finger for you again.”

“Ah, but what about for yourself?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I am not the only one who would suffer if certain details from the past came to light.”

“How could it? The older one, the boy, didn’t even live, did he? He was at death’s door when I left him.”

“The boy is dead,” Richard replied curtly. “That is not the problem. It is the girl.”

“She can’t have been more than five or six. She couldn’t remember.”

“Perhaps not. But if she saw a face—the face of the man who had ripped her from her brother, say, who had taken her to an orphanage and placed her in that hellhole—who is to say that she might not remember then?”

“Surely—you’re not telling me that they have found her.”

Richard shrugged. “I doubt it. Not yet. But I sent a man to St. Anselm’s, too, when I heard that the Countess was looking for the chit. They told me where she went when she left there.”

“Where was that?” The words seemed pulled from him, as if he did not really want to know, yet could not stop himself from asking.

“She went into service with one of the local gentry. Family named Quartermaine.”

“Good God!” He paled a trifle. “The daughter of generations of earls, a maid.”

“Mmm. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Tragic, I would say.”

“She was cast out of the Quartermaine house—pregnant.”

The other man closed his eyes. “God forgive me.”

“God may, but I doubt the polite world would.”

“I did not want to!” he lashed out, goaded. “You know I tried to argue you out of it. Sweet Jesus, when I handed the little thing over to that dragon of a matron, and she was kicking and screaming and crying….” His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“Yet you did it.”

“You made me! It was the only way I could wipe clean my debt to you. You kept giving me the money, urging me to take it, and I couldn’t stop myself. I had to have that sweet oblivion.”

“I hardly forced it on you. You begged me for the money, shaking and sweating, the color of a corpse. What else could a friend have done? As I remember, at the time you praised me for my generosity.”

“I did not know then why you did it! How you got people in your debt and made them do wicked things! How you twisted and crushed them into monsters scarcely recognizable as themselves.”

“Really. Dear fellow…do you think you would have done it if you hadn’t had it in you already? You could have refused, you know.”

“I know.” Self-disgust filled his voice. “I was weak.”

Richard did not comment. He could have pointed out that the man was still weak or he would not have come in answer to his summons. But there wasn’t any point in antagonizing him unduly. It might put his back up enough to give him some spine.

“Do you think that will help you any? If people know that you took Chilton’s daughter from her family and put her in an orphanage because you had to have money for opium? For gambling and drinking and whoring? Do you think they will feel any sympathy for you?” Richard asked. When the other man glared at him, he went on, “Quite so. You and I both know what would happen to this exemplary little life that you have built up if the
ton
knew what you had done. Oh, no doubt some people with long memories still can recall that you were wild in your youth—so many men are, and then sober up and become responsible citizens. But none of them know about
this.
”

“What are you threatening? To tell everyone what I did? It will only implicate you!”

“Oh, no, I shan’t tell…not unless I am forced to. But if the Countess’s man finds the girl…if she tells everyone what happened, and I am brought down because of it, I promise you, I shan’t go down alone. I will take you with me.”

“You are disgusting.”

“What has that to do with the matter at hand? And just think, what if this girl identifies you? You are the one who took her there, you know, the last face she saw. It is you she will remember best.”

“I tell you, she won’t remember! You forget the things that happened to you when you were a child.”

“Even something that changed your life forever? I don’t know. It seems to me to be something she might remember. Or say she chanced to meet you and at the sight of your face those long forgotten memories came back? But if you are willing to risk it…” He shrugged eloquently.

“Damn you! What is it you want of me?”

“I want you to make sure that the Countess’s man doesn’t find her.”

“And how am I supposed to find her?”

“That will not be so very hard. All the servants disclaimed knowledge of her whereabouts, but one of the grooms pulled him aside and told him some interesting facts—for a price, of course. The world is so venal. It seems that little Mary Chilton—yes, that is what she called herself—had a special friend among the other servants, another maid named Winny Thompson. A couple of years after Mary left, this Winny apparently came into some good fortune. She received a letter, and promptly after that she quit her job and took the stage to London. He says the rumor was that Mary had found some means to support herself and had invited her dear friend to come live with her. My man paid him to keep the information to himself, and then he tracked this Winny Thompson to London. It seems that one of the maids gets letters from her every so often, and the housekeeper has seen the most recent address.”

“So he found…Mary?”

“I think so. He found Winny Thompson, in any case. She is the housekeeper for an apparent family, one of whom is a ‘widow’ with a nine-year-old daughter. That is the right age for Mary Chilton’s ‘delicate condition.’ The supposed widow’s name is Marianne Cotterwood. She is in her mid-twenties, and her hair is a bright red.”

The other man groaned.

“Yes. It sounds very much like the girl we seek.”

“If your man has found out so much, why don’t you have him keep her away from the Countess? He sounds quite competent.”

“Oh, he is. He is. But there are two problems. One is that I would like to make sure that Mrs. Cotterwood really is the woman I seek. The other is that I do not like to hire someone for an operation as delicate as this. A paid servant of that type can so easily turn around and gouge more money from you for being silent, you see. You, on the other hand, could scarcely extort money by threatening to break your silence. That is why I realized that you would be the perfect man for the job.”

“What is it you want me to do—pay her to leave London before the Countess’s man can find her?”

“An easy solution, of course, but too unreliable. I find that people so rarely keep their word.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” he asked, his patience obviously wearing thin.

“It’s quite simple. This woman appears to a gentlewoman, not a former maid. She moves in your sort of circle. You could easily meet her and ascertain whether she is, in fact, the woman we seek. Then…”

He paused and fixed a gaze of pure iron on the man. “Then you will kill her.”

M
ARIANNE 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.

P
ENELOPE 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.”