Unmasking the Thief, page 22
“So, Sir Anthony has been squiring you to parties?” she said, reverting to the previous topic as they settled at the table.
“Well, he takes us there and then vanishes. We don’t see him again until we leave.”
“He seemed attentive enough at the Wennings’ ball.”
Marion drew in her breath. “He didn’t want us in London, you know. He wanted me to wait in the country until he came home in the summer to be married. He didn’t seem to understand that I might want some excitement, elegant new clothes, a sight of the townhouse where we are to live when parliament sits.”
“To say nothing of spending time with him,” Matty murmured. “And he with you.”
“Exactly,” Marion said. “And he did obtain us the invitation to Lady Wenning’s ball, from which all our acquaintance in London has stemmed, but…” She broke off as the footman entered with a tray and set out the tea things on the table.
Matty poured the tea and indicated Marion help herself to sandwiches, scones, or cakes.
“He is always so busy,” Marion said. “Even when he takes us to parties, he spends his time with important friends and leaves us quite to our own devices. Once, I’m sure he even left and came back to fetch us.”
“And this,” Matty asked carefully, “makes you discontented?”
“It’s a bit like being taken by your parent to play with other children for an afternoon.”
Matty sipped her tea. “What does Mama say?” she asked at last.
Marion shrugged. “That I knew he was a busy man when I agreed to marry him.”
“And you are wondering now if this is enough?”
Marion nodded miserably. “You told me, and I knew in my heart, that he would never have offered for me if I had not inherited a fortune. And I knew he had not treated you well. But I thought it wouldn’t matter. That I would like to be Lady Thorne, with an important husband, a house in town, respected and sought after. That I would not miss him so much if I was busy, too, especially if you were with me. But when I compare his neglect to…”
“To what?”
“To Lord Danvers’s attentiveness,” Marion said with a touch of defiance. “He has walked with us in the park. He makes a point of dancing with me or talking to me when we meet at parties. And he dotes on his little daughters, who are delightful.”
With an effort, Matty managed not to dive into the fray with both feet. “And so, you have begun to wonder if you would not prefer a husband who is a little more of a partner? Who supported you, as well as expected your support?”
Marion nodded. “I agreed to marry Sir Anthony.”
“But no contracts or settlements have yet been signed?”
“No. What should I do, Matty?”
Matty considered. “What you are doing. You have been immured in the country all your adult life, knowing only the same people you grew up with. Make friends and see where it takes you.”
“But I am engaged to Sir Anthony!”
“It sounds to me as if you no longer wish to be.”
“I don’t think I do,” Marion whispered.
Matty drew in her breath. “Tell him. Sooner rather than later. And then tell the biggest gossip you know.”
Marion stared at her, the teacup hovering at her lips. “Why?”
“Because I would not be surprised if Sir Anthony came in for a fall,” Matty said, “and I would not like you to be associated with him when it happened. If it happened.”
Marion frowned, searching her eyes. “You are warning me.”
“I have been warning you since you engaged yourself to him.”
Marion was silent. She stared down into her teacup. “You were the brave one, the one who went away and made sure we did not starve after Papa died. I told myself I had to stay, to look after Mama, that my role was equally as vital as yours. But I envied you that courage. Part of me, at least, was ashamed that I did not at least try to do the same. And then I did one better. I, not you, inherited the money, and suddenly everything was different. I was rich, looking after Mama and the house. I had attracted the suitor who had already rejected you. In fact, you were the disapproved of sister because you would not leave your post to help me.” She paused, shaking her head. “Sibling jealousy is not a pretty emotion. Even at the time, I did not like it.”
Marion set down her cup with an upward quirk of her lips. “Funnily enough, since we came to London, I have been remembering our childhood more, the fun and the secrets… It’s a shame we grow up.”
“No,” Matty said. “There’s just a different kind of fun to be had.”
Marion reached across the table and took her hand. Matty squeezed it and felt tears well behind her eyes.
*
“She’s going to tell him tonight,” Matty told Francisco when they met in the disused coach house on the Bernard Street mews. “Which I can’t help thinking is a good thing, not just for her, but for our plans. Without Marion’s money, he has to stick to his scheme, whatever the difficulties raised by Holles and the others. Otherwise, his creditors will descend on him like all the fiends of hell.”
“That is true. Providing he takes his conge like a gentleman.”
Matty frowned with fresh worry. “I had not thought of that. I just thought she would be safe from association with him if the word spreads beforehand that their engagement is ended.”
“It is certainly best. Did you tell Marion about our engagement?”
Matty flushed and shook her head. “It didn’t seem right while she was ending her own. There’s a world of sisterly grudges and jealousies I never took the time to deal with.”
“It is not all your responsibility,” he pointed out, taking her hands.
“Nor all hers.” She stepped into Francisco’s arms and, with a little sigh of contentment, rested her head on his chest. “And your own arrangements for Thorne?”
“Well in hand. We should have a large crowd at Maida, of the highest and the lowest in the city. When will you marry me?”
She smiled into his coat. “Whenever you like. Tonight, if you wish. When this all over if you prefer.”
“I have run an old university friend to earth. He is in holy orders and prepared to perform the marriage where and when we wish. Tonight might be a stretch, but we could arrange it for Saturday afternoon.”
Her breath caught. “So I will be your wife when we go to Maida?”
“If you would like to be.”
She took his face between her hands. “Oh, I would, Francisco. I would.”
Their lips met in a sweet, satisfying kiss, one of promise rather than arousal.
“I have to go,” he said reluctantly. “Two o’clock on Saturday, at Grillon’s.”
“Grillon’s?” she repeated, startled.
“I thought you would like your family to be there.”
“Actually, I would,” she said, surprised by the discovery.
“And ask whoever else you wish.” He stepped back and raised each of her hands to his lips. “Until Saturday.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sir Anthony Thorne strode furiously away from Grillon’s Hotel. How dare she? The little country nobody thought she could jilt him? She would soon find out her mistake, for he was not the man to let a fortune slip through his fingers. Or allow himself to be a laughing stock at this critical juncture.
He would allow her tonight and perhaps tomorrow to regret her words. It was pique, after all, and she had a point. He had not been as attentive as he should. She had a right, as his betrothed, to expect more. And as soon as this business at Maida was done, he would live in her damned pocket until Thursday, when the fireworks would begin. By a week tomorrow, he would be Prime Minister or going by whatever title was considered appropriate to a more autocratic ruler. And she would be overwhelmed.
In fact, he could easily nip her intent to jilt him in the bud. He should have thought of it before. Let her wretched mother discover them in a compromising position, and they would be down the aisle tomorrow. For the moment, though, he couldn’t really trust himself to manage it properly. He was more angry and flustered than he could recall since he came of age, and having to deal with the last-minute jitters of people who had been eating out of his hand—unknowingly, of course—for months.
This was something else he had not foreseen. Several sources over the last few days had brought him notes and words of worry. They wanted his word the troops would not be turned loose on them, that their voices would be heard with impunity. He had been at a loss as to how to calm these unexpected last-minute nerves, which was part of what had kept him from the side of his betrothed. But then young Holles had come up with the perfect solution. If discretion was so vital to their leader until the march, why didn’t he speak, masked, to some of the leaders at Maida Gardens?
There, everyone would be masked for the public masquerade ball. The other patrons would be drunk and dancing, and no one would pay a blind bit of attention to a group of more serious people in a quiet part of the garden. Thorne was something of an orator. He did not doubt his ability to twist the doubters around his little finger, and with less effort that it would take to bring Marion Mather back to heel. The only trouble was, it took more arranging. He would need more bodyguards, a speedy exit, clothes that would not give him away, a thick mask, and practice at disguising his voice.
At this point, he realized his steps were taking him to Bruton Street, which was just what he needed. He would catch Emma before she went out for the evening, restore his male pride and equilibrium to where they should be by means of brisk, physical pleasure. And then go about his business.
The butler, as usual, admitted him without comment, merely remarking that her ladyship was in her boudoir.
“Then I’ll just step up,” Thorne said and ascended the stairs in his usual stately manner.
Emma was not in her sitting room, though he could hear movement in the bedchamber beyond. He found her sitting on the bed, throwing piles of clothes into a trunk. She looked up at his entrance but didn’t pause in her activity.
“Good Lord, are you leaving with the Season in full swing?” he asked, amused. “Don’t tell me Carntree has finally stuck his spoon in the wall?”
“No, though he isn’t well. I’m going to join him.”
“You stun me. When?”
“In the morning.”
“Then you have time for a farewell favor?”
She cast him a glance of dislike. “No. I do not. If you have anything to say, Anthony, say it and go away. I’m busy.”
“So it would appear,” he said acidly, disliking her attitude. “What has put you in such a filthy humor? It is quite unbecoming in a mistress.”
“So it is. Consider our arrangement, if there ever was one, at an end.”
His eyes narrowed, and he sat on an empty edge of the bed. Two conges in one hour was something of a shock. “You are in the dismals. What has brought all this about?”
“I have. I saw myself through another’s eyes, and I did not like what I saw. Do you know, I tried to ruin a complete stranger just because someone danced with her rather than with me?”
“Quite right, too,” Thorne said. “Ruining her, I mean. If you didn’t succeed, we can try again. I am happy to oblige you in such a service.”
She threw some hairbrushes into the trunk. “You haven’t been listening, have you? I don’t like who I am, who I’ve become. I don’t blame you, but you are not good for me. We are not good for each other. So I’m going home to my husband. Perhaps I can do better.”
“After a little pleasure,” Thorne said, knocking her backward across the bed and looming over her. At the last minute, she reached up and grasped the bell pull by the headboard, dragging it with her in a definite tug. The room would soon be full of servants.
“Goodbye, Anthony,” she said clearly.
He threw her arm away like an offensive piece of litter and rose to his feet. “Goodbye, my dear. Let us pray you do not regret such rudeness.”
*
On Friday evening, Matty had a slightly disturbing chat with Catherine. The girl had worn a distracted look for some time, but since it appeared to be happy distraction, Matty had not tried to interfere.
From her bedchamber, Matty heard Mrs. Dove and Catherine return from the theatre. Over the years she had worked for the Doves, Matty had got into the habit of leaving her chamber door open a crack when she was prepared to receive visitors. She had always rather liked when any of the Doves brought her their problems or sought her advice.
Tonight, Matty herself was distracted from her nighttime preparation. She lay on top of the bed, still fully dressed, thinking, Tomorrow by this time, I will be married. I shall be a wife. I could be alone with my husband. Such thrilling imaginings alternated with Tomorrow, at Maida, we have to prevent disaster.
The scratch on her door was both an annoyance and a welcome distraction. She sat up, saying, “Come in.”
Catherine slipped inside, closed the door, and rustled over in her evening finery to sit beside Matty on the bed. “Am I keeping you up?”
“I seem to be keeping myself up.” There was a frown of anxiety on the girl’s face that Matty did not like. “Have you got into another scrape?”
“Oh, no, rest easy on that score.”
“Then what troubles you?”
Catherine appeared to be absorbed in making tiny pleats in the gauzy layer of her gown.
“Mr. Holles?” Matty guessed.
Catherine’s frown vanished, and she smiled. “Oh, no. Well, partly, I suppose. I like Mr. Holles. He has made me rethink everything.”
“Change—improvements—never happen as quickly as young people would like,” Matty warned.
“Oh, I know that. So does Archie, but that should not prevent us from trying, should it?”
“Not within the law,” Matty said warily, but Matty had moved on.
“I’m so comfortable with Archie, it’s rather like being with a brother—only, of course, he’s nothing like Adrian, thank God—or a friend. Only…not quite. I think… Do you remember, only two or three weeks ago, I fancied myself in love with Mr. Granton?”
“I do.”
“I was always concerned with what he thought of me, of my effect on him, without really thinking of anything beyond his handsome face and how I would be envied—I, the mocked bluestocking of the family—for catching so eligible a husband so early in the Season.”
“Understandable,” Matty allowed. “But not, perhaps, very healthy.”
“Exactly,” Catherine said. “An older, more experienced man had cachet, but you know, he had nothing to say beyond flirtation. Perhaps because he regarded me as that silly, or because he is.”
Matty let her cogitate that for a little. Then said encouragingly, “Does it matter?”
“Not now. I think a person nearer one’s own age is more…appealing.”
“Like Mr. Holles.”
Catherine smiled a secretive, conspiratorial smile. “I have been wondering if I love him. He is so interesting to me… He kissed me at Lady Wenning’s ball.”
“Did he?” Matty could hardly scold her as she recalled her own delicious embraces at the same event. “Did you—er… like it?”
Another smile flitted across the girl’s face, though she dropped her eyes. “Yes. That is what made me wonder if I love him.”
“You do know if he tries to do more than kiss you, you must not let him?” Yes, I am that hypocritical, but the girl is not yet eighteen years old! And they had discussed such matters and their consequences before since Matty was sure Mrs. Dove never would.
“Oh, no, he doesn’t.”
“And yet, it troubles you to imagine you might be in love with him?”
“Oh, no, that does not trouble me. If I am in love, I rather like it. I was thinking more of Hope.”
“Hope.” Matty wrenched her tired mind around. “How does Archie Holles make you think of Hope?”
Catherine gave a gurgle of laughter. “Well, he doesn’t, of course! But love does. You see, one of the reasons I was so eager to imagine myself in love with Mr. Granton was because Hope is hopelessly in love with someone of around the same age.”
A twinge of anxiety twisted through Matty. Hope was not her responsibility, but she had grown fond of the girl. “Dare I ask with whom?”
“I’m sworn to secrecy.”
A scene at Lady Wenning’s ball came back to her. Hope Darblay arriving out of the blue, apparently to talk to her when she was in company with the recently married Duke of Dearham and…
“Lord Calton,” Matty said.
Catherine’s eyes widened. “How did you know?” she gasped.
“I didn’t. Something just made sense. She does know how unsuitable Calton is? I imagine women have been setting their caps at him for the last ten years. He is a friend of Dearham’s, and even, probably, Hope’s own brother, although Rollo is probably a little younger.”
“I think half the attraction is his wickedness,” Catherine confided. “But I can’t think he is very comfortable to be around and certainly not to have for one’s husband.”
“I suspect you are right. And you have this insight because you are contemplating Mr. Holles as your husband.”
Catherine flushed. “Well, yes, it entered my mind, but I am in no rush.”
“You really are the most intelligent of all my pupils,” Matty said warmly. “And as for Hope… I don’t think Calton even notices her. Not very pleasant for her, perhaps, but a lot safer. I expect she will grow out of it soon, meet an Archie of her own.”
“Oh, I do hope so. And now that Cousin Grace is home, she will surely take Hope in hand and distract her!” Catherine smiled with happy relief and stood up. “I’m for bed! Good night, Miss Matty!”
*
The following morning, feeling something of a traitor, Matty took a deep breath, marched up to her employer’s bedchamber door, and knocked.
“Come in,” said Mrs. Dove’s amiable voice, and Matty entered to discover the lady sitting up in bed, surrounded by pillows, wearing a froth of old lace and a fetching nightcap She clutched a cup of hot chocolate and held a piece of buttered toast half-way to her mouth. “Oh! Miss Mather, what a surprise. Surely one of the children is not ill?”
