Thomas moved to her side and took her hand. "It wasn't a bargain."

  Mélanie felt Edith's absolute stillness. Her gaze was trained on Thomas as though the last few minutes had made her love him even more. Just at the moment she knew she had lost him.

  Marianne's gaze fastened on Thomas's own. "I can't tell you what this means to me. But—"

  She broke off as the door opened once again. Mélanie, who had heard the creak of the hinges an instant before Marianne reacted, turned to see Cordelia with Lucinda and Hubert Mallinson.

  For the first time, some of the self-satisfaction left Lady Shroppington's face, though she quickly masked her uncertainty. "I wasn't expecting you. Though perhaps it's as well."

  "My daughter and Lady Cordelia suggested I be here," Hubert said. "I understand there are some interesting accusations being made."

  "Which you should hear," Lady Shroppington said. "For once, I applaud Lady Cordelia."

  Theodore Schofield drew in his breath. Thomas turned to range himself beside Marianne, holding her hand.

  "Yes, I've heard the accusations," Hubert said. "We were outside the door for some time. Interesting. But as it happens, I knew about Schofield all along." He glanced at Raoul. "I am desolated to tell you you were deceived, O'Roarke, but Schofield was a double working for me."

  Silence gripped the room. Schofield stared at Hubert, seemingly as shocked as anyone.

  "You can't seriously expect me to believe that," Lady Shroppington said.

  "My dear Lady Shroppington," Hubert returned. "It isn't a question of what you believe, but of what I say."

  Rage flared in her gaze. She turned to Raoul. "And you'll go along with this?"

  "It explains a lot, don't you think?" Raoul said.

  Lady Shroppington snorted. "In my day, intelligence was more hard-headed."

  "One could argue that certain things in your past put the lie to that," Hubert said. He looked, Mélanie thought, distinctly satisfied with himself.

  "Whatever I did," Lady Shroppington said, "none of it was for sentimental reasons."

  "None of it?" Mélanie asked, their conversation at the ball sharp in her mind.

  Lady Shroppington met her gaze for a moment. Even a spy can drop their mask at moments. This was one of them. "Very little. But then, given the untidiness of the royal family in these matters, I don't know what we can expect." She looked at Schofield, disdain writ in her features, then looked from Hubert to Raoul. "Are you simply going to let him get away with it?"

  Raoul looked from Schofield to his three children. The admiration of a few moments before had faded to confusion in the gazes of the young Schofields. As though a well-loved nursery book had proved to be a text written in unbreakable code. "I don't think he's got away with anything."

  CHAPTER 19

  Cordelia cast a bright glance round the ballroom. "It looks much like it did when we left. Save that a few more glasses of champagne have been consumed, and hairpins are sliding a trifle looser. That pine garland looks to have slithered several inches down that column. I imagine some stay laces have snapped too. I'm quite sure no one's noticed we were gone."

  "How can you be sure?" Sophy asked.

  Mélanie surveyed the ballroom. A waltz was playing. Couples were still swirling on the floor. Two ladies in front of them swept to the side, revealing scuff marks and spilled champagne on the floorboards. A blur of conversation, a bit more slurred than when they had left, sounded on all sides. To avoid notice, they had all slipped back into Emily Cowper's in small groups. She was standing by the French windows on the edge of the dance floor with Cordelia, Sophy, and Marianne. "I haven't moved among the beau monde nearly as long as Cordelia, but I can say that at this stage of a ball, no one is keeping track of who is in the ballroom, and there are all sorts of reasons for people to have disappeared."

  Sophy's eyed widened. "You mean they think we were all having assignations in the shrubbery?"

  "Or mending flounces in the retiring room," Cordelia said.

  Sophy let her shawl slither lower on her shoulders. "I'd much rather be thought to be having an assignation. Well, depending on whom it was with."

  "That makes all the difference," Cordelia agreed. She glanced round the ballroom again. "We should mingle."

  Marianne gave a determined nod. Once they had re-entered Emily Cowper's, her composed façade had settled over her features again. She had a control that would serve her admirably as a spy. "It's all right. I know what I need to do."

  "You must loathe me," Marianne Schofield said.

  Edith started. She had been surprised when Marianne approached her on the edge of the dance floor, though not entirely shocked, given the events of the night. But she had been expecting a plea to keep the Schofields' family's secrets, not any reference to Thomas. "Why on earth would I? I'll admit to twinges of jealousy—well, I'll admit to more than twinges. But it's hardly your fault that you're the sort of woman Thomas could marry and I'm not. I'd be a poor creature if I disliked you for that."

  Marianne gave a faint smile, though her gaze remained steady. "You're more generous than most people."

  "I don't think so. I said I'm perfectly capable of jealousy. Even though I'm not at all sure I'd marry Thomas even if I could."

  Marianne's perfectly arced brows rose. "You're in love with him."

  "I—yes." It was, Edith realized, the first time she'd admitted it in so many words. What an odd person to be admitting it to.

  "I didn't know," Marianne said. "That is, I knew Thomas wasn't in love with me, and I guessed there might have been someone else once, but until tonight I didn't realize it was someone who was still a part of his life. Someone he might have married."

  Edith tugged at her shawl. Predictably, it was slithering to the floor. "That was never really a possibility."

  "But it could have happened," Marianne said. "It's not as though you're married to someone else or far away or—"

  "Dead?"

  "Well, yes. That is a possibility when someone has a lost love."

  "Thomas and I never even discussed marriage."

  "But you must have—I mean, it must have occurred to you. To both of you."

  "No. Yes, I suppose so, but mostly as something impossible that I didn't think I'd be very good at." Edith regarded Marianne. For all the other woman had been through this night, her gown still fell in precise folds, her gloves were barely creased, and her glossy blonde side curls framed her face with precision. "That was part of why I was jealous of you. Because you'll obviously make him an admirable wife. In all the ways I wouldn't."

  "I don't see why you should assume that."

  "You understand this world."

  "You must as well. Forgive me, I don't know a great deal about you, but doesn't a governess have to understand it in order to instruct her pupils?"

  "I suppose so." Edith remembered her days in the Wilton household. "But to the extent I did, it was only to realize how unsuited I am to that world."

  "You're assuming I'm suited to it."

  "Of course you are."

  "Why of course?"

  "You were going to Almack's and balls and you were presented at court. That's the sort of thing one does when looking for a husband."

  "Or when one's parents are looking for a husband."

  "So you don't want to get married either?"

  "I—" Marianne fingered the sticks of her fan. "I always thought I did. It was the life I was brought up for. Nothing else seemed possible." She frowned, watching Edith. "You said you aren't sure you'd marry Thomas even if you could. But you said you love him."

  "I—" Edith drew a breath and swallowed. "Yes."

  "I should have thought that was the one reason to marry someone. Well, not the only one, but—"

  "But marriage means so much more, doesn't it? I mean, it's a bit like signing on for a profession, only if one's a woman one's husband's life determines the profession. What if one falls in love with a politician but doesn't want to be a politician's wife? Come to think of it, I think that's rather what happened to Mélanie Rannoch, but she seems to have managed. But for most people—"

  "I suppose if one loves someone, one is supposed to want to help them succeed."

  "Yes, but at the cost of one's own dreams? Suppose it means having to go across the Continent on a diplomatic posting, or give endless boring parties, or simply not have time for one's own work."

  Marianne closed her arms over her chest. "I never thought about having my own work."

  "Most women don't. That is, I suppose most women take it for granted they have to go into service or work on the farm or in a factory or something. But most women of fortune don't. I became a governess because it was quite clear I had to do something to make a living. And I couldn't bear the thought of marrying for money."

  "Like Mr. Thornsby." Marianne's gaze was steady.

  "Yes. No. Well, in a way. But he has his sisters to think about. Perhaps if I were really a good sister, I'd have married Mr. Tompkins the brewer and supported my own brothers and sisters. But I'm not as self-sacrificing as Thomas."

  "That's an interesting way of putting it."

  "He's a good man."

  "Yes, I don't doubt that he is." Marianne's fingers dug into her pristine gloves. "That's one of the reasons I accepted him. I thought we could deal well together." She cast a quick glance at Edith. "I wasn't in love with him, I didn't expect to find love, but even if marriage is a bargain, that doesn't mean one doesn't want to find someone one likes."

  "Yes, I can see that. But why were you so convinced you'd never fall in love? I thought that was the dream of young girls in their first season."

  Marianne's mouth curled with what seemed uncharacteristic irony. "Having spent endless balls and nights at Almack's and in the retiring rooms at the palace, I'd say the dream of most girls making their debut is to have a successful season with an engagement as a sort of prize at the end of it. Quite independent of the gentleman involved, except in so far as he lends one consequence. And little or no thought to the life one will have after one leaves St. George's, Hanover Square, and finishes the cake from Gunter's."

  Edith considered Marianne Schofield as she might a text that yielded unexpected information that put a previous thesis in doubt. "That sounds very apt. Though rather more jaded than what I'd have expected from you."

  The irony in Marianne's smile deepened, along with a touch of regret. "I may not be a scholar, but I pride myself on being at least passingly observant. I wasn't immune to the excitement of the game, but I did recognize that it was a game. And I retained enough sense to have some thought for the life I'd have after the game ended." Her brows drew together. "At least, so I told myself. But now it seems absurd that I ever thought Thomas and I could have a good life together."

  "That's the first time I've heard you call him Thomas," Edith said.

  Marianne's mouth twisted, almost with regret. "Perhaps I see him more as a person now. As someone with his own wants and regrets. It seems rather shameful that I thought we could be happy together when it clearly conflicted with so much of what he wanted."

  "It wasn't your job to know what Thomas wanted," Edith said in a quiet voice.

  "Wasn't it? Isn't it the job of both partners in a marriage to have some care for what the other wants? How can a marriage start successfully when the partners aren’t paying heed to that?"

  "I doubt most people have the least heed what their marriage partner wants when they make their vows."

  "Yes, so do I. That makes it all the worse."

  Edith regarded Thomas's betrothed. "What do you want?"

  "I don't know. I thought I wanted a stable family and my own household. It's not just that I've never had to work like you do. I've never had an interest like you do. Or like Thomas does, I suppose. It must be rather splendid to have something you're that consumed by."

  "Yes." Edith felt herself smile. "It's a reason to get up in the morning. It's something to keep one's thoughts interesting, even through the drudgery of life." She hesitated. "When I first heard of the betrothal, I wondered how that would work. If Thomas could be happy with someone who I assumed wasn't interested in classics."

  "It's a fair question."

  "Yes, but then it occurred to me that it would probably be quite a relief to have someone who ordered dinner at the right time and didn't forget to have the linens changed or order fresh flowers—not to mention dusting the vase. I'm not cut out to run a household."

  "Perhaps you need a good housekeeper. And a good nursemaid."

  "Thomas and I wouldn't have had the funds for much of a staff. And if I had children, I'd want to raise them myself. They're time consuming, but they're quite interesting. Far more interesting than I realized when I became a governess. But I still worry about—"

  "About how you'd manage without funds?"

  "No. I'm used to not having a lot. I think even Thomas could manage if he had his books. But he wouldn't be able to help his family, and that would eat at him."

  "But you said you weren't sure you'd marry anyway. Because—?"

  "Because I'd worry about how much of myself I'd be giving up."

  "I'm not sure I know enough of myself to think about what I'd be giving up."

  "You've never been in love?"

  Marianne folded her arms and gripped her elbows. "No."

  But Edith caught a flicker in Marianne's gaze. "Never? Mind you, I can understand not falling in love at all—before Thomas, I never thought I would. But then, the whole thought of marriage seemed rather horrid to me. If you always assumed you'd marry, I would think the idea of falling in love would be rather appealing."

  Marianne straightened her shoulders. "My dear Miss Simmons. Surely you realize in our world, marriage and love don't go hand in hand."

  "You sound like Lady Shroppington. But surely if you expected to marry, you at least considered falling in love with the person?"

  "Perhaps I never met such a person."

  "And you did fall in love, but not with anyone you could hope to marry? I can understand that. That's rather what I did, against all my better instincts. That's what Thomas did. But you have a fortune. Did it occur to you to defy your parents? I mean, I know the prospect of being poor isn't appealing, but you look like you have resolve, and I doubt your parents would cut you off without a shilling. Unless he's married already? That would be a conundrum. Oh dear, I shouldn't be prattling on. It's none of my business."

  "No." Marianne put out a hand and then let it fall. "We're being frank with each other. Which is a great relief. It seems wrong to deny it all, somehow. But please understand, there's no way the person in question and I can be together. It's folly to think about it. So I realized I simply had to get on with my life. Only I didn't consider that that might mean making a hash of someone else's life. Thomas deserves better."

  "Thomas can take of himself."

  Marianne looked sharply at Edith.

  "I mean it. I love him, but he's a grown man who's made his own choices. Those choices may not have made me happy, but I understand them. And Thomas would be the first to say he has to live by them."

  "Yes, but I don't want him to. That is, I don't want to be part of someone's settling."

  "Even though you're settling yourself?"

  "But I'm not. Thomas could marry you. I don't have that option."

  "And that's a reason to settle for something else? Forgive me, I don't know the reasons you can't marry the person you love, but Thomas couldn't marry me without abandoning his family, at least as he sees it, which is a fairly insuperable barrier. And if you marry without love, the man you marry will be doing the same. Unless he's in love with you, which seems rather worse."

  "Yes. I suppose it does."

  "So you want someone who's ready to make a bargain? That's defines Thomas perfectly."

  "You don't want him to walk away from the betrothal? I should think—"

  "That I'd want him to choose me?" Edith ruthlessly suppressed the unbidden moment of joy that had coursed through her when Marianne had offered to release Thomas. And the sinking desolation she'd felt when it was clear that Marianne's predicament had only made Thomas even more determined to honor the betrothal. "That sounds very splendid in a novel or play and would make for a wonderful scene, but in practice I fear it would be distinctly challenging. And I don't think anyone can properly build happiness on making others unhappy."

  "Well, then. I can't build it on making my family unhappy."

  Edith felt herself frown. "I think that's a bit different. I mean, Thomas's sisters wouldn't have dowries and his parents wouldn't be able to repair the roof. That's a bit different from one’s family’s simply wanting one to live a different life."

  "My mother's wanted this since I was a baby."

  "And it's your job to secure it for her?"

  "Not just for her. For my sisters and brothers and their children—my family are intertwined with my choices. Just like for Thomas. Are my goals less important than his?"

  "I suppose when the goal is financial security, it seems different."

  "But my sisters and brothers would have different options in life." Marianne regarded Edith. "Do you have sisters and brothers?"

  "Two younger sisters, one elder brother, two younger."

  "If one of them could have made an alliance so you wouldn't have had to become a governess, wouldn't you have wanted that?"

  Edith forced herself to examine possible scenarios. "I won't deny being a governess had its challenges. I won't claim not to be glad to be done with it—much pleasanter to teach and help run a school. But I'd have felt beastly being indebted to my sisters and brothers. And in some ways I'd have had less freedom. I mean, as a governess, I might have only had one day off, but at least it was my decision what to do with it. My mother would have had no end of strictures on how I should behave every minute of the day."

  Marianne tilted her head to the side. "Perhaps you should tell Thomas."

  "What?"

  "That his sisters might be happier if he didn't sacrifice himself on the altar of family duty."

 

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