The Mayfair Mistletoe Plot, page 13
"His sisters aren't me."
"Perhaps they'd be more like you if they had the chance."
Edith bit back an instinctive denial and thought of what she knew about Thomas's sisters. Which wasn't much. And she had tended to dismiss them as being like—well, like the sort of woman she had believed Marianne Schofield to be.
"If they were your sisters, isn't that what you'd want?" Marianne asked.
"Is that what you'd want for your sisters?" Edith counted.
"I think so. Now." Marianne drew a breath. "I think perhaps I'm growing up."
"And for yourself?"
"I think—I don't want to be the cause of anyone else's unhappiness."
"Including your own?"
"I'm not sure that's possible," Marianne said.
CHAPTER 20
"It looks as though everything's going well." Lucinda stopped beside Mélanie in the salon off the ballroom. "Julien brought us in through the garden, up the service stairs. Gerry Schofield and Justine Lambton and me. And Kitty. It was quite a lark. I wish more Mallinsons were like him."
"I imagine your father would say thank goodness they aren't. And yet, while Julien is unique, in some ways I think he's very much a Mallinson."
"Yes, so do I. But I don't think either Julien or Papa would like it if we said so." Lucinda took a sip of champagne. "Papa was quite helpful tonight. It was a nice change."
"We owe him a great deal," Mélanie said.
"Do you really mean that?"
"Certainly." Which didn't discount the fact that Hubert Mallinson could still be a formidable enemy.
Lucinda smiled, then frowned as she took another sip of champagne. "The only sad part of the evening is that Marianne and Thomas Thornsby seem more betrothed than ever. I was quite hopeful for a moment, when she offered to release him from the betrothal."
"Thomas would never have accepted her offer. Not when she was in trouble."
"No, I suppose not. But it leaves them in worse straits than ever. And I can't help feeling I should be able to fix it."
Mélanie put a hand on Lucinda's arm. "You can't fix everything for your friends, Lucy."
"Yes, but I'm not going to stand by and watch them blunder into a hideous mistake. There must be something we can do."
"Ultimately, Thomas and Marianne are the ones who have to make the choice."
"Yes, I suppose so. But that doesn't mean—" Lucinda looked round the room. "Have you seen Charlotte?"
"You’re very fortunate to be able to be in the Classicists’ Society," Justine said. "That is, I know it’s hard work not good fortune, but—"
"No, a part of it is good fortune." Cordelia smiled at the younger woman. She and Harry had invited Justine to stay with them for a few days. They were sending off an express to reassure her father, though Justine assured them she had covered her tracks. "Which I didn’t recognize enough at first."
"But you’ve always liked classics."
"Oh yes. Though after I made my debut I got distracted by a lot of other things. Granted classics were something Harry and I shared. One of the few things at first, I confess. But I’d have thought the Classicists’ Society had little to offer beside a ball." Cordelia glanced at the crowd still on the dance floor, draining the last dregs from the evening. She still enjoyed balls but many nights she’d choose the Classicists’ Society.
"So you go now because of your husband?"
"No. That is, classics was always something Harry and I could talk about. I used to laugh at how he would barricade himself with his books, but sometimes I’d come home from a ball and help him with a bit of translation and realize that was actually the most fun part of my evening. Then there were other challenges we faced. But classics was something we had in common."
"Is that why you like it now? Because of your husband?"
"No. Yes. That is, I love that it’s something we share. But that isn’t why I’m a classicist. It took a long time for me to call myself a classicist. And to realize that I really was one. If I were just helping Harry, I don’t think I’d use the word."
"I don’t think you’re just helping him at all. I’ve read the papers you’ve written. They’re splendid. And I thought that before I knew you’d written them. Or who you were. I mean not that—"
"No, I quite understand." Cordelia smiled. "I could seem like a society fribble."
"Not that. But I’d never met anyone like you. I’ve never been to a London ball until tonight. We meet lots of young men from the ton but not so many women. Not that there’s any reason one shouldn’t be able to enjoy balls and society and be a classical scholar. Or anything else. It’s silly to think that being serious about something means one can’t enjoy frivolous things." Justine looked down at her borrowed gown. "I only borrowed this dress so I could fit in, but I confess I quite like it. Like getting to pretend to be someone else."
"Or explore a different part of yourself."
Justine wrinkled her nose. "I think the dressing up might be fun." She looked down at the glass in her hand. "And the champagne and music and even the dancing. I don’t think I’d be very good at flirting though."
"Oh, I don’t think anyone thinks they’re good at flirting."
"Surely you do. Did?"
"Possibly now when I’d only do it in the service of an investigation and my husband would know perfectly well what I was doing. Before—" Cordelia thought back to herself at seventeen. Suddenly aware of new powers and eager to put them to the test. But soon she’d been too obsessed with George to have interest in others. And once George married and she emerged from her grief she’d been too angry and bitter to do more than flirt out of a reflexive desire not to be alone. It had been the same after she married Harry, though it had perhaps also been an attempt to get her husband’s attention, something she hadn’t realized until years later. And after her affair with George and separation from Harry, it had been an attempt to distract herself with sensation. And for some sort of connection, even if a fleeting one. While living defiantly down to people’s expectations of her. But perhaps there had been a certain power in knowing she could win at the game. "Perhaps at times," she said. "But half the time it feels one’s making a hopeless muddle of it."
"Is it easier to be in love?"
"I think that’s worse perhaps. Because one takes it more seriously."
"Yes, I can see that. Not that I’ve—But I can imagine."
"On the other hand," Cordelia said, "it’s far more worth the effort. That is, it can be if it’s the right person. Which of course one doesn’t know. At least I didn’t for the longest time."
Justine’s gaze flickered across Cordelia’s face, at once hesitant and curious. In the end the scholar won out. "So when you met your husband—"
"Oh when I met Harry I couldn’t see it at all."
"You didn’t find it easy to flirt with him?"
"It never would have occurred to me to flirt with Harry." Cordelia stopped short because he was one of the few men about whom that was true. "I think that was part of why he seemed safe to me. Only he wasn’t safe at all. Which is probably a good thing because I don’t think love is very safe."
"Never?"
"Well—when I’m with Harry now I do feel safe. But loving someone is always a risk. Because you can get hurt. And it took me a long time to admit to myself—or Harry or anyone else—that I was in love."
"And if you hadn’t married him, you might not have realized you wanted to be a classicist."
That brought Cordelia up short as well. "Very likely not. It’s amazing where life takes one. But I think you’re going about it much more sensibly. Much more the way I’d like to see my daughters go about it. Being a classicist first and being secure in that and then finding someone to love."
"I haven’t found someone to love."
"No? Perhaps not yet. But you seem as though you’ll be quite sensible about it when you do."
"I thought you said love wasn’t sensible."
Cordelia felt herself smile. "Caught. It often isn’t. I don’t think it ever feels sensible. But some people do manage to fall in love with a sensible choice. Perhaps they have more of a sense of what they want."
Thomas was on the edge of the dance floor when Marianne approached him. He always felt a bit awkward when he realized he had to have private conversation with her, but despite—or perhaps because of—the events of the night, the awkwardness seemed to have eased. He held out a hand to her. "Shall we dance again?"
"I don't think that's necessary, do you?" Marianne said. "No one seems to be gossiping."
"That isn't the only reason to dance."
Marianne paused, close enough for private conversation but not close enough to touch him. "You're a good man, Thomas. I always knew that, but I saw it even more tonight. I can't tell you how much it means that you were willing to stand by me."
"No man of honor would have done otherwise."
"Then there are few men of honor in London society."
"Whatever your father may have done shouldn't reflect on you."
"It can't help but hang over our family, but that's something Gerry and Sophy and I have to sort out with him." She folded her hands together. "You're a remarkable man, Thomas. I thought we could be happy. And perhaps had circumstances been different we might have been. But I see now how selfish I was to see the situation only from my own perspective. And I see the impossibility of happiness being built on denying the happiness of others."
"I never said—"
"No. You didn't need to. I saw you looking at her tonight."
Denial would have been fruitless. He could tell that from Marianne's gaze. And denial seemed like a denial of who he was. "It was over," he said, his voice hoarse. "Before I offered for you. It was never a real possibility."
"But that doesn't make the feelings go away. I could see that tonight. And you're not the only one for whom that's true."
His gaze locked on her own. Impossible to question her past. And yet—"I'm sorry," he said. "I begin to think I never really knew you at all."
Marianne smiled. "We probably knew each other as well as most of the married couples in this ballroom. Which is to say not well at all. I was so busy keeping my own secrets I didn't make nearly enough of an attempt to get to know you."
"I never should have offered—"
"I never should have accepted. We both did what we thought was required of us. But the good thing is there is still time to fix it. As a man of honor, I am sure you will not attempt to hold me when I tell you I wish to cry off from our engagement. And in the spirit of honesty, you can't tell me you aren't more than a bit relieved."
For a moment, the relief was dizzying. As though he could breathe for the first time in weeks. "I hope you won't take it as offense."
She smiled. Perhaps the most genuine smile he had ever seen from her. "On the contrary. For once I believe our feelings are completely in agreement."
CHAPTER 21
Raoul found Marianne Schofield near the French windows to the balcony, brows drawn, gaze fixed beyond the glass. "Not thinking of leaving again, are you?" he asked.
"What? Oh, no. Just reflecting on a conversation I had." She settled the folds of her shawl over her shoulders. "The news will be all over London soon. Mr. Thornsby and I have agreed we would not suit."
"Ah. I should say I am sorry. But I think perhaps you will both be happier?"
She met his gaze, her own uncharacteristically direct. "I think so."
Raoul nodded. They turned, both looking out the glass at the glow of the colored lamps from the garden below. "Laura and I talked to Sally and Billy tonight," he said.
"It was unpardonable of me to have involved them."
"On the contrary. They're concerned for you, but they obviously relished the adventure and have shown great mettle." Raoul hesitated. "I would suggest you return the music box as soon as possible."
Marianne's gaze shot to his face.
"It's none of my affair now the investigation is concluded," he said. "But it does lead me to think you at first thought Lady Shroppington had summoned you over something other than your father's past. And that you thought the confrontation would not allow you to return home."
Marianne held his gaze, her own steady. She had a self-possession that would do a seasoned agent credit.
Raoul dug a hand into his pocket. "I also thought you might like this back." He held out the earring.
Marianne went from still to carved in ice. "That isn't mine."
"Not originally, but I think you dropped it tonight. I suspect it was a keepsake. Perhaps you had it in your reticule and pulled it out to look at before you left the garden."
Her stillness cracked. "How can you—"
"It's only a theory, based on pieces I've put together. And as I said, it's no business of mine to intrude now that we've established that you're safe. But if you'll permit me to say so, I fell in love with my wife at a time when we couldn't be together without scandal. At the start, a part of me felt I should avoid any entanglement at all for her sake. And to protect my own feelings perhaps. We tried to keep it secret, but in the end we lived together despite the scandal. Which could be called appallingly selfish on my part. Eventually we were able to marry. But even if we hadn't been, I wouldn't regret snatching what we had together."
Marianne reached out and took the earring. "You had a happy ending. There aren't happy endings for everyone."
"I'd say there aren't endings. No one knows what lies ahead. And it depends how you define happy. But for myself, I can say it would be worth it. Even if we'd had to keep it secret forever. We’d still have had each other."
CHAPTER 22
"I returned the earring to Marianne Schofield," Raoul said.
Laura looked up from tucking the covers round Clara in her cradle. "So she could give it back to Charlotte Wilcox?"
"If she chooses to." Raoul shrugged off his evening coat. "I suspect it was a keepsake."
"I wondered about that as well." Laura twitched a fold of Clara's blanket smooth. "Sally said the earring belonged to Miss Wilcox, but Miss Wilcox was wearing blue tonight with pearl earrings and she wasn’t missing either. I made sure to look when we returned to the ball. And then there’s the music box and the papers it contains. Did Marianne Schofield admit it?"
"Not in so many words. But she didn't deny it."
"Damnably difficult for them, even now she's ended the betrothal." By the time they'd left Emily Cowper's, they'd all heard about Marianne and Thomas's called-off betrothal. Thomas had asked for their help spreading the news discreetly. "I hope they can find a way to make it work." Laura glanced at the nursery where her older daughter Emily was asleep, then looked down at Clara, thinking of all the possible challenges in their future.
"I told Miss Schofield what we have would be worth it even if it had had to remain secret."
Laura smiled at him. "Which it would be. Though as I recall, you were inclined to worry."
"About what I was putting you through? I could hardly do otherwise." Raoul moved to the armchair by the banked fire. "Laura?"
Laura turned from the cradle. Her husband was watching her, his face unexpectedly intent. "What, darling?"
"Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if you hadn't married me?"
Laura crossed the room and perched on the arm of Raoul's chair. "Are you wondering what your life would be like if you hadn't married me?"
"Not in the least. I know perfectly well it would be far less than it is now."
"You'd be able to spend more time in Spain."
"I don't want to spend more time in Spain."
"Never?"
"I may feel guilty. It's not the same thing." He laced his fingers through her own. "Mélanie asked me. She said Edith Simmons asked her. That Edith was wondering about what would have happened if she had been able to marry Thomas."
"Oh, well. That doesn't surprise me. I like Thomas, but he's far more conventional than you or Malcolm. It would be a question of if he tried to change Edith, or if she could change him."
"You don't think he could change her?"
"Not Edith. But he could make her miserable. I can see her not wanting to run the risk. Edith's quite brilliant. And quite self-possessed."
"So are you."
Laura looked down into her husband's gray eyes. "I didn't want to marry again."
"Yes, I know."
"I wouldn't have married anyone but you."
"That doesn't necessarily answer the question."
"I was only just beginning to forge a life of my own."
"Which might be all the more reason to wonder about the life you'd have had without me."
"You didn't stop me from forging a life. From being a writer and a teacher. I was already a mother." She’d had Emily before she married Raoul, for all Raoul was now Emily’s father. But without him she wouldn’t have Clara. Her gaze went to the cradle. "I can't imagine not having Clara."
"Nor can I."
"You have a way of filling up space, Raoul. I can't imagine the world without you."
He gave a wry smile. "That might make you more inclined to wonder what you'd have if you had—more space."
"I don't want more space." She slid off the arm of the chair into his lap. She remembered the moment she'd first glimpsed him, in the Rannochs' salon in Paris. She hadn't known who he was, but his eyes had burned with life. "I want what I wanted from the moment we met in Paris."
"What?"
"You."
Kitty closed the door of the guest bedroom at the Rannochs'. Bet and Sandy had got all the children to sleep in the night nursery by the time they returned from Emily Cowper's. They hadn't been planning to stay the night, but the Rannochs had two guest bedrooms, as well as dressing rooms to accommodate Edith and Justine Lambton. It was hardly the first time Kitty and Julien and Cordelia and Harry and their children had stayed in Berkeley Square at the last minute. This bedchamber already felt almost as though it was theirs. "I was enjoying a mission that was free of the past," she said, pulling the door to. "Folly perhaps to think we'd have one. Lady Shroppington was bound to reappear at some point."
