Lady Anne's Deception (The Changing Fortunes Series Book 4) (3 page)

Annie still had a great deal of the schoolgirl in her. She had also been brought up to believe that any gently bred woman’s sole goal in life was to secure a husband, the way a man might wish to succeed in, say, an army career. And so ambition and competition were born anew. She would like to show Marigold that she, Annie, could secure a husband. She would also like to get the one man her sister seemed interested in.

Her large gray eyes roamed around the ballroom. It was not as large as she expected it to be, but it was a very elegant room for all that. An orchestra played the inevitable “Merry Widow” waltz from behind a screen of palms and hothouse flowers. The smells of exotic cooking wafted in from the supper room. The men were beginning to sign their names in the girls’ dance cards, and a few couples were circulating the floor.

And then, all at once, she saw the now familiar figure of the Marquess of Torrance studying herself and Marigold. She would not have recognized him from the photograph. In the photograph he had looked vital and alert. In reality he was even more handsome, but he seemed languid and sleepy.

His clothes were exquisitely tailored, and he wore a fine set of diamond studs in his shirt. He drew on a pair of white gloves and began to stroll in her direction.

Annie’s heart beat hard.

And then he bent his black head over Marigold’s hand and asked her for the next dance. He smiled lazily down at Annie, then turned and murmured something polite to Aunt Agatha, who was sitting on Marigold’s other side. Then he led Marigold onto the floor.

Marigold turned and flashed a triumphant smile at Annie. All of Annie’s newfound confidence in her appearance deserted her. It never dawned on her that the marquess would naturally ask the elder sister first. She felt that no one at all would ask her to dance.

And so she was quite startled to find a young man with a large, waxed moustache looking down anxiously at her and waiting to sign her card.

Annie danced very well. As the evening wore on, although her card was rapidly being filled up, her triumph had a sour taste, for the marquess showed no signs of asking her to dance.

At last, there was only one space left, the last waltz. Just when she had given up hope, he seemed to materialize beside her. “If you are not too frightened to dance with such a wicked man as myself, Lady Annie, then may I beg the pleasure of the last dance?”

Annie mutely nodded, and he wrote his name in the last space on her card. “Annie” was all she could think of. Not “Anne.” Marigold must have said something, must have told him she was called Annie.

Anticipation of that last dance quite removed Annie from reality. She was sure she chatted with her partners; she vaguely remembered that a Mr. Russell had taken her in to supper and that he had talked about hunting with religious fervor. Soon the last dance loomed up, and there was no sign of the marquess. Had he forgotten? Inside her white silk ball gloves, Annie’s hands began to feel damp with nervous perspiration.

He had not danced with Marigold again, that was one consolation. But then he had danced with so very few ladies.

And then all at once it was time for the last waltz and he was walking toward her, mysteriously appearing from somewhere.

Her heart beat hard. She was not in love with him, of course, but ambition can be almost as burning and heady an emotion as love.

Lady Trevelyn did not believe that very slow, romantic waltzes should be featured at the end of the evening. They could lead to quite impossible alliances. And so this waltz seemed to be played in double-quick time.

The Marquess of Torrance did not pay any attention to the beat, merely moving slowly round and around, and holding Annie rather more tightly at the waist than he should.

Annie also found that she was being danced slowly into one corner while the rest of the guests spun around the area of the floor.

“Why are we staying here?” she asked. “It looks odd.”

“I haven’t the energy, my dear Lady Annie,” said the marquess. “Terribly fatiguing to go hopping about the place at this hour in the morning. I don’t approve. Besides, my face gets all red and my shirt wilts, and you wouldn’t want that to happen.”

“But I feel a bit silly. I feel as if everyone is looking at us,” ventured Annie timidly.

“They are?” He stopped suddenly, stared about him with a hard expression, and then relaxed. “No,” he said equably. “No one is paying us the least attention.”

He must be blind, thought Annie. Marigold’s glare is stabbing me from straight across the floor.

“You know,” he went on seriously as he put his arm firmly around her waist again, “you really must stop thinking that everyone is looking at you. That sort of thing can lead to all sorts of trouble. There’s a friend of mine, Bertie,
he
thought that. Drove him mad. He solved the problem all the same.”

“What did he do?”

“He shaved all of his hair off. Bald as a coot. Didn’t wear a hat. Of course, everyone looked at him then. Everyone
does
stare at a bald chap when he’s quite young. Never wore a hat, did Bertie. He also wore his coat back to front. It was a great relief, he said, to know that everyone
was
actually staring at him.”

Annie stifled a giggle. “Is he still bald?”

“Oh, no,” said the marquess, seriously. “He was quite cured. After a month of walking around like an eccentric billiard ball, he felt he’d had it, so he put his coat on the right way and grew his hair again.”

“I simply don’t believe you.”

“Now that’s very rude,” chided the marquess. “How can we possibly become friends if you are going to disbelieve every word I say?”

“Friends?” said Annie. “I—I mean… you… me?”

“Why not? It has been known to happen. It’s not very shocking, you know. I mean, people aren’t going to whisper behind their gloves and say, ‘Isn’t it
shocking
? Torrance is
friends
with Lady Annie,’ now are they?”

“Well… no. You’re teasing me!”

“I? Nonsense. I am too lazy to tease anyone.”

“The music has stopped and we’re still dancing and people
are
looking at us!”

“So they are,” agreed the marquess, coming to an abrupt halt and gazing about the room with a ludicrous expression of dismay on his face. “I was enjoying your company so much, Lady Annie. I quite forgot. Well, I shall probably call on you tomorrow. Manchester Square, I think your sister said. I’d better ask Miss Winter’s permission. What a lot of white stuff that lady does put on her front. Old Colonel Butterworth danced with her last season, you know, and his valet had to use a bucket of turpentine on his evening clothes to repair the damage. The old boy smelled of turpentine for the rest of the Season, and that sort of thing’s not fair, not when you can’t afford another suit of togs. I wonder if Miss Winter has ever considered that? Perhaps I shall tell her.”

“No!” said Annie, in alarm.

But he was already ambling indolently in Aunt Agatha’s direction. She watched him anxiously, but he was obviously not saying anything shocking.

“I think you girls did very nicely,” commented Aunt Agatha, on the way home. “Torrance asked for permission to call.”

“Yes, to see me,” said Marigold triumphantly.

“Well, he didn’t say
just
you, Marigold. He asked for permission to call on
both
of you.”

Marigold gave a jarring laugh. “Annie! When was anyone ever interested in her, with me around?”

“We’ve never had young men around before,” Annie flashed back.

“Young! Pooh! Torrance is at least thirty.”

“That’s not old, but maybe it’s too old for
you
?”

“Oh, no,” Marigold said sweetly. “I have quite made up my mind to break his heart.”

“It’s me he’s interested in,” said Annie defiantly. “He asked
me
for the last waltz.”

“And what a little fool you looked, too, dancing on after the music had stopped. Lord Clabber, who had been dancing with me, just laughed and said you must have had a little too much to drink at supper.”

Annie’s face flamed with mortification. “Well, it wasn’t my fault. It was
Torrance
who didn’t want to stop dancing. And he—he said we were
friends
, so there.”

“Oh, really! Just like a big brother. Now men in love never want to be friends. Wicked marquess! To cultivate the friendship of my little sister just to get close to me.”

“That’s it!” exclaimed Annie, seeing that Aunt Agatha had fallen asleep. “I’m going to punch you on the nose!”

She sprang to her feet and the open landau swayed dangerously. “Just you try!” screamed Marigold, lashing out with her fan.

“Ladies! Ladies!” called the coachman. “Your ladyships will have us over.”

“What is going on here?” Aunt Agatha’s stern tone as she woke up made both girls subside silently into their seats. “Can’t I close my eyes for a moment, Annie, without you starting a fight?”

The dawn sky was pearl gray and the birds were beginning to sing in the trees of Hyde Park as the horses pulling the landau clopped over the cobblestones. A water cart was washing the street silver, and already shopkeepers were taking the shutters down from their windows. A crossing sweep doffed his hat, and Annie, despite her sulks, could not resist giving him a wave. Her anger never lasted long.

Carts laden with flowers and vegetables were straining toward Covent Garden market. Thin spirals of smoke were beginning to rise from the chimneys, and, in Manchester Square, there was the smell of frying bacon as the servants started the day’s work.

The footmen jumped down from the backstrap to assist the ladies in alighting. When they were on the shallow steps in front of the house, Annie suddenly remembered Marigold’s wicked push at the ball. As her sister moved forward to enter the house, she stuck out her foot. Marigold tripped and went sprawling into the hall.

With a scream of rage, Marigold leaped to her feet, her fingernails ready to rake Annie’s face. Then she saw the look on Aunt Agatha’s face and subsided into noisy sobs, burying her dry eyes in a wisp of a handkerchief.

“Go to your room, Annie,” said Miss Winter, in awful tones. “I will need to think of a way to punish you. If this behavior continues, I shall have no alternative but to send you home.”

“Mother locks her in her room when she’s bad,” said Marigold.

“Then that is what I shall do,” said Aunt Agatha. “Go, Annie, and I shall come with you and turn the key in the door and take it away. You will not leave your room until you have written, five hundred times, ‘A lady does not betray excess of emotion,’ and you will spend at least the whole of tomorrow locked up.”

“But the Marquess of Torrance is coming to call,” wailed Annie. “It’s not fair. Why am I always the one who’s punished when
she
…”

“That’s enough!” Aunt Agatha pushed Annie toward the stairs with surprising strength.

Annie realized that it would be useless to protest. As she mounted the stairs, she could not resist looking back.

Lady Marigold Sinclair stuck out her tongue.

CHAPTER THREE

 

Annie awoke to a feeling of doom. A housemaid was pulling back the curtains to flood the bedroom with sunlight. Then the maid went out quickly and locked the door behind her.

Annie blushed all over with mortification. Being punished at home where the servants were part of the family was one thing. Being punished the very day after you’ve put your hair up for the first time, and in front of strange London servants, too, was quite awful. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, and thirsted for revenge.

As the morning wore on, despite the fact that Annie had only had a few hours’ sleep, she found it impossible to rest. At least it appeared that she was not to be subjected to the bread-and-water treatment. A surprisingly tasty luncheon was delivered to her. Annie did not know that by now the servants all detested Marigold, who bullied them in a way she would not have dared to do at home.

Sheets of paper were laid out on a little writing desk so that she could write her “lines.” She wrote that a lady did not betray excess of emotion fifty times and then, with a sigh, put down her pen. The room was becoming uncomfortably hot, so she went to open the window and then leaned out. All those free people strolling about below her! She wondered what Marigold was doing. At least there had been no sign of the marquess.

Her red hair tumbled about her face in a riot of soft curls, all that was left of her elaborate coiffure after she had brushed it out. She was wearing a tailored alpaca skirt and a pin-striped blouse with a stiff little collar.

She was twisting this way and that way in front of the glass, pushing up her hair to see how it would look in a different style, when she heard the rattle of a carriage on the cobblestones outside.

The carriage stopped.

Annie rushed to the window.

The Marquess of Torrance was descending from his chariot—always to be pronounced “char-ot” since no lady ever used all of the syllables. He was carrying his hat in his hand and the sun shone on his crisp black hair. His beautifully tailored, dove-gray coat fell open to reveal an ornately embroidered waistcoat. He had arrived in an open carriage and that meant that, had Annie been at liberty to go for a drive, she would not have needed a chaperone. But she could not go. There was no way. Her bedroom was three floors above the street and the door was firmly locked.

Downstairs, the Marquess of Torrance smiled blandly on Aunt Agatha and Lady Marigold. He had not asked for Annie.

Now Marigold was firmly convinced that the way to entrap a man was to drive him mad with rejection. She knew she was looking extremely pretty in a pale pink, flowered silk skirt and a blond lace blouse with a high, boned collar.

So when the marquess said gently that it was a beautiful day for a drive in the park, Marigold tossed her head, and, with what she hoped was a killing laugh, said, “Is it, my lord? I declare I hadn’t noticed.”

“I thought all ladies enjoyed showing off their fashions in the park,” said the marquess.

“For myself,” said Marigold, who had not, as yet, been for a drive in the park at the fashionable hour, “I cannot see the fascination in simply going around and around in a carriage.”

Aunt Agatha glared at Marigold, but Marigold sat with a serene smile on her face. The marquess, she knew, would promptly beg for her company, and, after a certain amount of pretty hesitation, she would finally allow him that honor.

He was sitting, very much at his ease, in an armchair that faced the window. “In that case,” he said, “I will not press you to do something that you obviously despise, Lady Marigold. I shall try my luck with your sister and hope that she will take pity on me.”

“I am afraid Lady Annie is indisposed,” began Aunt Agatha, “and you must forgive Marigold’s naughty teasing, my lord, for…”

“Oh, do not trouble to apologize,” said the marquess. “Unless I am much mistaken, Lady Annie has fully recovered and is shortly about to join us.”

“Why, what do you mean? Annie is…”

“Just outside the window,” said the marquess blandly.

Aunt Agatha and Marigold were sitting in chairs facing him, with their backs to the window. They turned slowly around, and Aunt Agatha let out a shrill scream.

A pair of white, glace kid, button boots were dangling outside the window somewhere at the top of the frame. Inch by inch, the apparition descended. First the boots, then an inch of frilly petticoat, then a white tussore skirt, then a jade-green silk blouse, and then Annie’s red head topped with a wickedly simple straw hat.

“She’s gone mad,” said Marigold shrilly, as Annie’s gloved hands holding on to a rope of sheets cautiously descended.

Miss Winters closed her mouth and leaped into action. “John!” she shouted to the footman. “Rescue Lady Annie immediately. Dear me! She will be quite killed.”

“I wonder how one gets quite killed?” asked the marquess, but the ladies were not paying any attention.

Annie was now adding insult to injury by placing the soles of her boots against the window so that she could swing out over the area railings in front of the house and land on the pavement.

The footman caught her just as she showed every sign of swinging back like a pendulum through the window glass.

Marigold and Aunt Agatha sat down again, their backs rigid. The door opened and Annie sailed in. Marigold waited triumphantly for her sister’s humiliation in front of the marquess. Annie looked disgustingly band-box fresh considering her perilous escape from her room. Marigold felt that Annie had come off the best at the hands of the dressmaker by not having her clothes chosen for her by Aunt Agatha.

Annie curtsied to the marquess, who had risen to his feet.

“My apologies, my lord,” she said lightly, bestowing a charming smile on her aunt. “I’m afraid the silly servants locked me in my room by mistake.”

“Then you were most enterprising to escape from it,” he said smoothly, with a smile lurking in his eyes. He was well aware that Annie had been locked up for some misdemeanor. For if she had been locked in by accident, she had only to shout or ring for the servants.

“I see you are ready to join me for a drive, Lady Annie,” he went on, “and since your sister does not favor the exercise, I fear you will have to put up with my company. With your permission, of course, Miss Winters.”

Annie looked pleadingly at her aunt. Marigold gleefully waited for the storm to break.

Aunt Agatha said mildly, “Of course you are free to go, Annie. I know his lordship to be a fine whip, so you will be in good hands.”

Marigold made a gulping, spluttering noise.

When Annie and the marquess had left the room, Marigold started to scream, “How could you? How dare she? I shall write to Mother…
Oh! Oh! Oh!
”

“Shut up!” said Aunt Agatha. “Yes, it might do very well,” she went on slowly. “Torrance may be a rake, but he’s quite a catch. I must telephone Mrs. Burlington and tell her the news. She has been after him for
years
for one of those pasty-faced daughters of hers and she said only the other night that, as an
unmarried
lady, I would find it a disadvantage in getting you girls fixed up. Hah! Wait until she hears
this
!”

She sailed from the room, leaving Marigold to writhe on the floor in quite the worst fit of hysterical rage that that young lady had ever had.

Annie was too unsophisticated to realize that Miss Winter had some grounds for being so triumphant. The Marquess of Torrance had never at any time in his life shown enough interest in any young debutante to take her driving. He had kept a succession of demimondaine ladies, which was not to be held against him. Such behavior in a marquess was glamorous. In Mr. Joe Bloggs of Clapham, say, it would be considered disgusting and immoral.

Now that she had achieved the beginnings of her ambition, Annie felt quite shy and tongue-tied as she sat beside Torrance in the carriage. He was handling his pair of matched bays himself, and there was only one groom on the backstrap. The open carriage was well-sprung and bowled along with a gentle, swaying motion.

The sun sparkled on varnish and metal. “It’s—it’s a very nice carriage,” said Annie, at last.

“Yes, isn’t it,” he replied equably. “It’s a mobile map of the world in its way. The framework is made of English ash, the panels are Honduras mahogany, the footboards are American ash, the shafts are Jamaican lancewood, the wheels are Canadian hickory, and the spokes are English oak. There! I have furthered your education.”

“Yes,” said Annie, who could not think of anything else to say.

She slid a sideways glance at him under the shadow of her hat. He had a strong face in profile, and his long hands holding the reins seemed strong also, despite their whiteness and manicured nails.

But everything about him was too studied, too mannered. She wondered suddenly if he really cared very strongly about anything except his clothes and his horses.

“Would you like a motorcar?” he asked.

“Oh, that’s just a fad, or so Papa says.”

“I would. I’m thinking of buying one.”

“But what would you do with your horses?”

“Use them as well, for pleasant outings like this. Use the motorcar when I have to go to the country.”

“I can’t imagine anyone loving one of those contraptions the way they love their horses.”

“Oh, but they do, I assure you. In some cases, more so. Take my friend Jeffrey Withers. Now he bought a Lanchester only last year and he’s had endless trouble with it. It always seems to be breaking down. But he loves it. Although he doesn’t think of it as an ‘it,’ if you take my meaning. He thinks of it as ‘she,’ just like boats. He calls his motorcar Bessie and he talks to it day and night.

“I passed him once on the Brighton road and he was cranking the engine like mad and saying, ‘Come along, Bessie, I know you can do it. Jeffrey loves you. Just give a little cough for old Jeffrey to show you’re alive.’”

“You either have strange friends or you are teasing me,” said Annie. “First you tell me about someone who shaved his head bald…”

“Bertie.”

“Yes, Bertie. And now there’s this Jeffrey who talks to his motorcar.”

“Never mind. Here we are. London at play.”

Annie studied the other carriages and their occupants with great interest as they drove around by the Serpentine.

Some of the women drove themselves. Annie twisted around to admire a pretty little blonde in a plethora of pink ruffles and pink maribou who was handling her whip like an expert. As she watched, the blonde looked fully at the marquess, gave him a saucy smile and the merest flicker of a wink, and then she trotted sedately past, the little parasol on the end of her whip, also pink to match the rest of her outfit.

“That pretty lady winked at you,” said Annie.

“She did? I’m flattered,” said her companion. “Now what is the name of that tree over there? I never can remember it.”

“Ladies don’t wink,” said Annie, beginning to feel cross although she could not understand why. Perhaps it was because the blonde had reminded her of Marigold.

“Elder, surely.”

“Than whom?”

“Not that elder. I mean, the name of the tree.”

“I don’t know,” said Annie, thinking furiously. Good manners meant that she could not pursue any subject that her companion wanted to drop.

Vague social rumors and bits of gossip began to drift through her head. About the Marquess of Torrance being a wild, young man-about-town. Of course he wasn’t young, but it seemed that all bachelors were young until they reached their dotage.

The blonde in the pink dress had been very pretty, very pretty indeed. But not a lady. Ladies did not wink, thought Annie, folding her soft mouth into a prim line.

“Have you indigestion, or have I said something to offend you?”

She realized with a start that her companion had been studying her face. “No,” she said. “No, my lord, I was thinking of something… well, something else.”

“And not me? Ah, well… there is Lady Trevelyn…” Annie bowed. “And there is Mrs. Wayling, a friend of my mother.” Annie bowed again.

“I somehow did not think of you as having a mother,” she said, as a chilly little breeze sprang up and a passing cloud cast its shadow over the waters of the Serpentine.

“You mean you thought I sprang fully armed in a natty gent’s suit from my father’s head, or something like that?”

“No. I mean, one does not think of older people having mothers.”

“Ouch!”

“I mean, not that you are old, just mature,” pleaded Annie.

“Well-seasoned like the English oak?”

“Not quite, my lord. I meant… Oh, it’s too hard to explain. Is your mother in town?”

“No, she and my father are in the country.”

“Yes, of course. Your father is the Duke of Dunster. Marigold and I looked you up in Debrett.”

“How thorough of you. Now, tell me how it came about that you were escaping from your room in that dramatic manner?”

“I told you. It was the servants. They locked me in by mistake.”

“So you did… tell me, I mean.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“What on earth gave you that idea, Lady Annie? I believe everything you say.”

Annie bit her lip. They were rolling toward the gates of Hyde Park again. She felt that she somehow
had
to get him to say something intimate. Something she could throw in Marigold’s face.

The day was clouding up, and she shivered slightly in the rising dusty wind.

They stopped in the press of traffic at Hyde Park Comer, and he reached behind her, pulled up a mohair carriage rug, and gently wrapped it about her shoulders. His face was suddenly very close to her own, so she could see the lazy smile on his mouth and the thick eyelashes veiling his eyes.

“Now you should feel warmer.” His voice held a caressing note.

“Thank you,” whispered Annie, feeling gauche and schoolgirlish. Marigold would have said something flirtatious and made the most of the moment. But, all at once, the traffic moved and he took up the reins again.

“Shall you be at the Worthingtons’ ball tonight?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” said Annie. “My aunt said nothing about what we were to do this evening.”