by Candace Camp
“It won’t. I’m not the naïve dreamer I was then. I did recover—and more than that. I built a new life for myself. I am a realist now. I don’t fancy myself in love with Lord Montclair. I don’t expect moonlight and roses and waltzes at midnight. Just a chance at a new life. Of having some part, at least, of what I wanted.”
“You know, I hope, that there are any number of men who would be happy to love you. To have a life with you. Myself included.”
“I know.” She tucked her hand into his arm again. “And don’t think I don’t appreciate the offer. But you are too good a friend, I think, to risk losing you.”
He stifled a sigh. “I would never wish to risk that. You have been a better friend to me than anyone in my life. Without your help I would never have gotten free of your father.”
Abigail smiled. “It wasn’t charity; I made a very good investment with that loan.”
“I’ve done my best to see to that. But still, I will always be grateful to you. And whether it is with me or some other man, I want you to make a good life. Away from Montclair.”
“I could choose someone other than him, it’s true. But it wouldn’t be making a life. It would only be having an affair. I am married to Lord Montclair.”
“Unless you obtain a divorce.”
“I know.” Abigail sighed. “But one marries for life.” She looked up at him, her eyes great pools of sorrow. “At least, that is what I believe.”
Prescott let out a long sigh, too, and patted her hand on his arm. “Ah, Abigail, I fear you are still a dreamer, after all.”
They soon reached the hotel, its entrance brightly illuminated, and Abigail made her way up to her suite. She turned on the gaslight, reflecting that she rather preferred its gentler glow to the much-touted electric lights in front of the hotel. They had not been installed last time she stayed here.
But she didn’t want to think about that time.
She should ring for her maid; it was almost impossible to get out of her corset single-handedly. But she did not do so; she needed a moment to herself before she faced questions from Molly.
The truth was, she wouldn’t know what to tell Molly any more than she had known what to say to David Prescott. Perhaps they were right in their gloomy predictions for a future with Graeme. Certainly there had been nothing in his manner tonight to give her encouragement. However he might have changed in the past ten years, his antipathy toward her remained unswerving.
Abby started across the room. Something crackled beneath her feet, and she looked down. A small square envelope lay on the floor. Molly or one of the hotel servants could have brought it in while she was gone, but they would not have tossed it on the floor. Someone must have slipped it beneath the door.
Curious, she picked up the white square. It was sealed and addressed to “Lady Montclair.” Opening it, she found a single sheet of paper. The message was short and simple: “Do you want to know the truth behind your marriage?”
She stared at the paper blankly. The truth behind her marriage? The words made little sense to her, and she read them over again. What did it mean? What truth? That Graeme did not love her? That was amply clear and had been so since her wedding night. Surely no one could think that would be a revelation to her. That he had married her solely because he needed money? She had known that, too, even before he’d told her how little he wanted to be her husband.
Abby refolded the letter. Why would anyone have sent such a missive to her? And who would have done so?
The secrecy of it—the lack of signature, the hinting without really revealing anything, the way it had turned up on her floor—indicated a certain malevolence, she thought. As the daughter of a wealthy, powerful, and ruthless man, she was not unaccustomed to being the object of jealousy and dislike. But she knew hardly anyone in London, really.
Though she had received numerous introductions and invitations, it was merely because people were curious about the American heiress Lord Montclair had tossed aside. They hoped Abby might provide some titillating entertainment for a party or give them a bit of gossip to pass along. She doubted any of them actually liked her, but she wouldn’t have thought they disliked her enough to try to hurt her.
Except her husband, of course. But she could not believe this letter was from Montclair. It simply wasn’t something he would do. He had been straightforward in his dislike of her. He wasn’t the sort to send mysterious letters suggesting dark secrets.
Besides, it hardly served his purpose. He wanted her to leave London as soon as possible. This note was the sort of thing that would arouse her curiosity. It was more likely to make her stay here than to flee.
Perhaps it was simply a matter of money, someone who knew or thought they knew something Abby would pay to find out. Or it could be a friend of Graeme’s—someone who wanted to punish her because they believed Abby had ruined Montclair’s life.
Or maybe someone who felt her own life had been ruined. The woman whom Graeme had been in love with, for instance. Now, that idea made some sense. Abigail stood at the window, staring sightlessly out at the lights of London, thinking.
She could imagine the dislike a woman could harbor for someone who had taken the man she loved away from her. However much Graeme had not given his heart to Abigail, the fact was that he had married her and was thus lost to the woman he loved. A woman in that position might very well despise Abigail enough to torment her in any way possible, even with something as small as a note that disturbed her evening.
Abigail sighed. Unfolding the little square of paper, she methodically tore it in half and then again, tossing the pieces into the trash. She could not as easily dismiss her thoughts.
She didn’t know the name of the woman Graeme had loved, only that he had preferred her to Abigail. At the time, Abby had not really cared. When she decided to return to London, she had thought that Graeme’s love for the unknown woman had probably died over the years. But what if it had not? Perhaps he had been having an affair with her all these years.
What if Molly and David were right and there was nothing for Abby here? She could not help but wonder if it had been foolhardy to come back. Perhaps she should be content with the life she lived in New York and not risk more heartache.
Abigail looked across the room at the elegant woman reflected in the mirror over the vanity table. She drew closer, studying her hair and face, her dress, her carriage. She was not, she thought firmly, the tongue-tied, dreamy-eyed girl who had walked blindly into marriage ten years ago.
After the fiasco of her wedding night, she had fled to the Continent, miserable and alone. When her father tracked her down and sent Prescott to bring her back, David had convinced her to return—not to her sheltered life in her father’s house, but to take her place in society on her own. And she had done it. Abby had faced her fears, weathered the storm of scandal, and set herself up in her own household, no longer her father’s pawn, but a married woman of substance.
She had remade herself into a confident, attractive woman, one who was not afraid to speak up, who dared to do what she wanted, who made her own decisions. Abigail lifted her chin, giving her image a disdainful smile. The life she had in New York was one she had built. She could do the same again here.
She had come here with a purpose. She was not about to slide back into the quicksand of fear and doubt. Abigail Price might have been a timid sort whose heart was easily bruised, but Abigail Parr, the Countess of Montclair, was a woman who could handle whatever came along.
Nothing that Graeme or any mysterious letter-writer could do would stop her.
chapter 4
The woman was haunting him. It seemed as if everywhere he went, Abigail was there. He saw her at the opera, sitting in the Havertons’ box, chatting and laughing with their thoroughly dissolute son. She was at Mrs. Battleham’s soiree the next night with that upstart American Prescott in tow. Last night he spotted her at the Hammersmiths’ dinner party, this time seated next to and madly flirting with Lord Cargar
on, a man old enough to be her father and married, as well—not to mention reputed to also maintain a mistress. No doubt he hoped to work Abigail into his sexual juggling act.
It was nothing to Graeme, of course, with whom Abigail flirted or what man was standing beside her, sneaking glances down the front of her gown. But any scandal she brewed now would stain his name. That was his only concern.
She was too free and familiar in her speech. Her gowns were—well, they were not lewd, of course; his grandmother assured him they were from Worth or another elegant designer. It was just that they all looked so . . . so delectable on her. A pale pink satin that looked as if Abigail were layered in rich pink frosting, or a vivid gold velvet that changed the color of her eyes to a bewitching shade of tarnished copper. Even a simple black silk frock drew one’s eyes inexorably to the contrasting creamy white skin of her breasts and shoulders.
He never saw Abigail in the same dress twice, and he heard the envious murmurs among other ladies as they studied her attire. Lady Montclair’s ball gowns, the dowager countess assured Graeme, occupied a large space in the conversations of every afternoon call. Graeme was not entirely certain whether his grandmother deplored the idea or was proud of it. He could not help but wonder how Abigail could afford so many luxurious dresses. He gave her a very generous allowance out of the estate, of course, but still . . . he wouldn’t have thought it extended to a seemingly limitless wardrobe of Parisian gowns.
Graeme had never paid attention to women’s dresses. He had admired one or two on Laura, but he had never noticed them as he did now. No doubt Laura had dressed more conservatively, not trying to bring attention to herself. Laura had always been a perfect lady.
Abigail, on the other hand . . . It would not be fair to say that she did not act like a lady. He had not seen her do anything untoward or inappropriate. It was more that wherever she was, whatever she did, she drew everyone’s eyes. When she smiled, she sparkled; she moved her hands expressively as she talked; when she was amused, she laughed aloud. There was nothing demure about her, nothing reserved. He remembered the silent wisp of a girl he had married and he wondered where she had gone.
Had she purposely deceived him? She might have thought he would be more agreeable to tying himself to her if she pretended to be a proper lady. If so, she had certainly done an excellent acting job. He admitted that his eyes had been too full of Laura to really see any other woman. But he couldn’t have been that blind, that mistaken. Abigail must have been manipulating him, just as her father had. It made him wonder what she was trying to maneuver him into now.
Whatever it was, he refused to fall in with her schemes. Despite his grandmother’s prodding, he avoided Abigail. He did not try to speak to her. In fact, if he found himself anywhere near her, he immediately left. No matter how inescapable her presence seemed to be, he refused to acknowledge it. The irritating thing, of course, was that avoiding her meant that he had to keep an eye on her. He saw her conversations, her dances, her laughter. Even more annoying was that when she was not at a party, he still looked for her, wondering where she was and with whom.
“Why don’t you just go talk to her?” his grandmother asked him now. “I don’t know what you hope to prove by standing here watching her.”
“I’m not watching her. I happened to glance over.”
“Hmph.”
“And what I am proving is that she cannot goad me into action. She wants to stir up trouble, to provoke me into doing something.”
“Doing what?” Lady Eugenia asked.
“I don’t know. I have no intention of finding out.”
“This seems a most peculiar plan, I must say.”
“If I refuse to respond to her as she wishes, if I ignore her, eventually she will realize I am not going to rise to the bait, and she’ll stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Bothering me.” He glanced over at Lady Eugenia. Her expression reminded him forcibly of the time he was eight and had knocked over her favorite Waterford vase.
“Graeme Edward Charles Parr, it is time you stop shilly-shallying about and take that woman with you to the estate.”
“I have no intention of taking her home.” Graeme set his jaw. “I don’t know why you think that is any sort of solution to the problem.”
“It is a solution that will keep her out of London. A result, I might add, that folding your arms and glowering at her every night has not brought about.”
“At least she does not have that American fellow with her,” Mrs. Ponsonby offered in her soft voice.
“That is little consolation, Philomena,” Lady Eugenia told her.
“No, of course not.” Mrs. Ponsonby nodded.
The dowager countess heaved a sigh. “Well, if you have no intention of doing anything constructive, Montclair, take me home. It’s deadly dull, as Mrs. Wellersby’s parties always are, and listening to that old fool Danforth gave me a headache. I don’t know why we came in the first place.”
Since there was nothing he wanted so much as to leave, Graeme was not so impolite as to remind his grandmother that they had come because she insisted on it. He escorted the dowager countess home, then went to his study to settle down with a brandy. But he was too restless to settle down . . . just as he had been the entire time in London, it seemed.
He began to pace. His grandmother was right; he was accomplishing nothing by ignoring Abigail. Apparently Abigail did not even notice his absence. He wished he knew what scheme she had in mind. He was certain there was one—there had been that mischievous glint in her eyes when she bantered with him, that teasing smile. He could deal with it if only he had some idea what she had in mind. Perhaps that was what she intended—to drive him mad waiting and wondering.
Letting out a disgusted noise, he set down the glass with a thunk and left the house. His steps turned toward White’s. James might be there. His cousin would doubtlessly laugh at him and point out that Graeme was a fool, but at least he could be counted on to listen and advise without emotion coloring his answer. If not James, there was bound to be someone else he knew, some conversation to take his mind off its tedious circular path.
As luck would have it, though, Graeme had barely stepped inside the door when his eye fell on David Prescott, chatting with Egmont Burrows and Manning’s son. What the devil was that American doing here? His jaw tightened as he watched the man, sipping some brown liquid—probably that ghastly bourbon Americans seemed to love—and chatting with Burrows. This brought up another issue: What was Prescott’s connection to Abigail? Was he her lover or merely one of her father’s business associates? Graeme suspected that if Prescott was not her lover, he would like to be; he had a decidedly possessive way of hanging about her.
But whatever he was or hoped to be, it seemed clear to Graeme that the man was in Abigail’s confidence. If anyone knew what she was about, it would be he. As if he felt Graeme’s gaze on him, Prescott glanced up and saw Graeme. Prescott held his gaze for a moment, direct and almost challenging.
Graeme strode forward. Egmont Burrows saw him approaching. “Ah, Montclair!”
“Burrows. Manning.”
“I’m sure you already know Mr. Prescott,” Manning’s son offered in his languid way, his eyes amused. No doubt he hoped for fireworks between Graeme and his wife’s friend.
“Indeed.” Graeme smiled tightly, determined not to provide the show the others hoped for. “I came here to speak with Mr. Prescott.” His eyes went to Prescott, carrying their own challenge.
“Of course. My pleasure.” Prescott nodded toward the other two men. “Gentlemen, if you will excuse us . . .”
Graeme made his way to a corner of the room where two wingback chairs were set at right angles for a cozy conversation. Prescott settled into one of them and cocked an eyebrow at Graeme.
“Well? I presume you have a reason for this conversation.”
“I do. I want to know exactly what you and Lady Montclair are doing here. What is she planning?” Graeme had
intended to keep his tone cool, even disinterested, but the edginess he’d felt for days rose in him, making it difficult to remain aloof. “Does she intend to create a scandal? Embarrass my family in some way? I warn you, I will not allow her to hurt my mother and grandmother.”
“I don’t see that Abby’s plans, whatever they may be, are any of your business.”
The man’s use of her first name, especially the casual nickname, and the intimacy that implied, grated on Graeme’s nerves. “I’d say it’s very much my business since Lady Montclair is my wife.”
Prescott let out a short, humorless laugh. “So it’s ‘my wife’ now, is it? I was under the impression that you tossed her aside ten years ago. I’d say that doesn’t make her yours anymore.”
“I didn’t ‘toss her aside.’ ” Graeme scowled.
“That is generally what is meant when one abandons his bride on their wedding night.”
“I didn’t abandon her.” The years-old tendrils of guilt teased at him. “Is that the tale she put out?”
“She didn’t put out any tale at all. It was clear to everyone.”
“Did they expect me to welcome a bride who had coerced me into marriage by ruining my father? Price encouraged him to invest in that scheme with the object of destroying my father financially, making it impossible to do anything but accept his bargain.” Everyone knew this much. Graeme wasn’t about to reveal the full extent of Thurston Price’s threats.
“That was Thurston, not his daughter. She was blameless.”
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I’ve found.” Graeme’s voice was thick with scorn. “She wanted to be a countess. That was all she was interested in—as evidenced by the fact that she left the country as soon as she acquired the title.”
“Do you really think any woman with an ounce of pride would have stayed after the things you said to her?” Prescott surged to his feet.