“Beastly hot in this room,” she commented. “Wouldn’t you say so, Mr. Saunders?”
Geoffrey Saunders was a handsome boy—there was no denying but that he was a pleasure to look at—but just because he looked like an angel, Kate soon discovered, didn’t mean he was one. Because when he’d collected himself enough to speak again, what actually came out of his mouth were the words, “Look, here, Miss Mayhew,” and those he uttered quite testily.
Kate, pretending to be taken aback, raised her eyebrows. “Yes, Mr. Saunders?”
“Well.” Geoffrey Saunders’s blue eyes, she saw when she raised her gaze to meet his, were ringed with golden eyelashes that were extraordinarily long for a man. And, she noted, Mr. Saunders knew how to use them. He fluttered them quite innocently. “I was thinking. You’re different from Lady Isabel’s other chaperones. I mean, aside from being younger—and quite a bit better looking—”
This last was said with a swift appraising look out from under the eyelashes that, Kate knew from experience, was supposed to make her blush with pleasure. What it actually did, however, was make her apply her fan even harder to her burning face, as she thought furiously, The cheek! The insolent cheek!
“—you’ve got a brain or two in your head, I can tell. Well, as it happens, I’ve got brains, too.” Geoffrey paused, as if expecting her to say something like, “But of course you do, Mr. Saunders. Anyone could see that.” But Kate, perversely refusing to give him any satisfaction whatsoever, said nothing.
“What I’m trying to say,” Geoffrey went on, “is ... well, there’s money to be made here, Miss Mayhew. Quite a lot of it. And if we two were to put our heads together, Miss Mayhew, I’m quite sure we could come up with a plan that would make us both quite ... comfortable.”
Kate said, “Oh, really?” in a noncommittal tone.
“Really.” A footman passed by, and Mr. Saunders seized a glass of champagne, one for each of them. Kate declined the one he offered her, however, and with a shrug, Mr. Saunders downed them both. “Might I ask your salary, Kate? May I call you Kate?”
Kate said tartly, “You most certainly may not. Nor do I see any reason why I should reveal my salary to you.”
Undaunted by her rudeness, Mr. Saunders went on. “Well, I can tell you what it is. Twenty-five pounds a year. Am I right?”
Kate watched as Freddy expertly whirled the Lady Isabel about the room. Isabel actually appeared to be enjoying herself. The color had come back into her cheeks, and occasionally she giggled with pleasure at something the earl said.
“Twenty-five pounds a year,” Mr. Saunders repeated, ignoring Kate’s pointed silence. “Do you have any idea how much the Marquis of Wingate is worth, Miss Mayhew? Any idea at all?”
Kate said, “I haven’t, but I feel quite sure you’re going to tell me.”
“Damned right I am. Nearly half a million pounds.” Mr. Saunders deposited the empty champagne glasses on the tray of a passing’ footman. “He has properties in the West Indies, Africa, and South America, holdings that have taken in, at last count, half a million pounds, Miss Mayhew. Out of which you are earning a piddling twenty-five a year. Doesn’t that make you angry, Miss Mayhew?”
Kate watched as, the set ending, the earl bowed low to the Lady Isabel, who curtsied quite prettily.
“What makes me angry, Mr. Saunders,” Kate said calmly, “is your impertinence.”
Mr. Saunders, rather than taking offense at her manner, seemed delighted by it. “I say, Miss Mayhew,” he said admiringly. “You’ve got spirit I like a girl with spirit. You and I should get on capitally.”
It was on the tip of Kate’s tongue to tell Mr. Saunders that they were not going to get on at all, capitally or otherwise, since she hadn’t the slightest interest in pursuing an acquaintance with him. She was kept from imparting this information, however, by two events, which, occurring simultaneously, soon wiped all other thoughts from her head.
The first was Freddy, having swept Isabel back from the dance floor, suddenly seized Kate by the waist and spun her around, declaring loudly to one and all, “Dancing is in my blood, I swear it! You simply must have this next waltz with me, Katie!”
She was about to tell him not to be a fool when, from the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a tall, dark man striding quite purposefully toward her. Assuming that here, at least, was one old acquaintance who recognized her, despite the primly cut dress, she struggled out of Freddy’s grasp, then turned to meet her accuser.
But her voice dried up in her throat. Because while it was an acquaintance who stood before her, their relationship was not of such long standing. For it was, of course, the Marquis of Wingate.
Chapter Eleven
“Lord Wingate.”
She said it so faintly, she didn’t think Freddy could have heard her, especially over the strains of the orchestra the baroness had hired.
But Freddy must have heard her, since he let go of her so abruptly, she staggered. Though she righted herself quickly, she had to reach up and push some of her hair from her eyes, and when she could see again, she realized she must have missed something, because Freddy was glaring at Isabel’s father ... and Isabel’s father was glaring right back.
“Bishop,” Lord Wingate said, in a cool voice.
“Traherne,” Freddy said right back, in an identical tone.
Kate wasn’t at all certain what made her suddenly insinuate herself between the two men. But she did so, and with an irregularly beating heart, although when she spoke, she sounded entirely cordial.
“Why, Lord Wingate! What a surprise. We weren’t expecting you here tonight.”
“That,” the marquis said, staring over the top of her head—at Freddy, evidently, “is perfectly obvious.”
Kate went on, aware that she was prattling, but unable to stop herself. “I believe you know Mr. Saunders. But I wasn’t aware you were already acquainted with the Earl of Palmer.”
“Indeed,” the marquis said. “Lord Palmer and I have shared many common ....” He paused, and then said, as if thinking better of his original choice of words, “Adventures.”
Freddy, to Kate’s astonishment, laughed. “Adventures,” he said, with a chuckle. “Well, that’s one word for it, anyway.” Then he stuck his right hand out, right past Kate. “Pleasure to see you again, Traherne,” Freddy said.
“The pleasure,” Lord Wingate said, his gloved hand swallowing Freddy’s in a grip that looked, to Kate, a good deal more painful than friendly, “is all mine.”
An uncomfortable silence ensued after the two men dropped their hands. Kate, aware that Lord Wingate’s eyes were on her, but incapable, just then, of meeting his gaze, opened her reticule and began to dig through it, thinking furiously to herself as she did so, Oh, God, I’m going to kill Freddy, really kill him! This is all his fault. I told him chaperones don’t dance. And now Lord Wingate’s going to give me the sack, and I’ll have to pay back the money he advanced me. Well, I jolly well know where that fifty quid is coming from, and if Freddy says one word about that wretched mother of his complaining about his spending, I’ll just remind him about how he lost me a perfectly good job with his stupid tricks ....
It was Isabel who broke the silence by saying animatedly, “Papa, did you know that Lord Palmer has two horses running at Ascot this year?”
Lord Wingate, Kate saw when she looked up, bore this news with admirable calm. “Does he?” he inquired politely.
“Indeed he does,” Isabel said. “They’re both American bred.”
“I presume, then,” her father said, not taking his gaze off Kate, even though all she did was pull a watch from her bag, and scrutinize its face, “that Lord Palmer has something against English horseflesh.”
“Most definitely not,” Freddy cried. “Only it happens that I know a particularly fine breeder in Kentucky, and he’s supplied some of my friends with a few real high-steppers, so I thought—”
“Oh,” Isabel interrupted, turning her jade-green gaze upon Mr. Sa
unders. “Weren’t you telling me that you just purchased a high-stepper, Mr. Saunders? Is he from Kentucky, too?”
“Actually,” Geoffrey Saunders drawled, with far more self-assurance than Kate thought wise, considering whom he was addressing, “I prefer Arab bred myself.”
“Arab?” Freddy cried. “You must be joking.”
Saunders stuck out his perfectly sculpted chin. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but I am not.”
An argument naturally ensued as to who bred the finest horses, the English, the Americans, or the Arabs. Kate, grateful to Mr. Saunders—and Kate was not insensible of the fact that this was a startling turn of events, her being grateful to a man like Geoffrey Saunders—took advantage of the diversion to slink away, in search of some champagne with which to fortify herself against the ride home, which, she was certain, was going to prove very unpleasant.
But Lord Wingate, as it happened, hadn’t the slightest intention of waiting for the ride home. No, he apparently chose to rebuke her right there in the ballroom, in front of God and everybody.
She felt the hard fingers close around her arm, and of course didn’t have to turn to know to whom those fingers belonged. She merely sighed and slowed her steps. Really, she thought. I’m going to kill Freddy.
“Lord Wingate,” she said, turning around to face him. “I can explain. It was just a rather childish moment of—”
But Lord Wingate wasn’t even looking at her. He was staring in Freddy’s direction. “Miss Mayhew,” he said. “Has that gentleman been bothering you?”
She followed his gaze. Yes, it was most definitely Freddy he was looking daggers at. Trying not to think so much about the fact that his fingers were still cutting off the blood circulation in her arm, she said, “Well, not really. You see—”
“I do see,” the marquis said. “And I was very much afraid something like this might happen.”
And then he suddenly let go of her arm, and quite methodically began stripping off his gloves.
“Lord Wingate,” Kate said, in some alarm. “I believe you misunderstand me—”
“Oh, I understand,” the marquis said, working his fingers from the constricting white cotton, “and I can only hope you’ll accept my apologies, Miss Mayhew, for the insulting treatment you’ve received at the hands of that particular gentleman. I would have hoped that his reputation where the fairer sex is concerned would have prevented any hostess in London from admitting him into her home, but I can see that the baroness, being a foreigner, must not have heard of his latest scandalous entanglement ....”
Kate’s eyes widened, both with astonishment at the idea of Freddy having any sort of entanglement, scandalous or otherwise, and at the idea of the Marquis of Wingate, of whom she’d heard nothing but shocking rumors, referring to someone else’s behavior as reprehensible.
“Really?” she said. “With someone here in London?”
The marquis made an impatient, dismissive gesture, as if the discussion had suddenly grown tedious. “A Viennese soprano.”
Kate threw a startled glance in Freddy’s direction. Viennese soprano? Viennese soprano? When he was perpetually professing his love for her? And all the time it turned out that he was making love to some Viennese soprano?
No. It was too incredible.
“Oh, really,” she said, shaking her head in bemusement. “You must have mistaken him for someone else, my lord. You can’t possibly mean Freddy.”
The marquis paused, the second glove halfway removed.
“Freddy?” he echoed.
Too late, Kate realized her mistake.
“Oh,” she said, through lips that had gone suddenly dry. “I meant Lord Palmer, of course.”
The marquis stared at her. There were, Kate supposed, worse things than being stared at by the Marquis of Wingate. Just then she couldn’t think what those things might be, but she was certain there were worse things. There had to be.
But having those eyes, like twin coals glowing in the embers of a dying fire—although what sort of coal burned green, Kate hadn’t the slightest idea—boring into one was surely the most uncomfortable sensation in the world.
“You said”—the marquis did not seem to notice her discomfort, or, if he did, he was enjoying it, since he did not look away from her, or even so much as blink—“Freddy. I heard you, quite distinctly. It is true that it is unbearably loud in this infernally hot room, and”—this part he added quite dryly—“I am advancing in years, I know, but my hearing is still perfectly good. And I’d like to point out, Miss Mayhew, that you indicated to me, back in the Sledges’ library that day, that you were unattached.”
Kate blinked at him, perfectly perplexed as to the direction in which this conversation was heading. “Well, yes, of course I did, Lord Wingate. Because I am unattached.”
Lord Wingate cast a glance in Freddy’s direction. And quite suddenly—and not without a distinct sinking sensation—she knew exactly where the conversation was headed.
“Oh,” she said quickly, hoping if she behaved casually enough, he might let the subject drop. “You mustn’t mind Freddy, my lord. He was only being foolish. I thought he could be useful in convincing your daughter that Geoffrey Saunders isn’t the only young man in the world. That was before, of course, I knew anything about this—ahem—reputation you mentioned—”
“There it is again,” Lord Wingate interrupted, with the air of a man who hears a faint buzzing noise about his head, but can’t quite trace the source.
Kate actually looked about for a fly, and not seeing one, asked, “There’s what again, my lord?”
“That name.” His voice dropped to a growl. “You called him Freddy, Miss Mayhew. I heard it, quite distinctly, twice. And yet you tell me that you are unattached.”
“I am” Kate insisted. “I—”
“So there is no entanglement whatsoever between you and Lord Palmer?”
“Not on my part, Lord Wingate,” she blurted, then regretted it immediately, when the marquis said, “Ah,” in a tone that suggested she’d confirmed a suspicion he’d been harboring.
“Then there is a possibility,” Lord Wingate said, “that the earl entertains romantic feelings toward you?”
Furious at herself for having said anything at all—but more furious with him, for having made her do so—Kate declared, “I would never presume to claim knowledge of anyone’s innermost thoughts and desires, my lord. I can only answer with certainty about my own. And, as I stated before, my own consist of nothing but the affection one naturally feels for an acquaintance of very long standing. I’ve known the earl since I was a child. My parents were quite good friends with his. When you walked in, Freddy was just roughhousing with me, as we used to during our school holidays, which I frequently spent at Palmer Park ....”
Her voice trailed off. She could tell by the marquis’s expression that he did not believe a word she was saying. She felt stung, not so much because he thought she was lying—she was quite certain that a man whose wife had done to him what Lord Wingate’s had would expect nothing but lies from a woman—but by the fact that he’d somehow goaded her into saying anything at all. What was she doing, telling this man the intimate details of her life? Indeed, she hadn’t wanted him to know, and had been relieved that, as yet, he’d asked her no questions about her family, her past. It was such a sad story ... such a stupid story, in its way. If it were a novel, she would not have finished reading it, because it would have struck her as too depressing, the players in it too pathetic. She hadn’t any intention of telling him—not unless she had to. But judging from his expression, an abridged version might be necessary.
But before she could utter another word, Isabel came hurrying up to them, the ends of her sash, which had come undone, streaming behind her.
“Oh, Miss Mayhew,” she cried breathlessly. “Can you fix this awful thing? It keeps coming undone, and people are treading on it.” She turned her back toward Kate, who reached up and began automatically to tie the sash in place again.
“Isn’t this a lovely ball, Papa?” Isabel asked her father, as Kate worked behind her. “I’m having such a lovely time. Aren’t you?”
Kate kept her eyes on the bow she was forming, and so did not see Lord Wingate’s face as he replied, in tones of perfect dryness, “Splendid.”
“Only it doesn’t seem to me, Papa,” Isabel went on, “that you are being very polite, standing there like a stick while Miss Mayhew hasn’t a partner for this set. You ought to ask her to dance.”
Kate gave the sash a tug that was perhaps more forceful than necessary. “That’s quite all right, Lady Isabel,” she said, trying to keep her tone pleasant. “I’m not here to dance, after all. I’m here to look after you.”
Isabel ignored her. “You had better ask her soon, Papa,” she informed her father, “or all her dances will be taken.”
Kate gave Isabel’s sash a wrench, and said, “Honestly, I can’t think where you come up with this nonsense.”
“Well, first Lord Palmer,” Isabel said matter-of-factly, “and now that nice-looking gentleman over there.” Isabel nodded her head at a man who was standing some feet away, gazing quite unabashedly in their direction. “He’s been staring at you for the past five minutes, I swear. He must admire you awfully, Miss Mayhew.”
Kate looked in the direction Isabel indicated ...... and froze.
She found she could not move. Not one inch. Her heart, in the bodice of her gown, was the only part of her that retained mobility, and it began moving much too rapidly for comfort, pounding so hard in her ears that it drowned out even the strains of the orchestra across the room.
She wondered, dimly, if she was going to faint. She had only fainted once in her life, and, interestingly, the face she was staring at now had been the last thing she’d seen back then, just before she’d lost consciousness. At least, she’d always thought so. Afterward, when she’d regained consciousness, those who were gathered round her insisted she was wrong. Daniel Craven, they’d said, had been nowhere near the scene, had had nothing to do with the fire that had killed both of Kate’s parents.
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