By Love Unveiled (27 page)

Then she had a flash of inspiration. “I don’t have an appropriate gown.”

Garett’s smile surprised her. “I’ve already had Lydgate’s dressmaker preparing a number of gowns for you. As soon as I received Hampden’s letter, I sent a messenger to town to make certain one would be ready for tonight.”

A quick surge of pleasure flooded her. He’d gone to such trouble for
her
?

Then she sobered. Now she was trapped, as surely as a bear at a bearbaiting. She’d simply have to hope she didn’t know Hampden’s friends. During her days in London, she hadn’t moved in society circles very much.

Still, there was always a chance . . . “Have you any idea whom Hampden is bringing?”

“I imagine it’s the usual group of exiles whom we both knew in France.”

She relaxed. She’d known none of those people personally.

At any rate, she had no choice, so she might as well make the best of it.

*  *  *

As the glittering crowd swirled about the great hall making small talk, Marianne sat near the fire with a false
smile on her lips and a glass of wine in her hand. Her family hadn’t used this room much, deeming it far too grand for their tastes, but it suited Garett and Hampden and their friends. All were dressed in rich attire, the gentlemen as beribboned as the ladies. They lounged on the aging oak chairs with an ease she could never feel among their company.

She didn’t belong here. Not anymore, if she ever had.

At least she hadn’t recognized any of Hampden’s friends. And though she’d stood anxiously as Hampden had introduced her, none had apparently recognized her, either.

“Falkham tells me that your husband died recently. I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Pidgen,” said a masculine voice with a hint of mockery.

Marianne twisted to find Hampden leaning on the back of her chair.

“Hush,” she whispered, though she was very glad to see a familiar face. “He thought that the role of widowed cousin might preserve my tattered reputation, so be a good boy and play along.”

“Yes, but Mrs. Pidgen? Good God.”

“It’s your fault.” She gazed up at him with a teasing smile. “You did tell him to make sure that his pigeon was here. He was just trying to oblige you.”

He snorted. “Was the name your idea or his?”

“His, believe it or not.” Occasionally, the lighthearted Garett she imagined in her youth surfaced. It just wasn’t often enough. “He couldn’t very well call me Mina, or people might guess—” She broke off with a blush.

His eyes darkened a fraction. “That you’re his mistress?”

She glared at him. “That’s ungentlemanly of you, Hampden.”

“But true, I imagine.” When she stiffened, he added in a gentler tone, “Don’t be angry. I couldn’t help but notice that the two of you are different together this time. More, shall we say, comfortable. But ’tis nothing to be ashamed of.”

He patted her shoulder and moved away, leaving her tense and annoyed. She glanced down at the sparkling red satin of her new gown. Hampden was wrong. It
was
something to be ashamed of. She was Garett’s kept woman. No matter how she tried to deny it to herself and to him, that’s what it was. He dressed her, he fed her, and he provided for her in every way.

She turned her gaze to where Garett stood, casually bracing a hand against the wall as he spoke with a stunning woman who wore the most outrageously low-cut gown Marianne had ever seen. Her name was Lady Swansdowne, and her widowhood was real, not that she behaved any differently for it from how Marianne did. Apparently Lady Swansdowne had inherited an immense fortune she enjoyed flaunting. One of the men had said she was considered the most eligible woman in London. Clearly she was also the most beautiful.

As Marianne watched the woman flirt expertly with Garett, tears stung her eyes. She blinked them back. Garett was paying the woman no more attention than any of his other guests, but Marianne still felt desolate.
She couldn’t be to him what that woman was—a potential wife. Not as long as she remained in her guise as gypsy.

Yet if she dropped her guise, she might lose him altogether. Her fingers closed on the arm of the chair. She couldn’t go on this way. She’d go mad. No, she had to tell him everything soon and take her chances. It was the only way to determine if he truly cared for her. Even life in prison would be preferable to the torment she’d experienced lately, to the feelings of doubt assailing her.

A servant approached Garett and whispered in his ear. Garett nodded, then, with a few words and a bow to Lady Swansdowne, approached Marianne. She forced herself to smile, to ignore her pangs of jealousy.

“You’re the loveliest one here.” Taking her hand, he turned it over to press his lips to her wrist. When her pulse quickened, a wolfish grin curved up his mouth. “Later, sweetling, I’ll show you just how lovely I think you are. But for now, we must go in to dinner.”

She allowed him to help her to her feet, but her knees felt weak.

Later
. And much later she’d tell him the truth. But after she did, would he still want to “show her” how he felt about her?

Dinner proved singularly painful. Garett sat at the head of the table and Marianne at the foot. Never had she felt such a gulf between them. Although he often smiled at her, she could do little more than acknowledge it with a tight smile of her own. When should she tell
him the truth? And how? Was there any way to do it without making him hate her?

Hampden sat beside her, but not even his witticisms could keep her mind from playing over and over that dreaded future discussion.

Then the present conversation trickled through her reverie.

“Oh, surely, Hampden, they must have learned something by now,” a young man named Lord Wycliff was saying. “Someone obviously killed the man. Winchilsea didn’t stab himself. They have to have some suspects. After all, whoever did it might be His Majesty’s enemy and must be routed.”

The other conversations stopped as all eyes went to Hampden. Even Garett seemed interested.

She fought to keep her face expressionless. Mechanically she ate some venison pasty without tasting it.

“All I know is it was a conspiracy,” Hampden responded coolly.

Lord Wycliff snorted. “Everyone knows that. What’s happened to your famous penchant for gossip? Don’t you have anything more interesting than that?”

Hampden sighed. “His Majesty is closemouthed on the subject. I’ve tried to weasel information out of Clarendon, but he’s wary of everybody.”

“And rightly so,” another man said and began to tell a humorous story about Clarendon. Marianne offered a silent prayer that the conversation had shifted.

Then a soft voice came from Hampden’s other side. “I know some news about Winchilsea.”

The venison pasty stuck in Marianne’s throat.

“What could you possibly know?” Lord Wycliff asked with a sneer.

The girl’s voice rose higher. “I found out from Elizabeth Mountbatten that Sir Henry’s dead wife was a gypsy.”

Panic gripped Marianne. She fought the impulse to glance at Garett. Perhaps he hadn’t heard. Perhaps he wouldn’t make the connection if he had.

Spurred on by a chorus of excited questions, the girl who’d imparted her bit of gossip with hesitation went on. “He actually married her. Can you believe it? A baronet married to a gypsy.”

Lady Swansdowne leaned over the table with a wicked glint in her eye. “That might explain why their daughter was so unusual.”

“Unusual?”

Marianne stiffened. Garett had asked the question. She couldn’t help it—she looked at him. Her heart sank. His eyes were trained on her, glimmers of suspicion already evident. She didn’t look away. She couldn’t. His gaze seemed to hold her there.

“Why, Miss Winchilsea was a perfect pedant,” Lady Swansdowne continued. “She studied constantly. ’Tis said she even prepared her father’s medicines. I suppose she learned all that from her mother.” Her voice fell to a conspiratorial whisper. “She probably prepared the poison meant for His Majesty.”

“It’s hard to believe any noblewoman would do such a thing,” Hampden said, “but I suppose it’s possible.
Perhaps he was even innocent, and his daughter committed the crime. If so, ’tis no wonder she killed herself.”

Lady Swansdowne added spitefully, “I wouldn’t be surprised at all if she had done it. You know how gypsies are with their potions and poultices. I’m sure they know all manner of poisons.”

Only when Hampden clasped her hand under the table did Marianne realize how badly she’d been shaking. Had Hampden guessed the truth, or was he merely being kind to a gypsy who was bound to be offended by the woman’s talk? Marianne didn’t care. She squeezed his hand, grateful for the gesture.

Meanwhile, Garett seemed oblivious to anyone but her. She tried to ignore the chant storming through her mind:
He knows, he knows, he
knows
. She couldn’t bear it if he found out from a chance bit of false gossip.

Someone spoke to him. He answered without taking his eyes from Marianne.

She tore hers away from his now piercing gaze. Picking up her fork, she had to order her body to do the simplest things—lower the fork, spear a piece of roast pheasant, lift the fork again.

“What did this Miss Winchilsea look like?” Garett asked, his tone deceptively casual. “Perhaps she was a pedant because she couldn’t be anything else.”

The chant in Marianne’s brain grew louder.

“I’m sure she was as plain and dark as a crow,” Lady Swansdowne remarked, appearing to tire of the whole conversation.

Lord Wycliff laughed. “You never even saw the woman, Clarisse. How on earth could you know what she looked like?”

“An acquaintance of mine knew her fairly well,” came a bored voice from down the table.

Marianne darted a glance at the slightly built man who’d spoken, wishing she could just silence him with a look. But he wasn’t even gazing at her.

He was flashing a taunting smile Lady Swansdowne’s way. “He was one of those . . . oh, you know, terribly earnest students who think to learn all the mysteries of life from books. Told me he was her father’s pupil. Even claimed to have stolen a kiss from her. You’ll be happy to hear, Clarisse, that he also claimed she was quite a beauty and not the tiniest bit dark at all.”

The fork dropped from Marianne’s hand, clattering loudly on the pewter plate. “Excuse me,” she murmured, reaching for her glass of wine. She took a large gulp. Never had she dreamed her one innocent kiss would come back to haunt her like this.

“Sad then that she killed herself,” Hampden said beside her. “I wouldn’t have minded meeting such an intriguing creature.”

Marianne tried to tell by Hampden’s tone whether he’d guessed the truth, but he didn’t seem to realize the irony in his words.

Had Garett? Was it possible Garett could have heard everything and not have guessed the truth? She doubted it, yet her heart clung to the hope that he hadn’t pieced together the facts.

As the meal went on and the conversation drifted to other matters, she clutched that shred of hope in desperation. If he had guessed the truth, then the time had at last come for her to test the “bond” he claimed was between them, and she wasn’t ready. Not yet.

She forced herself to look at him. She could read nothing in his expression. Determined to pretend nothing was amiss, she smiled at him. He nodded briefly, and her heart sank.

He knew.

Don’t assume the worst or you’ll slip and say something you shouldn’t. It’s possible he didn’t guess at all.

She schooled herself to act normally, to trade witty remarks with Hampden as always. Although eating was difficult with her stomach roiling and her heart racing, she lifted the fork over and over to her lips with mechanical precision.

Lord Wycliff suddenly stood. “I wish to drink a health,” he announced.

Everyone grew silent.

Marianne bit back an oath. The drinking of healths was popular among both the nobility and the common folk, but once it began, the dinner would drag on endlessly until every man had pledged a multitude of healths.

Lord Wycliff began:

Five times I drink the health

Of Helen, my heart’s desire.

Each of the five can only hint

At the depths of my love’s fire.

Despite her tumultuous emotions, Lord Wycliff’s crude rhyme made Marianne smile. She watched as he drank his full glass, then repeated the rhyme and drained a fresh glass four more times.

She’d heard of this custom, popular on the Continent. Men drank healths to the women they loved, even to their mistresses, according to the number of letters in the woman’s name. Often the women were absent, as was the case with Lord Wycliff’s love. As she saw Lord Wycliff’s face grow flushed from his wine, Marianne found herself wondering what Helen was like.

Then Hampden stood, and she gazed up at him in surprise. Ruefully he winked, then began his own pledge:

Seven is the number of perfection,

As perfect as my lady Tabitha,

And though she may scorn my passion,

I’ll drink her health as is the fashion.

When Hampden sat down after drinking his seven healths, he leaned over to Marianne and whispered, “Not much of a poet, am I?”

“You’re better than Lord Wycliff. But tell me, who is Tabitha?”

“My latest love, though she’s been playing coy with me. I thought I’d press my case. She’s not here, but her brother is sitting next to Lady Swansdowne, and he’ll be certain to tell her if I don’t drink her health.” He grinned. “At least her long name gives me an excuse to get thoroughly foxed.”

Marianne laughed, but the laugh died as Garett stood. The room fell silent again, but she felt certain everyone could hear the loud beating of her heart.

He gave her a brief glance, then lifted his silver chalice.

Fair is the lady I speak of,

Her walk and her speech so sublime.

But she veils her person with false words,

Now for us is the unveiling time.

Marianne scarcely noticed the whispers that rose around her concerning Garett’s odd pledge. She sat with her breath held as Garett drank the health, then refilled his glass. Her blood quickened every time he drained it, then refilled it. She counted the number of healths, her heart leaping into her throat when he passed four and went to five.