Diamonds & Deceit

• Title Page
  
• Copyright
  
• Epigraph
  
• Act One
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  
• Chapter Twenty
  
• Chapter Twenty-one
  
• Chapter Twenty-two
  
• Chapter Twenty-three
  
• Chapter Twenty-four
  
• Chapter Twenty-five
  
• Chapter Twenty-six
  
• Chapter Twenty-seven
  
• Chapter Twenty-eight
  
• Chapter Twenty-nine
  
• Act Two
  
• Chapter Thirty
  
• Chapter Thirty-one
  
• Chapter Thirty-two
  
• Chapter Thirty-three
  
• Chapter Thirty-four
  
• Chapter Thirty-five
  
• Chapter Thirty-six
  
• Chapter Thirty-seven
  
• Chapter Thirty-eight
  
• Chapter Thirty-nine
  
• Chapter Forty
  
• Chapter Forty-one
  
• Chapter Forty-two
  
• Chapter Forty-three
  
• Chapter Forty-four
  
• Chapter Forty-five
  
• Chapter Forty-six
  
• Chapter Forty-seven
  
• Chapter Forty-eight
  
• Chapter Forty-nine
  
• Chapter Fifty
  
• Act Three
  
• Chapter Fifty-one
  
• Chapter Fifty-two
  
• Chapter Fifty-three
  
• Chapter Fifty-four
  
• Chapter Fifty-five
  
• Chapter Fifty-six
  
• Chapter Fifty-seven
  
• Chapter Fifty-eight
  
• Chapter Fifty-nine
  
• Chapter Sixty
  
• Chapter Sixty-one
  
• Chapter Sixty-two
  
• Chapter Sixty-three
  
• Chapter Sixty-four
  
• Chapter Sixty-five
  
• Chapter Sixty-six
  
• Chapter Sixty-seven
  
• Chapter Sixty-eight
  
• Chapter Sixty-nine
  
• Chapter Seventy
  
• Chapter Seventy-one
  
• Chapter Seventy-two
  
• Chapter Seventy-three
  
• Chapter Seventy-four
  
• Chapter Seventy-five
  
• Chapter Seventy-six
  
• Chapter Seventy-seven
  
• Epilogue
  
• About the Author
  

Ellen scurried along the servants’ corridor, her aching arms stacked high with dirty dishes from the garden party outside. It was a blazing hot London day in May, but it seemed as if even the sunlight didn’t dare enter the servants’ passage for fear of getting under Cook’s feet. The only rays came through a small, dirty window, sunk slightly below the level of the gardens, and screened by a box hedge. The sunbeam crossed Ellen’s path like one of Cupid’s golden arrows.

She paused at the sight of it, glancing back toward the kitchen. Mrs. Strong’s voice echoed down the corridor, but no one was watching her. Shifting the tower of plates so they sat more securely on her hip, Ellen went up to the window and stood on tiptoes to peer through.

At first she could see only ivy and whitewashed walls, but by squinting a little and craning her neck she was able to catch sight of one the season’s unmissable events—the first Milborough House garden party since its mistress, Mrs. Fiona Templeton, one of the richest widows in London, had metamorphosed into the Countess of Westlake. Lady Westlake and her family now spent most of the year at the earl’s estate, Somerton Court.

To Ellen it looked as if angels were gathered on the lawns, glowing in chiffon and delicately embroidered lace, with halos of flowers around their heads. Ellen was a country girl, and Lord and Lady Westlake’s assembled guests reminded her of the stained-glass figures in the church she used to attend before she had gone into service: bright and far out of reach, people who lived in a happy land she could not even dream of setting foot in.

“Ellen!”

Ellen jumped as Cook’s voice rang down the corridor.

“What are you dawdling over? Get down to the scullery with those plates!”

“Yes, Mrs. Strong!” Ellen scurried off. She wondered if the day would ever end. Her feet felt too tired to take another step. Tweenies like her—halfway between a house maid and a kitchen maid—got all the dirtiest, most tiring jobs loaded onto them. But like all the other staff at Milborough House, she was willing to work as hard as she had to so that this day could be a success. It
meant
something, to be the tweeny at Milborough House. It
meant
something to touch the angels, even if all you touched was the rim of their dirty plate. From the footman who handed out the champagne, to the chef who had given himself a migraine slicing cucumbers into discs so thin they were like transparent jade, to the gardener who had marshaled a team of fifteen men to whip the flower beds into shape in time for the big day, to the tiny insignificant dot that was Ellen ferrying plates back and forth along the Stygian corridor, all the staff at Milborough House felt this, and it pulled them together with a force stronger than gravity.

As Ellen approached the laundry room, she noticed that the door was ajar just a crack. Then she heard voices.

“…the last time. I’m serious.”

It took her a moment to work out that the man who had spoken could not be a servant. Not with such a voice. But that wasn’t possible. The ladies and gentlemen were never to be found downstairs, any more than she was to be found in the drawing room. And what on earth would they be doing in the laundry room, besides? She slowed, unwilling to intrude.

“You know you don’t mean that.” A woman’s voice this time, and an oddly familiar one.

“I do.”

“Oh, Laurence”—a sweet, lilting laugh. “You say that”—a teasing sigh—“every time.”

Ellen drew closer. She heard the whisper of silk. There were gasps. More sighs. Still not understanding what she was hearing, she looked through the chink of the door. She saw a mist of pink-and-white chiffon, tumbling blond hair. A man’s hand was pressed into a bare white shoulder, half crushing a crimson silk rose adorning the woman’s dress. Two golden heads, lips locked together, kissing passionately. That was all she glimpsed, then the man pulled away.

His eyes were pale and shrewd, his face was handsome, and more than that, aristocratic. The woman was facing toward him, away from Ellen. Ellen did not see her face, just the silken sheen of pearls against the nape of her bare neck as she reached up to draw her hair over her shoulder.

“This time I mean it,” the man whispered furiously.

The woman was half laughing as she said: “You scold me so often, darling, I’m beginning to suspect we’re married.”

The gentleman—Ellen was sure she knew his voice, she had heard it behind the wainscoting a hundred times this season—reached for his hat and cane. The young lady caught his arm.

“Let me go,” he said, but he did not pull away from her.

“Let you go? I don’t force you to meet me like this. You are free to leave whenever you wish—if you can.”

The man made an angry sound. He shook her off as violently as he had drawn her to him a moment earlier. The woman gasped. Ellen jumped back into the shadows, quivering with fear as the man pushed the door open, and glanced left and right down the corridor.

“Laurence!” the woman hissed. It was hard to tell if it was fury or love in her voice.

The man—Laurence—raised a hand to straighten his cravat. His face was set, hard, arrogant, as if he would cut down any challenger. Ellen knew he did not see her, in her drab clothes, stained with dishwater, a stray potato peel down her sleeve and her cap askew, her hair lank and sweaty from the kitchen. She blended into the shadows of the servants’ corridor. But she saw Lord Fintan—the cut of his morning coat, the folds of his sunshine-colored cravat, the smooth line of his gloves as he pulled them on one by one. She saw the swing of his cane and heard the crack of his shoes walking away from her down the corridor toward the open back door. The sun blazing through it touched his golden hair like a halo, as if he were an angel returning to heaven, leaving behind nothing but a faint whiff of expensive cologne and some crimson silk petals scattered on the black-and-white-tiled floor.

“Rose, are you quite well?” Ada Averley placed a hand on her sister’s arm and drew her to one side, looking into her face with concern. They were with a small group in the Arabian summerhouse at the bottom of the gardens, where the ornamental fountains cast crystal music into the warm, scent-laden air.

Rose, beneath her Poiret hat, was wilting. She wanted to say:
No, I’m hot, and I have a headache, and I’m exhausted from the ball last night, and I wish the eternal din of London would fall silent for just one moment so that I could hear my own heart beat
—but she couldn’t say that. Plain Rose Cliffe, housemaid, might have done it, but not Lady Rose, second daughter of the Earl of Westlake. Lady Rose had standards to uphold, a family who could be let down.

Instead she said, “Perfectly, just a little tired.”

Ada smiled sympathetically. Her hand remained on Rose’s arm as they turned back to the group. Rose steeled herself to face the sharp, amused eyes of Lady Gertrude de Vere, Lady Cynthia Fetheringale, and Lady Emily Maddox, three other debutantes. It seemed such a long time since she had been Ada’s lady’s maid, carrying secret letters between her and Ravi, the Indian student with whom Ada was in love. Not for the first time this season, she wondered how Ada was bearing the separation from him. Every time she tried to raise the subject—not often, for they were always in company, always watched; there was never the opportunity to be alone together as there had been when they were mistress and maid—Ada deflected her. Rose was puzzled, and worried.

“The gardens are simply exquisite,” Lady Gertrude said, glancing about her. “I feel as if I were standing in a painting.”

Rose smiled her agreement. The gardens of Milborough House were one of the seven wonders of the London world. It was Gertrude Jekyll who had designed them, creating bold, painterly sweeps of color around sinuous paths that led from lily-studded lakes to charming pergolas and secluded bowers. The best of the flowers were artfully designed to bloom and release their enticing, musky scent just at the height of the season.

“And such a delicious scent!” Ada agreed, as if she had read Rose’s mind.

“A little tainted with washing soda, don’t you think?” murmured Lady Cynthia, with a sidelong glance at her companion.

Lady Gertrude tittered. Rose’s headache intensified, but she managed not to lose her polite smile. She tried to focus on the strains of the Russian string quartet mingling with the chatter and laughter of the guests. It seemed forever since she had been at a piano, and she knew the lack of practice was beginning to tell. She would once have found music in everything, in the morning birdsong at Somerton, in the wind in the trees, in the rattle of the housemaids’ brushes and buckets. But music needed a backdrop of silence, and there was none in London.

“I think it’s simply wonderful how my stepmother always manages to put on such a delightful party,” Ada replied. Rose was grateful for her sister’s tact; she did not feel she could have spoken so calmly.

“We are all wondering which celebrity she has invited to entertain us this evening,” Lady Emily replied.

“Yes, indeed! After Nijinsky and Melba, it’s hard to see who else she can surprise us with.” Lady Cynthia had an extraordinary nose, a little like a shark’s dorsal fin broaching the waters, and she had the habit of raising her chin so that she was looking down it at whomever she spoke to. She raised her chin now and directed her voice at Ada—despite being introduced, she had not yet spoken a word directly to Rose. “She is so lucky with her staff.”

“We are very lucky indeed,” Ada replied quietly.

“No doubt the servant question never bothers
your
family, Lady Ada.” Lady Gertrude took up the theme. “My mother is quite concerned about the availability of housemaids these days. But I hear the Averleys have plenty of them—almost, one might say, too many.”

“Oh, one can never have too many housemaids,” Ada said cheerfully. Her hand was still on Rose’s arm, a reassuring, strong presence. Rose was glad of it as she took a couple of good deep breaths and counted to ten. It seemed that everyone they met knew that Lady Rose Averley was the illegitimate daughter of Lord Westlake and his housekeeper—and that until a year ago she had been a mere housemaid at Somerton.
I might not be aware
of the finer nuances of table manners and social calls,
she imagined herself retorting to Lady Gertrude,
but I have become expert in the fine
distinctions between whispers, smirks, stares, sniggers, and outright jibes.

“Rose, Ada, I don’t think you’ve met the Duchess of Ellingborough.” Rose turned, relieved to hear her father’s voice interrupt the conversation. Lord Westlake joined them. With him was a tall, elegant lady wreathed in fox furs and pearls.

“But I have met Lady Ada,” the duchess said, her voice piercing as an icicle. “I had the pleasure at your wedding, Edward. Lady Rose, however…” She turned a pale-blue gaze upon Rose, who just managed to stop herself from curtsying. “I don’t think I have had the pleasure.”

“It is my sister’s first season,” Ada said hastily.

“And yet your face does look familiar,” the duchess continued.

That’s because I carried your bathwater up five flights of stairs the
night of my father’s wedding,
Rose thought.
You glanced at me long enough to scold me for dropping the soap.
She held out a hand. “I am very glad to make your acquaintance, my lady,” she said.

The duchess’s fine nostrils quivered as she examined Rose. “Odd that you were not at the wedding,” she continued.

Lord Westlake coughed in embarrassment. Lady Gertrude and Lady Cynthia exchanged malicious glances.

“Oh, I think she
was
, Your Grace,” Lady Gertrude said. “Only you might not have recognized her because—”

“Why, here he is!” Lord Westlake exclaimed in relief; and at the same moment Ada said, “Laurence! We wondered where you were.”

Lord Fintan smiled as he joined them. His cheeks were slightly flushed, as if with the heat of the sun. “Lady Ellingborough, how delightful to see you after such a long time,” he said, coming to stand at Ada’s side. “My mother frequently asks after you—”

“I am quite well, thank you.” The duchess raised a hand to her lorgnette and studied Rose. “I was just wondering why I had not had the pleasure of making Lady Rose’s acquaintance at the wedding.”

Rose began to realize why the upper classes were the upper classes. They didn’t get embarrassed. They didn’t take a hint. They just kept on drilling until people gave up in exhaustion and let them have their way. No wonder they’d won the battle of Waterloo.

Lord Westlake cleared his throat and lunged for a passing footman who had a tray full of drinks. “Champagne,” he said. “I think we should have a toast.”

“A toast?” The duchess raised her glass and her eyebrow.

“Yes, to my future son-in-law.” Lord Westlake raised his glass to Fintan, who smiled and raised his own.

“Indeed!” The duchess finally looked away from Rose, to Ada.

Rose was startled. Ada was marrying Lord Fintan? She turned to her sister, but a small sound, the tiniest gasp, distracted her before she could speak. Rose looked toward the sound and saw that her stepsister, Charlotte Templeton, had joined them. She was standing as still as a photograph. Then her color returned. No one else seemed to have noticed.

Rose found her voice. “Ada, I had no idea.…”

A moment later, she was embarrassed at the lack of enthusiasm in her voice. She was pleased—of course she was pleased. The engagement had been expected by everyone—everyone, that is, who didn’t know Ada as well as Rose did. Fintan would make her an excellent husband. He was clearly in love with her, they had so much in common, and…and she hoped she had sounded as happy as she knew she ought to feel.

“I’m hardly surprised,” said Lady Emily, raising an eyebrow. “Ada and my brother make a natural couple.”

“Of course, I simply…” Rose trailed off in confusion. Looking at Ada, she said, “Of course you will be very happy.” She wished she could ask Ada if she was sure, very sure, she knew what she was doing. She remembered the way Ada’s face had brightened when she opened a letter from Ravi, the passion with which she had spoken of him, the risks she had taken to meet him. Could Fintan really have replaced him so quickly?

Ada smiled back at her. “Who can doubt it?” she said.

“Did I miss an announcement?” Charlotte’s smile embraced them all as she stepped into the circle. “Dear Ada, I wish you joy. And Laurence too, of course.”

The others crowded in with congratulations, and Rose found herself, not for the first time, subtly edged out.

Ada glanced back over her shoulder with a small apologetic smile for Rose, and Rose made sure to make her answering smile as warm and glad as it could be. The last thing she wanted was for Ada to worry about her. She deserved to enjoy her happiness and not be burdened by Rose’s discomfort.

She stepped back into the shade of the arbor, still watching the group she had just left. Ada, a slight figure in a dress the color of wisteria blossoms, framed by the heavy, dark figures of her father and Laurence. Rose noted the warmth between her sister and Lord Fintan as Ada placed her hand on his arm. There was the vivacity in her laugh as she echoed his jokes. And there was a slight flush on her cheeks and a slight glitter in her eye that could have meant many things.

Rose looked up to the great, elegant iceberg of Milborough House, the serene women draped in stone that framed the upper drawing-room windows.

Ada is as much the Averley family’s face to society as this house is, she thought. It is a wonderful marriage, correct in every way. Of course Ravi was impossible. And yet, and yet…Rose played with a strand of her pearls, anxious without really knowing why. She thought again of Ada’s smile when she’d received a letter from Ravi, compared it to the one she wore now. It was like comparing a real rose to the silk ones on Charlotte’s dress.

“I just cannot understand why I should not have been introduced to Lady Rose at your wedding, Lord Westlake.” The duchess’s refined vowels sliced through the air. Rose closed her eyes and groaned gently to herself. She let the waves of the crowd usher her even farther away from her family’s summerhouse. Perhaps it would be possible to find a spot in the gardens where there was some silence. At least it was no hardship to wander alone through the gardens of Milborough House, she thought, as she walked away from the group.

Rose strolled past the flower beds as the kiss of croquet balls echoed from a little farther away, mingled with shrieks of well-bred laughter. She smiled as she saw a very young couple walking together, under the discreet but careful gaze of their mothers. The girl seemed hardly older than fourteen, and the boy still had the pink cheeks and coltish long limbs of a schoolboy.

“Lady Helen Fairfax and dear Blanchford,” a woman nearby commented to her friend. “Such a sweet couple. I expect they’ll be engaged this season.”

Rose was struck by the adoration with which Lady Helen looked up at the boy. Yes, she thought, that’s how Ada used to look at Ravi. Rose glanced back toward the group, feeling troubled. But Ada was hidden by the crowd.

Rose walked on, unnoticed, trying to escape the snatches of lazy conversation that followed her: “Lady Verulam’s ball is to finish the season.…” “Where is that amusing Sebastian Templeton…?” “The situation in Europe is really quite grave.…” “What will replace the Russian craze…?” “I long for a new couturier to break the monotony of Poiret.…” No matter how far she went, it was impossible to find silence.

She found herself near the servants’ entrance, where the tables were spread out. The only things brighter than the footmen’s white gloves were the ice swans weeping themselves away in the midst of the ruins of luncheon. She could see the inviting steps down to the kitchen. It was such hard work being a housemaid, but at least she’d had friends. She drew nearer, shielded by the hedge. A footman and a housemaid were laughing together, sharing a cigarette by a small, dirty window. Rose’s slipper caught on the gravel, and the maid looked up and caught her eye. Rose felt a hopeful smile waver on her lips, but the maid’s laughter was instantly replaced with a cold, professional mask. The footman dropped his cigarette, and both of them went back to wiping plates. A resentful silence bristled from them. Rose couldn’t blame them. She’d have felt the same, if she had caught a lady seeming to spy on her. She turned away, an ache in her chest.

A certain change in the tone of the crowd caught her attention. Garlanded hats turned, like flowers to the sun, toward the house. Near Rose, one elderly dowager leaned to whisper to another. “It can’t be!” replied the second woman, sounding disapproving.

Curious, Rose looked up at the terrace and saw a broad-shouldered young man standing on the top step, facing the crowd. He seemed to have just come through the open French windows. His hair was unfashionably long and tousled, the breeze plucked at his red-gold curls as if he stood on the bridge of a ship. Rose understood at once why people were staring and smiling. He wasn’t dressed at all for a garden party. His long sleeves were stained with something gray and blue, and he wore no hat at all. She found herself feeling irritated. Whoever he was, he was clearly so certain he would be well received that he hadn’t even bothered to dress correctly.