Promise Me Tomorrow (32 page)

“It wasn’t funny,” she protested.

“No? It sounds it.” Justin struggled to pull his mouth into a sober line. “I would say that I will make short work of the chap, but it seems as if you have already done so.”

His expression turned thoughtful as they rode nearer. “Dogged fellow, isn’t he? Well, I think it’s time we had a talk with him. Perhaps we can find out some answers.”

As they approached the other man, Justin reached into his belt and took out his pistol. He pulled his mount to a halt and swung off him, raising the pistol and pointing it at the other man. The man’s mouth fell open, and he raised his hands quickly.

“’Ere now, no call for that!” he exclaimed. “I don’t mean you no harm.”

“Off your horse,” Justin demanded. “I have a few questions for you.”

“Of course. Of course.” The man smiled and dismounted with none of Justin’s grace. He faced Justin, still smiling. “I’ll tell you anything I know. Like I said, I don’t mean you no harm.” He shot a wounded look at Marianne. “You hadn’t ought to hit me with that wood, miss. I was only trying to talk to you.”

“Well, you have your chance to talk now,” Justin said grimly. “Who are you? And what connection are you to Fuquay?”

“Who?”

Justin’s eyes narrowed. “I might remind you that at this range I could scarcely miss you. In fact, I could pick or choose exactly where I want to hit you. So unless you would like a ball in the knee or—”

“I don’t!” the man assured him hastily. “I’ll tell you anything I know. I just don’t know any Fuquay. My name is Rob Garner, sir. I—I’m a Bow Street Runner.”

“A Runner?” Justin asked scornfully. “You expect me to believe that? A Runner, and you’re stalking Mrs. Cotterwood like a hunter after a doe?”

“I
am
a Runner, sir. I swear it! And I wasn’t stalking her. That is, I was hired to find her, sir.”

“By whom?” Marianne slid down off the horse and came closer. “If it was not Mr. Fuquay, who was it?”

“It were the Countess of Exmoor. That’s who hired me.”

“The Countess of Exmoor!” Justin exclaimed, and in his astonishment he lowered his pistol.

“Yes, sir.”

“Nicola’s sister!” Marianne exclaimed. “Why would she want to hurt me? I scarcely met the woman.”

“It’s the Dowager Countess I’m talking about, miss, and, Lord luv ya, missus, she don’t want to hurt you. I wouldn’t a hurt you neither. I was trying to talk to you! Only no one would let me near you. You ran away when you saw me, and them servants at your house were the most close-mouthed lot I ever did meet.”

“My God!” Justin exclaimed quietly, the first glimmer of understanding beginning to dawn in him. “Is that why the Countess came to Buckminster this morning?” He glanced at Marianne. “It was her arrival this morning that created all the stir. But I didn’t speak to her. I assumed she had come to get Penelope.”

“I don’t understand.” Marianne looked from Garner to Justin and back. “Who is the Dowager Countess of Exmoor?

“Penelope’s grandmother,” Justin answered for the Runner. “But I think this concerns another matter, doesn’t it, Garner? Her son’s children?”

“Yes, sir.” Garner nodded and smiled at Justin. “You’re a downy one, you are.” He turned to Marianne. “First, I got to ask you a question, Mrs. Cotterwood. Are you Mary Chilton?”

Marianne sucked in a breath. She had known that somehow all this was connected to the man searching for her at the orphanage, yet the confirmation was still chilling. “Yes,” she replied, lifting her chin up almost defiantly. “I used to be called Mary Chilton.”

“Bloody hell,” Justin murmured.

Marianne glanced at him. “Why do you say that? What do you know about this?”

“And were you at the orphanage of St. Anselm’s?” Rob Garner went inexorably on.

“Yes, I was.” Marianne turned back to him, though she continued to glance uncertainly at Justin.

“And do you remember anything about your life before you were at the orphanage?”

“No,” Marianne answered truthfully. “I’m not even sure if my name was my own or one the matron gave me. Why are you asking me all these things? What does it mean?”

“The Countess asked me to track you down and bring you to meet her. It—it is possible you may be related to her.”

“What!” Marianne gaped. She turned toward Justin. “Justin, what is he talking about? How could I be related to a countess? Do you know what he’s talking about?”

“I have heard gossip,” Justin admitted. “I think what he’s saying, Marianne, is that there is some possibility that you are the granddaughter of the Countess of Exmoor.”

“I
T’S ABSURD
,” M
ARIANNE SAID
.
She was once again seated on Justin’s horse in front of him, and they were moving at a swifter pace back toward Buckminster. They had already outstripped Mr. Garner, but he had assured him that taking Marianne to the Countess was far more important than his being there when the two met.

“How could I be a countess’s granddaughter?” Marianne went on. “Noble children are not stuck in orphanages. I don’t know why anyone would even think it.”

“I’m not sure,” Justin replied. “Obviously if the Countess’s grandchild were put in an orphanage, it must have been some kind of mistake. I don’t know much of the story. But that last name—Chilton. Lord Chilton was the Countess’s son. That was the title he carried while his father, the Earl of Exmoor, was still alive.”

“The Earl of Exmoor! You don’t mean the one who shot Mr. Fuquay, surely.”

“No. He is some sort of cousin to them. The old Earl, the Dowager Countess’s husband, has been dead for a long time. The Earl you know came into the title upon that man’s death. You see, right after the old Earl died, their son, Lord Chilton, and his wife and children were killed by the Mob in Paris. It was during their Revolution, you see, and Chilton and his family were unlucky enough to be caught there. I believe his wife was French. So Richard acceded to the title, and that was the way things remained for twenty-two years. Then, a few months ago, an American woman showed up in London. Took it by storm—she is a beauty. All of a sudden, the Countess announced that this woman, Alexandra Ward, is actually her granddaughter, Lord Chilton’s youngest daughter. It turns out that she was not killed after all, but had been rescued by some American woman who adopted her as her own daughter.”

“My, what a story.”

“I know. It sounds rather like a novel, doesn’t it? But I did not realize that they thought the other children might be alive, as well.”

“How many children were there?”

“I’m not sure. Three or four, I think. Alexandra and a boy and at least one other girl, or the Countess would not be looking for a granddaughter.”

“But if this child was supposedly killed in France…”

“Yes, it does seem a bit unlikely that she would pop up in an orphanage in Britain. Perhaps Lady Exmoor is grasping at straws. No doubt having retrieved one grandchild, she hopes to recover the others, as well.”

“Wouldn’t I remember?” Marianne asked. “How could I have forgotten living that way? How could I have forgotten how to speak correctly?”

“What do you mean? You speak perfectly.”

“Yes, after Della
trained
me. I didn’t before.” But Marianne could not help remembering how impressed Harrison and Della had been at the ease with which she had picked up the high-toned accent and speech patterns. And she knew that her speech was better now even than her mentor’s was. There was a certain indefinable style that delineated the speaker as a member of the
ton,
something that went beyond the proper grammar or accent, and she had conquered that as Della had never been completely able to.

“I don’t know whether you would remember much of your childhood or not. I don’t, at least not until after I’m eight or so.”

“Yes, but don’t you think a war would be something you would remember?” Marianne asked. “Mobs rioting and trying to kill you?”

“Sometimes things are too painful to remember. And sometimes children are protected from the harsher realities.”

Unconsciously Marianne’s hand stole up to her neck, where her cameo lay against her skin beneath her dress.
Was it possible that the elegant man and woman in the portraits really were her parents, as she had believed when she was a child? If she showed her locket to the Countess, would she recognize them? Or would she crush all her childhood dreams, once and for all?

“It is odd,” she said. “This is what I always dreamed of when I was a girl at the orphanage. I would tell myself that my parents were beautiful and wealthy, a lord and lady, and that I had been stolen from them. They would search for me and find me, and I would be restored to my family.” She smiled a little crookedly. “And now, here it is—sounding just like my dream. But instead of jumping for joy, I feel—I don’t know, scared, I think. What if I am the Countess’s granddaughter, but when she sees me she is disappointed? Or what if she realizes that I am definitely not related to her at all? What if she says it’s obvious that I am common?”

Justin kissed her on the forehead. “Don’t worry. The Countess would never say that, even if it were true, which I can assure you it is not. You are definitely uncommon. Besides, I will be right here with you—whether you are the Countess’s granddaughter or merely an orphan with a coincidental name.”

Marianne smiled up at him, her heart swelling with happiness. He was right: whatever happened, the important thing was that Justin loved her and would be with her always.

When they arrived at Buckminster, the first person to greet them was Penelope. She came rushing out of the drawing room, her hands extended to Marianne.

“Isn’t this marvelous?” she cried. “I can scarcely believe it! To think that all the time they were looking for you, you were right here.”

Penelope’s cheeks were a rosy pink with happiness, and she looked quite pretty. “It’s the luckiest thing in the world that you should be my cousin. Wait until you meet Alexandra—they are back in England, you see, Thorpe and Alexandra. They came with Grandmama. Alexandra is so eager to see you. They are out in the garden, but they should be back soon. And I sent a servant up to Grandmama’s room as soon as I saw you come up the drive.”

A little dazed by all this information, Marianne said weakly, “But what if I am not the woman for whom you’re searching? I don’t see how I could be. “

“Oh, I am sure you must be,” Penelope protested. “It makes sense. I liked you immediately and felt so relaxed with you. I am usually quite shy; it takes me a while to warm up to people. But we must have sensed the relation. Don’t you think?”

At that moment, the door to the drawing room swung open and Marianne turned toward it, her heart pounding in rising hope.
Would she recognize this woman and know at once she was her grandmother?
An older woman, using a cane, walked at a dignified pace into the room. It was obvious that she had once been a great beauty. Though her white skin was wrinkled and creased, the bone structure of her face was elegant, and her blue eyes were bright. Her thick white hair was swept up and anchored on the side with a diamond spray. Her gray silk dress was in the latest mode. She carried herself with a regal confidence that would probably have rendered Marianne awestruck, had it not been for the merry twinkle in her eyes.

She paused, looking at Marianne. Finally she said, “So you are Mary Chilton.”

“Yes, my lady. But I am afraid that you have the wrong person.” Marianne sighed. “I had hoped that I would have some recognition of you, but I am afraid I do not.”

The older woman smiled. “Well, you are a very honest, if rather blunt, young woman—a quality, I might add, that you share with Alexandra.” She came closer. “I will be honest, too. I am no more sure than you are.” She stopped, gazing into Marianne’s face. “You have the height of our family. And Marie Anne’s hair was red, though of a lighter shade than yours. But it is not uncommon for one’s hair to darken as one grows older. There is some similarity in your face to my son’s….”

She paused, studying Marianne, then said, “Excuse me, I forget my manners. Please sit down.”

Marianne sank into a red velvet chair, and the Countess sat down across from her. Marianne realized with a fierce ache how much she would like for this woman to be her grandmother. “It is your name, you know, that is the most convincing. I suppose Mr. Garner told you that my son’s name was Chilton. And Mary—so close to Marie. Now, he tells me, you call yourself Marianne—we usually called my eldest granddaughter Marie Anne.”

A little chill ran down Marianne’s spine. She had been called Mary as long as she could remember.
What had caused her to choose Marianne as a name? Could it have been a long-buried memory? Or was she grasping at straws because she wanted the story to be true?

“You were the right age when you were left at the orphanage. My Marie Anne was five then, as well. One of the women who worked there said she remembered that the matron had told her you were brought in by a ‘gentleman.’ The matron apparently assumed you were some high-born man’s by-blow.”

Marianne’s cheeks colored. “That could well be the case, my lady. I remember almost nothing before my time at the orphanage. I have racked my brain, trying to remember, but…the only thing I recall with certainty is being terrified.”