Lady Anne's Deception (The Changing Fortunes Series Book 4) (9 page)

He told her that the arrangements for the ball were going ahead. It would be held in a week’s time at Mrs. Winton’s and practically the whole of London society had paid for tickets.

“That’s very gratifying,” said Annie, surprised. “I did not think so many members of society would be interested in women getting the vote.”

“They aren’t,” said the chancellor. “We simply told them it was in aid of ‘Women of the World,’ which sounds vague enough to be reassuring.”

“Isn’t that dishonest?” asked Annie. “I mean, shouldn’t you tell them what the ball is really in aid of?”

“Why?” he said baldly. “They wouldn’t come if they knew exactly what it was in aid of.”

“Bur Mrs. Winton…?”

“Mrs. Winton has already forgotten.”

“Does anybody believe in
anything
?” said Annie.

“Of course,” he replied, hitching his chair a little closer. “
We
do, Lady Torrance, but we are diplomats. Diplomats! People of our intelligence know that the end justifies the means.”

“I don’t think I believe that exactly,” said Annie.

He patted her hand. “Then you must trust me to believe it for you. May I remind you that you were gracious enough to offer to donate a little something?”

Despite her embarrassment, Annie could not help saying, “Ten thousand pounds is not a ‘little something.’”

“Ha! Ha! No, of course not, but, however, you…”

“What is the name of Miss Hammond’s society?” interrupted Annie, rising and going over to a desk in the corner. “I mean, what is it
really
called now?”

“I believe ‘Women’s Rights, The Vote, and Feminine Equality.’”

“Dear me. I hope all that will fit on to one line of the checkbook.”

“There is no need for that.” Mr. Shaw-Bufford smiled. “Simply make out the check to me, and I will see the funds are given to the society.”

“No, I couldn’t do that,” said Annie, stubbornly. “My husband told me never to give money to an individual, always to a society.”

“Lady Torrance! That sounds just as if you didn’t trust me!”

Annie bit her lip. She could not forget how her husband had asked her whether Shaw-Bufford had approached her for money, and when she had told him that the chancellor had not, the marquess had calmly replied, “He will.”

“Why can’t I just make the check out to the society?” she asked.

“Because they do not have a banking account in their name yet.”

“Then what are they going to do with the money from the ball if they can’t bank it?”

“The money will be handed to me. I will put it into a separate account so that Miss Hammond and her supporters may draw on it whenever they wish.”

Annie looked very young and feminine in a long tea gown of blond lace. She picked up the checkbook, and Mr. Shaw-Bufford smiled his encouragement.

“I think I should explain something,” said Annie, with the open candor of a child. Only her husband would have recognized that look as being a preliminary to a whopping lie.

“I haven’t any money of my own. So this would be my husband’s money and he’s bound to ask questions.”

“You surely did not tell your husband…?”

“Oh, no,” said Annie gently. “I only discussed the matter with him in general terms. He told me I must never give a check to an individual who was asking for money for some society but only to the society itself. So perhaps if you would like to ask him…?”

“But you are a wealthy heiress!” exclaimed the chancellor.

“I’m afraid not.” Annie sighed. “Poor papa. He thought he had been left a fortune, but the legacy turned out to be only a few hundred pounds, which, of course, he is keeping for himself. But my husband…”

“I have been shamefully misled,” said the chancellor stiffly.

“Indeed, Mr. Shaw-Bufford,” said Annie coldly. “I thought we were friends.”

“But you led me to believe you were an heiress.”

“
I
was led to believe I was an heiress,” said Annie sweetly. “Now I find I am completely dependent on my husband for every penny. I am doing my best to help you, Mr. Shaw-Bufford. If there is nothing, er, about your request for money that is strange, then I do not see why you do not ask my husband. You will find him extremely sympathetic toward the feminist movement.”

“In that case, let us forget about the whole thing,” said Mr. Shaw-Bufford sourly.

“Will you stay for tea?” Annie stretched a hand out toward the bell.

“No,” he said harshly. “I have another appointment.”

“Then I shall see you at the ball,” replied Annie.

Mr. Shaw-Bufford hesitated in the doorway. “Since I have no intention of approaching your husband for the money, Lady Torrance, I beg you to keep the matter a secret between us.”

“Of course,” said Annie, opening her eyes very wide.

“Then good day to you, my lady.”

After he had gone, Annie sat down, feeling a bit weak in the knees. Marigold, she felt, would never have got herself into such a ridiculous situation as turning down the chancellor of the exchequer. Then it began to strike her as amusing that the chancellor of the exchequer should try to borrow money from
her.
And then, after her amusement, she began to wonder seriously why the chancellor of the exchequer should be in need of money.

After turning this problem over and over in her mind and finding no solution, she began to think of ways to show her husband that she did not care for him.

And then she had a splendid idea. She would flirt with Harry Bellamy, Marigold’s fiancé, and that way she would be revenged on two birds, Marigold and her husband.

Annie was still very young. She had not realized that she was deeply in love with her husband. She had not realized that Marigold was not worth the trouble.

Annie felt small and humiliated and alone in a hostile world. Her cold, aloof mother was of no help. Miss Winter appeared to have forgotten about her niece as soon as the marriage ceremony was over. Perhaps if she had had intimate friends to talk to, it might have made her life easier. But the society women she took tea with and chatted to at balls and parties were the kind that Annie knew instinctively would betray a confidence at the first possible opportunity. She never stopped to consider that her choice of friends was unfortunate. Her experience with women—her mother, her nanny, her governess, her sister, and her aunt—had made her think that the whole human race consisted of hanging judges.

So she bitterly turned her plan of revenge over in her head and saw nothing wrong with it.

To Annie it seemed as if everything was going her way.

Her husband had returned from the country in time to escort her to the ball, and Marigold and Harry Bellamy were to be present at it.

The marquess did not return until the morning of the day of the ball and seemed almost surprised by the enthusiastic reception he received from his wife. Annie had been frightened that he would be delayed and that her marvelous plan would have to be left until another time.

The day was foggy. It started with a thin fog in the morning, with a little red disk of a sun moving above it. Then in the afternoon it turned from gray to a thick, blackish yellow, and by evening it was a regular “pea souper.” It was a freezing fog, too, riming the railings and pavements with hoarfrost.

The fog added to Annie’s feelings of excitement and anticipation: the bitter, smoky, autumn smell of it; the feeling of secrecy in the veiled streets outside.

Carriage lights flickered like fireflies through the gloom of the square outside as the fog swayed and thinned a little before thickening again and pressing against the window-panes.

Fog had crept into the house in St. James’s Square and lay in thick strata across the hall as Annie descended the staircase with Barton behind her carrying her evening cloak.

She was wearing a mauve silk evening skirt that rustled as she walked. Her blouse was of paler mauve lace, cut low over the bosom, and with pagoda sleeves. Around her neck she wore a thin band of black velvet holding her locket. Her fine, silky red hair had been dressed in a new style, gently waved over her brow and dressed in a chignon at the back and threaded with white silk flowers that were shaded at the edges with violet.

The door of the drawing room opened and her husband came out to meet her. Annie felt a queer little pain at her heart. She had forgotten how superb he looked in evening dress, with the gleaming white of his shirt setting off his handsome, tanned face.

His eyes had a strangely hooded look as he watched her descend. Annie waited for him to compliment her on her appearance, but he remained silent, merely taking her heavy black evening cloak trimmed with ermine and putting it about her shoulders. Did his hands remain on her shoulders for longer than was necessary?

But the next minute he was being helped into his own coat by Perkins and putting his tall silk hat on his head. The diamond studs on his shirtfront sparkled and flashed fire like the frost on the pavement outside.

He helped her into the brougham, then raised the trap in the roof with his cane and called to the coachman, “Do you think you can find your way? It’s a filthy night!”

“Think I’ll manage all right, m’lord,” came the coachman’s voice. “I’ll take her nice and slow.”

The marquess settled back against the leather upholstery as the coach began to edge its way through the fog-shrouded streets.

He pulled his coat tightly across his shirt. “Otherwise it will be filthy before we get there,” he said as if answering a question. And then, in the same tone of voice, he went on, “It’s a mercy that our prime minister is still alive! Certainly if Mrs. Winton had not changed the name of the society to Women of the World, I am sure that, in the circumstances, the ball would have to be canceled. As it is…”

“What happened? I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about?”

“Jimmy Macleod, our prime minister, was nearly killed today.” The marquess’s voice came out of the darkness of the carriage. “Some woman shot at him as he left the House. His papers had slipped from the seat of his carriage, so he bent down to pick them up. As he did so, a bullet whizzed over his head and buried itself in the upholstery.

“Whoever fired at him was an expert marksman—or markswoman rather. If he had not bent over at that precise moment, he would most certainly have been killed.”

“Did they catch the woman?”

“No,” said the marquess. “She escaped into the thick fog. A man saw her briefly. All he could say was that she was heavy-set and heavily veiled. She was carrying a rifle, which she thrust under her coat. You may not find your friend Miss Hammond at the ball tonight. The police are rounding up all the militant feminists in London.”

“Well, it can be nothing to do with Miss Hammond,” said Annie. “She’s in such a tizzy about the ball. And—and… she’s one of those women who really only
talks.
I think perhaps she’s a teensy bit mad.”

“Of course Shaw-Bufford must be a very disappointed man,” said the marquess.

“Why?”

“Well, if Mr. Macleod had been killed, then Shaw-Bufford would have been the natural successor.”

“Oh, I’m sure you are too hard on him,” said Annie quickly. “He never struck me as being particularly ambitious.”

“You’re lying, my sweet,” said her husband lazily.

“Don’t be rude,” snapped Annie. “By the way, what made you think the chancellor would ask me for money?”

“Because he needs a great deal of it in case he does not realize his ambition of becoming prime minister. It takes a lot of money to buy a peerage.”

“But if he’s ambitious and he’s in the Commons, what can he possibly want with a peerage? It would be the end of his political career.”

“In the Commons, yes. But what about the House of Lords?”

Annie shivered. “You make Mr. Shaw-Bufford sound quite sinister.”

“How much did he ask you for?” came her husband’s lazy voice.

“He didn’t ask me for anything.” Unfortunately, Annie, like most young girls who have been made to feel guilty all their young lives, was a spontaneous liar. She felt that she should never have agreed to give the chancellor money in the first place. She forgot that she had been ill and not in full possession of her wits at the time.

There was a silence. She was grateful that he could not see her face since the light from the carriage lamps was unable to penetrate the thickness of the fog. But, somehow, in the darkness, she fancied she could feel his brain searching hers, his sensitive antennae picking up her tension.

For one dreadful moment she sensed that he did not believe her, that he was about to say something.

But all he said was, “I wonder if we’ll ever get there. This is the filthiest fog I can remember.”

The fog became diffused with a yellow glare. They must be passing under the electric lights at Marble Arch. Then darkness descended again and the carriage began to move more rapidly.

Once again the marquess raised the trap.

“How is the going, John?” he called.

“Easier, my lord,” came the coachman’s voice over the rumble of the wheels. “Soon be there.”

The Wintons’ house was in Queens Gate. It was actually three houses knocked into one. The Wintons were very rich.

Fog had permeated the building so that despite the blazing fires, hundreds of candles, and banks of flowers, it was a bit like looking at a painting by Pissarro in reverse. Objects close up were distinct. A little distance away, however, and it was as if you were looking at them through gauze.

Two huge Indians in turbans waved enormous peacock fans back and forth at the entrance to the ballroom, but all their efforts did was to circulate the fog rather than to disperse it.

Annie had one dance with her husband, trying not to be seduced by thoughts of more intimate caresses conjured up by his nearness. For she had seen Harry Bellamy and was wondering how to make her move.

To her surprise, Harry Bellamy asked her for the next dance. He had been in the habit of dancing only with Marigold.

But after they had taken a few steps, his motives became clear. “Y’know,” he said anxiously, “I felt the best thing, don’t you know, was to ask you for a dance. Everyone’s talking about that to-do in the park. ’Course I told them, I said, it’s just a little tiff between sisters. Nothing to it, I said.”