Marian's Christmas Wish (26 page)

And then Sir Reginald claimed her for a country dance,
lining up right behind his sister and Lord Ingraham. Twinkling her eyes at her
escort, who was much more interested in his sister, Marian danced gracefully
through the pattern with him, watchful even as she flirted.

They traded partners and Marian was claimed by Lord
Ingraham. “Great double damn.” he muttered in her ear as the Calnes danced,
close together, down the line.

“Hush,” Marian commanded, her eyes firmly fixed to
Amanda’s face.

Brother and sister came close again and then danced
down the line. As Marian watched, she saw what she was looking for. Amanda
Calne mouthed the word “library” to her brother.

Marian glanced up at Lord Ingraham. With a wicked
twinkle in her eyes, she noted that he was admiring her bosom, too, even as Sir
Reginald had done. “And now, my lord, I have a headache and am taking myself
off. Good night.”

He stared at her. “You cannot! I need you.”

They came close together one last time before returning
to their own partners. She looked him straight in the eye. “Trust me this time
and let her go to the library,” she whispered as she danced away at Sir
Reginald’s side.

Marian had no difficulty in shaking her escort. A few
words about the heat, and he was off to the punch table. While his back was
turned, she sidled out the door, gathered up her long skirt, and sprinted down
the hall to the library, her finger to her lips as she raced past Washburn.

A low fire burned in the library, adding to the
pleasant glow from the branches of candles about the room. She took it in at a
glance as she ran about the room, blowing out candles, and then opening a
window to whisk away the smell of just-extinguished wick. The room was nearly
dark as she walked swiftly to a wing chair, pulled it deeper into the shadow,
and sat down. She removed her pearls so they would not catch whatever light the
fireplace afforded, grateful that her dress was deep blue and her hair black.
She waited.

Time passed slowly. A clock ticked somewhere in the
room. Marian’s eyes grew heavy, but she forced herself to remain alert. She
invented games to keep herself awake. In the middle of one of them, the door
opened. Marian leaned farther into the shadows, drawing up her knees. She
sniffed and smelled Sir Reginald’s cologne. Hiding herself very still, she
waited. Let her go now, Gil, she thought, let her go. Trust me.

More time passed. The quartet changed to waltzes.
Marian did not know where Sir Reginald had stationed himself in the room. For
all she knew, he could have been sitting across from her. staring at her. The
thought sent a prickle of fear down her back.

The door opened and Marian heard the rustle of silk.

“Reg.”

“Here.”

Marian let her breath out slowly and strained forward.

“Chase and Breckinridge, my dear,” Lady Amanda said,
and laughed deep in her throat. “Tuesday next, above one of the clock.”

“You are certain?”

Lady Amanda giggled. “La, Reg, you think you are the
only clever one in the family? He tells me whatever I ask. I have only to sit
on his lap and tickle his ear. And you told me it would be difficult.’”

Reginald was silent. Marian heard a small click in the
darkness, and Lady Amanda sucked in her breath. “Put that away, you fool.”

Marian held her breath. After what seemed like years,
she heard the click again and Sir Reginald’s voice, silky soft. “Do not enjoy
your work too much, m’dear.”

“Oh, I do not, Reg. If I had to look at that scarface
day after day, I would go distracted.” She giggled again. “But, Reg, I do not
notice it when it is dark.”

Marian clenched her lists. She let out her breath
slowly.

“It is dark now, sweetheart,” said Sir Reginald, and he
kissed his sister.

Marian sank back against her chair as the couple
embraced in the flickering light of the fireplace. What monsters are these? she
thought. Nausea swept her.

Lady Amanda ended the moment. “Reginald, you grow tiresome,”
she complained.

He only laughed. Marian’s ears caught the smallest
crackle of paper. “The next order, dearest,” Calne whispered to his sister. “To
these specifications. Go to Chartwell this time and ask for Fandamo. Go on,
now.”

There was a rustic of silk and then the door opened and
closed.

Marian waited where she was, barely breathing, as the
door opened and closed a second time. She relaxed in her chair, but waited for
the quartet to play through one more country dance. She rose to her feet when
the music ended, and started for the door.

A hand snaked out and grabbed her wrist. Her hand to
her mouth, Marian whirled about and looked full into the smiling face of Sir
Reginald Calne.

“I thought I heard a mouse,” he said.

There was nothing to do but faint, so Marian wasted no
time getting about it, slipping gracefully to the floor as Calne grabbed her
about the waist and lifted her up. He deposited her on a sofa and sat down
beside her. She waited a decent interval, hoping that she looked as pale as she
felt, and then fluttered her eyes open.

The look of supreme skepticism on Sir Reginald’s face
made her falter. “Have you any idea how you startled me?” she said, and
clutched his arm. He made no reply, so she tightened her grip. “I was feeling
dizzy from the heat. I thought I would lie down here in the library. I must
have fallen asleep.”

He still made no reply, and Marian’s heart began to
sink. Sir Reginald stood up then and stared down at her for such a long moment
that she had to fight the urge to leap up like a rabbit and run about the room,
seeking a hole to hide in. The tears that sprang to her eyes were genuine.

She held her breath as he reached in his pocket and
took out his knife. Watching her expression, Sir Reginald clicked it open and
sat beside her again. He placed the blade against her throat as she remained
absolutely motionless. He drew it slowly across her neck, rubbing the blade
against her skin in a gesture almost caressing. Calne’s face looked strangely
sensual in the firelight. He might have been preparing to make love. The thought
was more sickening than the feel of the knife at her neck.

“I do not believe a word you have said, m’dear,” he
purred. He kissed her lips and then clicked the knife shut against her flesh. “You
are in had company, and I do not mean only mine.” He stood up then. “But you
will say nothing or I will ruin your pretty face. I promise you that.” He
walked leisurely to the door and rested his hand on the knob. “And, my dear,
you would be an even bigger fool to trust Lord Ingraham to look out for your
interests above his own. He plays a deep game.”

Marian closed her eyes. Her hand went to her throat.
She lay there in the quiet and listened to the door open and close.

“Oh, you cannot leave,” she said, and rushed into the
hall. Washburn still stood there, his eyes on the library door. “Tell Lord
Ingraham I must speak to him at once in here.” She darted back into the
library.

The door opened only moments later. “Well, brat?”

Marian sighed with relief and then drew in her breath. “Where
is Lady Amanda?” she demanded.

“In close company with my mother and sister. Well?” he
asked again, his impatience evident.

It was on the edge of her tongue to tell him what had
just happened, but she remembered Calne’s parting words and held her peace. “‘Chase
and Breckinridge, Tuesday next, above one,’” she said, her voice toneless.

Lord Ingraham clapped his hands together and then
grabbed Marian about the waist and whirled her around.

“Set me down.” she ordered. “There is more.”

He did as she said, suddenly all business. “And?”

“And he gave your lady dear a piece of paper. A small
piece, from the sound of it.”

“Where did she put it?”

Marian considered. “She was carrying no reticule in the
ballroom. I am convinced she put it in the only place a woman would put it.”
Marian started for the door. “I suggest you check down the front of her dress,
Lord Ingraham,” she said, amazed at her coolness. “You can do that while she
sits on your lap after all the guests have gone. Although in future, you might
like to know that she prefers the darkness, or so she said.”

“Marian,” he murmured.

“And then you take that piece of information to the
devil. Lord Ingraham. It is not too much for a spy to do. For that is what you
are, is it not?”

“As was my father before me, God rest his soul. It
seemed a worthy occupation in England’s time of need.”

“And you have set a trap for the Calnes, perhaps?”

Ingraham nodded, his eyes on her face. “Does this
disgust you?” he asked quietly.

“As a matter of fact, it does.”

“Even if I tell you that we now have proof that the
Calnes have arranged the sale of cannon to Napoleon on Elba?”

“Even that. I despise double-dealing. I wonder, sir,
what kind of a man would bed a woman like Lady Amanda for . . . information.”
She spit out the word and stalked to the door.

Lord Ingraham bowed his head, but said nothing.

She was in the hall before she remembered. She opened
the door again. “There is one thing more, Lord Ingraham,” she said formally.

“You have said enough.”

“No, I have not,” she flared. “I wouldn’t dream of
depriving you of every particle of information you’ve obviously worked so hard
day and night to get.”

“Marian!”

“Go to Chartwell this time and ask for Fandamo.’”

Gilbert sprang up from his perch on the arm of the
sofa. “Good God! You are sure?” He grabbed Marian by the arm and shook her. “Make
no mistake!”

She nodded and jerked her arm from his grasp.

Lord Ingraham beat her to the door, then whirled
around, grabbed her by the shoulders, and kissed her soundly on the
mouth. He was gone before she
had time to take another breath.

She stepped to the open door. After a few hurried words
to the butler, Lord Ingraham ran out the front door. Washburn went into the
ballroom and returned in a few moments with one of the dark-eyed émigrés. As
she watched in amazement, the butler calmly bent the man’s arm up behind his
back and held him there until two officers came quickly from the ballroom and
led him away.

When the men left the house, Washburn clapped his hands
together in a triumphant gesture, smoothed his hair, and rocked back and forth
on his heels in evident satisfaction. He noticed Marian staring at him from the
library door and coughed discreetly.

“Signore Fandamo of the Chartwell Foundry suddenly
remembered a prior engagement, Miss Wynswich,” he said, not blinking an eye. “I
trust the officers will hurry him to his destination.”

Marian opened her mouth to speak, and he put a finger
to his lips. “Not a word to Lady Ingraham,” he asked in kindly tones. “She hasn’t
a clue.”

Marian stood where she was a moment longer and then
squared her shoulders and started for the stairs.

Washburn coughed again. “Miss Wynswich, do you not
return to the ballroom?”

“No, Washburn. I think I have not the stomach for it,
for all that
I
am such a
game goer. Do me a favor, if you will.”

He bowed.

“When Alistair arrives with Suttees from Hammerfield,
tell my brother that we will leave early in the morning. The roads are clear;
there is nothing to keep us here.”

He bowed again. “May I speak for myself and the other
servants?”

“Please do.”

“We will miss you both.”

“It’s nice to be missed,” she replied, and her voice
faltered.

Her room had never looked more welcome. With a long,
shuddering sigh, Marian locked the door and piled more coals on the fire. As
the room grew warmer, she undressed quickly, pulled on her nightgown, and
hopped into bed. Her body sank gratefully into the mattress. Marian closed her
eyes and waited for sleep to overtake her as she listened to the music downstairs.