Miss Grantham's One True Sin (The Regency Matchmaker Series Book 2) (11 page)

She sighed and rolled her eyes. The plan may have been logical, but Trowbridge's continued absence proved it was neither foolproof nor simple. She looked at the sky. In a couple of hours, the slanting shadows would begin to disappear into the darkness. Already, the sun was beginning to turn the sky to the East a luminous pink.

Where was he? Had she been so disagreeable that he had abandoned her bottle of gems and hied off to escape her? Was she so ugly that he could not bear to be seen standing as her betrothed? Or had he gone away on some errand, and had his carriage overturned? She imagined him pinned under the wheels, broken and bleeding. Should she send the servants out looking for him?

She rose and turned from the windows. No one even knew what direction he'd gone. If she did send the servants out after him, how were they to find him?

She crossed her arms in front of her and shook her head. One thing was certain: if he were not bleeding when he returned, Marianna would do him an injury herself.

A movement at the window caught her eye. A handsome middle-aged couple had strolled quite near the library, and the windows, which had been opened to admit the soft breeze of the fading summer, carried quite clearly. They were speaking in hushed voices. Marianna did not wish to eavesdrop and turned to head for the door.

"Care to venture a guess who she is?" the lady asked.

Marianna froze.

"His latest light-skirt, I daresay."

A gasp escaped Marianna before she could stop it, and she stepped behind a curtain to conceal herself, tossing propriety aside. These two, whoever they were, didn’t deserve it. Peeking outside, she caught a glance of emerald satin and a cream waistcoat embroidered with
fleurs-de-lis
. Lord and Lady Somebody-or-Other. An earl and his wife. Marianna did not remember their names.

"How like True Sin," Lady Somebody said. "To leave a trollop to play the part of hostess. If he is not going to be here, perhaps we should leave this mad house party."

"And chance displeasing him? My dear, one does not rebuff the invitation of True Sin. When would we ever get another?"

"Why were we invited, do you think? To meet this new hussy?"

They both laughed, then the man said, "I doubt it. Why would he go to all this trouble? He'd just parade her around at Vauxhall as he did at that concert in June, remember?”

“How could I forget? That woman was wearing a red satin petticoat!”

“Why don’t you wear red satin petticoats m’darlin’?” the Earl asked with a suggestive growl.

“Because I am not one of Blackshire’s prostitutes!” She laughed and batted at her husband’s sleeve. “I wonder,” she said, “if he will drag this one into one of Lady Jersey's routs as he always does."

"Or to the opera!"

"Oh no ... not to the opera.”

“Whyever not?”

“Surely you jest, lady wife. The opera is True Sin's market fair, where he peruses the wares and pinches to test freshness before taking a sweet home. God knows he never watches the stage."

The lady laughed. "How can he, when his glass is always trained on the bosoms of the two-shilling patrons beneath us?"

"I doubt True Sin will be attending the opera as long as he holds on to this one. She looks too practical to allow him anywhere near a stage."

"You are right, dearest. Why, she looks almost respectable. She is certainly not True Sin's usual fare, is she?"

"No. Unless you count the chit's figure. True Sin always has been partial to ample bosoms."

"Indeed. She is remarkably well-endowed. How could he resist?"

The two laughed gaily and strolled on out of earshot, and Marianna stood quivering with shame and confusion.

It didn’t sound like they were just repeating rumors; it sounded as though they’d actually
seen
the Viscount parading around Town with a lady bird. Several lady birds.

And they thought Marianna was one of them! And that Truesdale had chosen her because of the size of her bosom!

Marianna shivered. If she believed what she had just heard, she would be forced to think that
all
the rumors were true and that Truesdale Sinclair was a libertine, a rake.

No
... She shook her head. It must not be true. It could not be. Truesdale had proved himself to be a gentleman. And Ophelia Robertson—her dear old friend!—would never have suggested Marianna ally herself with him if he were not completely worthy. Would she?

Marianna knew it was wicked, but she suddenly had her doubts.

In the end, as always, she retreated to the comfort of logic. There was only one thing to do under the circumstances: speak with Ophelia. Marianna sailed out the door of the library to find the old lady. Marianna would relate the conversation she had just overheard and ask what it could mean. Surely Ophelia would have a logical explanation. A reasonable excuse for such odious accusations. Yes, it was all a misunderstanding, and Ophelia would confirm that.

Marianna headed for a particular spot in the garden. She knew that, in spite of Ophelia's assertion that she was going to stroll the grounds, the old lady did not enjoy walking, and the shaded stone bench in the rose garden was her favorite spot to pass the time at Trowbridge Manor. The wide rose garden was ringed with trees, and a little pond with goldfish nestled in the center. Ophelia had spent many happy hours there since she came to Trowbridge. Marianna fully expected to find her there now, but the bench was empty.

Marianna next searched the house, but no one had see her come back inside, and she was not in her bedchamber Neither was she with John in the stables. Ophelia simply could not be found.

And yet, in the end, it did not signify, for as Marianna roamed the rest of the grounds, looking for her friend, she found the other guests—now that they could speak with her in greater privacy than the parlor had afforded—quite willing to regale her with all sorts of information about True Sin. And the more she heard, the angrier she became, for, as it turned out, the Trowbridge house guests had good reason to believe Marianna was no better than a common trollop. The Earl and countess of Something-Or-Other were not the only ones who claimed first-hand knowledge of the Viscount Truesdale’s social transgressions. Marianna heard similar stories from half a dozen different mouths. The tales were shocking, for Truesdale Sinclair, the Viscount Trowbridge, was no gentleman.

He was a scapegrace. A rakehell. A philanderer.

Saints and sinners!
She h
ad almost convinced herself she was in love with him! Now, Marianna didn't know which was worse—to be masquerading as his betrothed or mistaken for his bird of paradise.

She fled to her bedchamber, heartsick and sagged onto the bed. She tried not to cry. Tears would serve no logical purpose, but they came anyway.
Dear God
, her parents were due to arrive any day, and they would certainly discover the Viscount's scandalous past the same way she had, soon after they arrived.

The poor darlings would be so worried about her. And disappointed. In fact, she wouldn't blame them if they were quite angry.

Marianna, for her part, was livid.

TRUE SIGHED AS he arrived home. He was weary.

He had decided not to wait until morning to start back to Trowbridge. He'd known when he set out from London that he would arrive at Trowbridge jolly late indeed, but if all the visiting
beau monde
kept to their normal Town hours, most would still be awake when he arrived, he'd thought. He had hoped he and Mary could still announce their engagement that evening.

He'd started from London after dark with instructions to his coachman to make the journey as quick as possible, and although he was willing to endure the jarring, jolting, and bouncing, his coach, apparently, was not. A wheel had broken halfway to Trowbridge. Rather than wait for it to be fixed, he'd walked the three miles to the next village to borrow a horse, slogging through the mud from one farmhouse to the next until he found a family with a horse they were willing to "lend" him for a price. He had paid thrice as much as the miserable animal was worth. And still it had taken him several more hours to get home.

The roads were wet and slippery, and he was caked with mud and chilled to the bone.

It was well-nigh three o' the clock when he climbed the front steps. He awakened the footman on duty, who had fallen asleep, and directed the man to take care of the poor horse, who, by the look, would be even more grateful to be warm and dry than True. He took off his filthy boots and coat before coming inside. No need to muddy the floors and create work for the servants. He stopped in the entry hall to listen. Everything was dark and quiet. Three in the morning was late, even for Town hours.

He started toward his study to pour himself a brandy, but a glow appeared down the hall as someone carrying a lamp approached. True tugged off his gloves and waited to see who would appear.

Mary!

She appeared like a wraith out of the gloom, and he knew something was wrong the moment he saw her. As she approached, he noted the high color in her normally pale face. Her features were tight, and her bearing was even more erect and stiff than usual.

"You are angry," he said.

"Bloody right, I am." The words came out as little more than a hiss, and she blew right on past him and into the library.

True followed and shut the doors behind him. "Did you say, ‘bloody?’"

"Yes, bloody!" she sputtered, losing her composure. "Bloody, bloody, bloody! There! I said it. And don’t even try pretending you are shocked, for I am certain it is not the first time you have heard a—a
lady
curse."

True held out his hands, palms up, in supplication. "I apologize for returning too late to greet our guests, my dear, and beg your humble forgiveness. I tried—"

"Do not 'my dear' me, Trowbridge. Or, should I say, 'True Sin?' "

"
True Sin
." He lowered his hands. "You have never called me that before."

"I never had reason to before now. But now I know the truth."

"The truth? What truth?"

She did not answer him but spun on her heel and paced in front of him. "Oh, what a fool I have been! I did not listen to the rumors. I did not believe a man could have so many paramours. It was not reasonable. It was not logical. But I should have suspected it was true the moment I looked at you, the moment I saw how—
how bloody handsome you are
! I should have believed the rumors were true the moment we met!"

"Which rumors?"

"Which rumors? Take your choice? Let me see ... you might consider the one about you and a certain woman you took to the opera half naked. Or the one with whom you were swimming
sans
clothing in the Serpentine. Or the sisters you escorted to Lady Jersey's ball last spring. Surely you remember the ones? They're the pair all the gentlemen refer to as the Moon Goddesses. Or how about the time you became foxed and shot the hat from the top of a gentleman's head?"

"It was a duel."

"In the bloody Prince’s palace?”

“Carlton House isn’t exactly a palace, and I could have killed that fool easily. The knave deserved more than the embarrassment I gave him.”

“You kissed his ward—”

“She was willing.”