Playing with Fire (21 page)

“Oh, my dear, is there anything I can do?” Hermione inquired.

Amanda ignored her. “I think I will go to my room to lie down.”

Sir Julian was concerned. “But what of your dinner?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Amanda, if this is due to the disagreement we had a few minutes ago….”

“No, of course not.”

It was impossible not to feel thankful when the door closed behind her, for her blend of quarrelsome temper and strutting vanity was too much to stomach. Sir Julian and Tansy remained convinced that the sudden headache was due to the sharp things the former had said, but Hermione and Martin knew otherwise. The chaperone had observed the whispered exchange with Martin and wondered greatly what he had said. Something had not only displeased the future countess, but shocked her too, for her cheeks had gone the sort of a deep, dull red that denotes humiliation as well as outrage. Had the handsome lieutenant snubbed her? Oh, how Hermione Entwhistle hoped so!

Martin was not in the least repentant because he considered the rebuke to have been richly deserved.

In fact, the poisonous little vixen warranted more punishment by far for some of the things she had said and done.

* * * *

The thirst for revenge poured through Amanda’s veins as she flounced across the black-and-white-tiled floor of the atrium. She had never,
never
been spoken to like that before, and if it was the last thing she did, she would wipe the smile from Lieutenant Martin Ballard’s face! She would see to it that his name was reviled throughout society!

The anger and disbelief that engulfed her were so overwhelming that she needed to lash out at something. But there was nothing at hand, except the beautiful ferns around the pharaoh. With a snarl that was very unlovely indeed, she seized the fronds of one and wrenched with all her might. The fern rocked in its terra-cotta container, then slowly toppled over, cracking and spilling earth and black water all over the pristine tiles. And over Amanda’s immaculate gown. Dirty splashes stained the exquisite silver satin, and she became more enraged than ever.

With a choked cry, she kicked out at the terra-cotta. It was not a wise act when wearing slippers that were made of the same silver satin as the spoiled gown. As her toes were painfully stubbed, she resorted to one or two of the disgraceful new words she had heard Randal say by the postern. Only then did she realize Tansy’s wide-eyed maid, Letty, was watching her antics from the entrance to the kitchen. It was a little late to assume some dignity, but somehow Amanda achieved it. “Well, don’t just stand there, girl, clean it!” she snapped. Then, nose in the air, she ascended the staircase in a manner she hoped was regal.

As she reached the top, she hesitated. Martin’s closed door seemed so inviting. She glanced back down. The atrium was deserted, the maid having hurried away to get things to clean the mess. Would there ever be a better opportunity to search the dear lieutenant’s room and do some mischief? Hardly had the thought entered her head than she acted upon it, slipping into the firelit chamber to search everything. Two furry shadows slunk in behind her, moving low around the edges of the room and slipping beneath the bed. Then they peeped out from beneath the trailing coverlet, watching every move she made.

Most of Martin’s things were in his locked sea chest, the key to which was nowhere to be seen, and after a few unsuccessful attempts to get in, Amanda soon gave up. Outside the wind had risen a little more, and occasionally the flames flared in the hearth as a draft sucked down the chimney.

She would not have found the locket if she hadn’t trodden on it. Her eyes glittered as she bent to pick it up, her questing fingers within easy reach of a feline armory that remained strangely inactive. She opened the locket to look again at the little portrait of Marguerite Kenny. She held it to the firelight, and only then noticed the inscription on the other half of the locket.
To my beloved son, Martin, on his first birthday, 1769.
So dear Mama was a low actress, was she? No doubt the good lieutenant was very careful to keep
that
a secret from his fellow officers!

She closed the locket with a click, and slipped it into the bodice of her gown. It must be precious to Martin, or he wouldn’t wear it all the time, so with luck its loss would cause him considerable anguish. Stealing it was small revenge for the things he had said, but it would do to be going on with….

Hearing something down in the atrium, she hurried back to the door, then halted as Tansy’s voice carried up to the landing. Then Martin answered, and Amanda tiptoed to the balustrade to peep down. Tansy was assisting him toward the staircase, because he was returning to his room, and they paused for a moment where two footmen were now assisting Letty with the damaged fern. Amanda drew back out of view and ran to her own room.

Ozzy and Cleo emerged from beneath Martin’s bed and trotted down to the ground floor. They had business to attend to, and so took no notice of Tansy as she spoke to them. They crossed the hall to the kitchens, then found an open window in the scullery. Within moments they were on their way toward the postern.

Back in the house, Tansy helped Martin climb the stairs. The effort he’d put into dressing in his uniform and then coming down to the library had really begun to tell now, and halfway up he had to pause to rest awhile. “Dear God above, this is ridiculous!” he breathed. “I am weaker than a kitten!”

“You had no business leaving your bed.”

“Right now I have to agree.” He smiled at her.

Warmth suffused her cheeks. “Lieutenant….”

“My name is Martin,” he interrupted quietly.

She was full of confusion, which she tried to conceal by glancing back toward the ferns. “I…I think we had better continue before we attract attention,” she said, making to take his arm again, but he resisted.

“Only if you call me Martin,” he said.

She avoided his eyes. “Very well…Martin.”

He allowed her to help him once again, but as they reached his door and she made to leave him, he prevented her. “Tansy?”

“Yes?”

“I want you to know that I think you are perfection.”

Her heart, indeed her whole body, was in danger of melting. “Perfection? Oh, I hardly—”

He put a finger to her lips. “Don’t say anything. Just know that—”

Sir Julian’s voice rang up from the atrium below. “Tansy? Do come down, for dinner is served at
last!”

Heart thundering, she hurried back downstairs.

Shortly afterward, having changed out of her ruined evening gown, Amanda left her room to keep her second assignation of the day with Randal. Beneath her fur-lined cloak she now wore; rose silk, and her maid had repinned her hair, so once again she looked all that she should. Excitement bubbled through her as she hurried across the black-and-white tiles of the atrium. Sir Julian, Tansy, and Mrs. Entwhistle were still in the dining room, so all was quiet as she entered the deserted billiard room then went out into the gardens.

The night air was cold and fresh, with the tang of salt on the stiff breeze that now swept in from the sea. Clouds scudded swiftly inland, obscuring the stars, and the daffodils and other spring flowers shuddered as she gathered her cloak to hurry up toward the postern. Her progress was observed from the top of the wall, where Ozzy and Cleo were waiting a suitable distance from the postern—out of
earshot,
so to speak—for on this occasion they were not interested in upsetting Randal in any way. They edged a little nearer as Amanda opened the postern, but did not go too close.

Randal was waiting, and she ran into his arms, lifting her lips to his with no thought of her reputation. The call of common sense was very faint indeed, for she regarded his ring as all but on her finger. She was confident she had cast her spell over him, made him a slave to his passions, convinced him she was the most desirable, most exquisite, most irresistible bride in the whole world, but in Randal Fenworth she had met her match. He had no conscience as he sighed, whispered his undying subjugation, soothed and excited her, called her his countess, and did all the things she had dreamed he’d do. Her vanity was flattered as never before, and the shock of Martin’s rebuff almost ceased to matter. Almost, but not quite, for she would never forgive and forget what he had said.

But at last Randal deemed the moment ripe to introduce a little cold light of day into her dizzy darkness. “You know, your uncle would probably have me hung, drawn, and quartered if he found us like this, don’t you?” he whispered, his lips brushing her hair, her forehead, the tip of her little nose….

“Oh, don’t let’s think about him…” she breathed, trying to kiss him again.

But he drew back. “No, Amanda, it must be said. You see, there is something you don’t know.”

“Oh?” She paid attention unwillingly.

“Sir Julian is set against me because of his quarrel with my late father. And also because”—Randal allowed his voice to falter—“because he had an affair with my mother.”

Amanda stared.

“I have always made clear my support for my wronged father,” Randal added, his voice choking with emotion.

“I…I heard there had been an affair of some sort, but I didn’t know who was involved. I certainly didn’t hear your mother’s name mentioned!”

“As if a liaison with my mother were not bad enough, Sir Julian disliked my father to the point of threatening to prove to the world that I am not the rightful Earl of Sanderby.” Randal turned away, as if so overcome with the injustice of the situation that he could not bear to meet her startled eyes.

Amanda’s mouth opened and closed; then a new wariness began to creep in. What was this? Was she about to be denied her title after all?

“I
am
the rightful earl, I hasten to add,” Randal went on quickly, sensing her reaction from her silence, “but there was a time when my mother believed my father already had a wife when he married her. She wrote of this to Sir Julian, telling him that my father’s first wife had a son who was the real earl. Sir Julian saw fit to keep the letter. Now, in order to prevent me from marrying you, he is threatening to make it public. An irksome court case is bound to result, even though I can prove my case.” He turned then, his usually cool features a study of tortured emotion.

Amanda was shaken. A court case? What of her dazzling future? “Tell me you jest…” she began.

“I fear I am in earnest. Litigation is certain.” He watched her. “Of course, if it were not for the letter…” he murmured.

“Are you quite sure it exists?” she asked, although she knew about the secret letter.

“Oh, yes. I have Sir Julian’s word on it. Well, not his word, exactly, more a slip of his tongue. It’s somewhere here at Chelworth, and if we were to find and destroy it—”

“We?” The single word was sharp and guarded.

“Well, it’s in your interest as much as mine to thwart him.”

She drew away. “If there is any doubt at all about your right to your title, I’m afraid….” She let her voice trail away.

“That one letter may be an embarrassment to me, Amanda, but I rather fancy that all those you wrote to me from Constantinople could be just as embarrassing to you. If I were to make them public, you may be certain no other titled husband would come your way. So I fear you are saddled with me.”

She gazed at him. “That is blackmail, sir.”

He put his fingertips lovingly to her chin. “No, my darling. I simply love you too much already to ever part with you. Besides, all we have to do is destroy my mother’s letter to Sir Julian, and all will be well again. You will be my countess and will enjoy all the status, privilege, and respect that accompanies such a fine title.”

She knew that she had no choice but to go along with him, for the last thing she wanted was for her foolish letters to go on public view. She turned away from him. “As it happens, I think I already know where my uncle keeps the letter you require.”

His interest leaped. “You do? Where?”

She told him about the secret compartment in the statue of Isis, and Sir Julian’s reaction when the letter had been taken out. “I did not have a chance to read it, but I did see the address of the sender. It was 16B Grosvenor Square.”

“My town house in London. It belonged to my father before me.” Randal’s fists clenched furiously. “I searched that damned library from floor to ceiling, but found nothing. I didn’t think of the statue!”

“It’s a very clever hiding place. If Mrs. Entwhistle hadn’t come across such a thing before, I wouldn’t know now.”

“Do you think you can open the compartment again?”

She shook her head. “Oh, no. I’m not going to do it! I’m not going to risk being caught in anything. If you want to destroy the letter, you must do it yourself. It’s something to do with the beetle thing in the statue’s headdress.”

“The scarab?”

Amanda nodded. “Yes, I think that’s what they’re called. It has to be pushed down somehow; then a flap opens. The letter is in a cavity behind it.” She eyed him suddenly. “You wouldn’t lie to me about this, would you? I mean, your mother
was
wrong about bigamy having been committed?”

“She was a very emotional woman and misunderstood something that was perfectly commonplace. My father had a mistress before his marriage, but he cast her aside as soon as he took his bride. My mother got it into her head that he was actually married to this other woman, who had a son by him. My illegitimate half-brother.”

“And is this, er, commonplace situation applicable in your case as well?” she inquired.

Randal was caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“Do you have a mistress?”

“No, I do not have a mistress,” he said.

Amanda turned away again, shivering as the sea breeze gusted along the wall, carrying the noise of surf from the bay. “Why have you told me all this?”

“I want no secrets between us.”

She was unsure. Her mind kept harping back to the so-called mistress his father was supposed to have kept. “Your father’s mistress, who was she?”