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Praise for the novels of
CANDACE CAMP

“Camp has again produced a fast-paced plot brimming with lively conflict among family, lovers and enemies.”

—Publishers Weekly on A Dangerous Man

“Romance, humor, adventure, Incan treasure, dreams, murder, psychics—the latest addition to Camp’s Mad Moreland series has it all.”

—Booklist on An Unexpected Pleasure

“Entertaining, well-written Victorian romantic mystery.”

—The Best Reviews on An Unexpected Pleasure

“A smart, fun-filled romp.”

—Publishers Weekly on Impetuous

“Camp brings the dark Victorian world to life. Her strong characters and perfect pacing keep you turning the pages of this chilling mystery.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Winterset

“From its delicious beginning to its satisfying ending, [Mesmerized] offers a double helping of romance.”

—Booklist

Promise Me Tomorrow
Candace Camp

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Promise Me Tomorrow

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

PROLOGUE

THE CHILD LIFTED HER HEAD SLEEPILY AND looked at the man across from her in the carriage. She blinked, then scowled.

“You’re a bad man.”

The man glanced at her and sighed. “Hush. We’re almost there.”

His face was shadowed in the dim light. He was almost skeletally thin, and he fidgeted constantly. Marie Anne knew that Nurse would have snapped at him to sit still and behave himself.

“I want to go home,” she said plaintively. Everything was so confusing. It had been for weeks. She missed John, and she missed the baby. Most of all, she missed Mama and Papa. She remembered That Night and the way her mother had hustled her out the door and along the dark, scary street. She remembered the familiar scent of Mama’s perfume as she squeezed Marie Anne to her chest, whispering “Take care, ma chérie.” Mama had been crying, and Marie Anne knew that it was the bad people in the streets who made her cry.

“I want to stay with you!” Marie Anne had wailed, clinging tightly to her mother. That had made the baby cry, too, and try to scramble out of Mrs. Ward’s arms and back to their mother. Only John had stood stoically silent and still.

“Oh, chérie! If you only knew—I wish you could, too, but it isn’t safe.” Her mother, more beautiful than any other woman in the world, had wiped the tears from her cheeks and tried to smile. “You must go home to England. To your Mimi and Granpapa. You will like that, won’t you? Mrs. Ward will take you. You know Mrs. Ward. She’s Mama’s ami, and she will take good care of you. She’ll see that you get to Mimi’s house in the City. Papa and I must stay here and get Granmama and Granpere to leave. But as soon as we do, we will join you at Mimi’s house.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, my little love. I promise.”

“Where’s Mama?” Marie Anne asked now, turning to her companion accusingly, “You said we were going to see Mama.” She had cried and kicked when he’d carried her from her bed earlier, until finally he had told her to be still, that he was taking her to her mother.

“We are almost there,” the man repeated glancing out the window.

Marie Anne looked out the window, too, and saw that they were approaching a large building. But it was not their home, nor even Mimi’s large house in the country or the tall white one in the City. It was a huge squat block of gray stone, far too ugly, she knew, to be anyplace where Mama was. Tears filled her eyes.

“That’s not Mimi’s.” For a little while, she and her brother John had been at Mimi’s home in the City. Mrs. Ward, Mama’s friend from Paris, had taken them there, and at first Marie Anne’s sad heart had lifted joyfully, thinking that she was going to get to see her beloved grandmother. But then That Woman had whisked them away, taking them outside and to another house, where the Awful Man was. She had seen him before, but he was not the sort who spoke to children, and she wasn’t sure who he was.

Then That Woman had fed her something and tried to give John something, as well, but he was too sick. She had left them in a room, with John twisting and turning on his bed, sweating and shaking. It had scared Marie Anne to see him like that; it had scared her to be there without any grown-up. But it was even scarier to be away from her big brother, traveling through the dark night with this stranger. Why had Mrs. Ward left them with That Woman? Why had she taken the baby, but not John and Marie Anne? Where was Mimi?

She began to cry, although she did not want to in front of this odd, jittery man whom she did not know at all. “I want Mimi,” she said, her voice trembling. “I want Nurse. I want Mama!”

“Later, later.” His voice was impatient, and he barely waited for the carriage to stop before he unlatched the door and jumped down. He reached for her, but Marie Anne backed away, her heart thumping. The ugly building loomed outside, and she was certain she did not want to go there.

“No. No!” The word ended in a shriek as he wrapped one arm around her and dragged her out.

She screamed and began to struggle. “Mama! Papa!”

He carried her inexorably up the front stairs to the door and banged the heavy knocker. It was some minutes before the door was opened by a scowling servant, and some time more before a large, stern-looking woman swept into the entryway, a dressing gown wrapped around her and a nightcap on her head.

The sight of her was enough to freeze Marie Anne’s sobs in her throat. She stared at the woman, ice forming in the pit of her stomach. The woman was tall and heavyset, with none of the beauty and warmth that lived in Marie Anne’s mother and grandmothers. This woman’s eyes were pale and cold as metal, and her face was grim, dominated by a predatory beak of a nose. She looked at Marie Anne as though she knew every naughty thing the girl had ever done.

“I found her,” the jittery man was saying. “She was on the side of the road, obviously abandoned. I didn’t know where else to take her.”

His words were enough to jolt Marie Anne out of her fear, and she cried out indignantly, “That’s a lie! I wasn’t on the side of the road!”

The woman clapped her hands together so loudly that both Marie Anne and the man jumped. “Enough!” Her voice cracked like a whip. “Don’t presume to correct your betters, child. You will soon learn that here you speak only when spoken to, and you do not contradict an adult.”

Her tone made Marie Anne’s heart thump inside her chest, but she squared her shoulders and thrust out her chin. She was not the sort to knuckle under without a fight. She thought of the way her father would ruffle her hair and chuckle, calling her his tiger.

“But I wasn’t by the side of the road,” she insisted.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “I can see that you are going to be stiff-necked. Redheads are always trouble.”

“I am sure she will settle down,” the man said quickly, panic tinging his voice. “Once she has been here awhile, she will be all right.”

“Don’t worry, sir,” the woman replied with a faintly sardonic smile. She looked at him as if she, too, knew what he was thinking, Marie Anne noticed. “We shall take her. I am not one to turn away a soul just because she is obviously in need of improvement. We shall straighten her out soon enough.” The woman’s eyes sparkled with anticipation.

The man let out a sigh of relief and set Marie Anne down. “Thank you.”

He turned and hurried toward the door. Little as the girl had liked him, it frightened her to see him leave. Even he was better than this hard-faced woman.

“No! Wait!” Marie Anne shrieked, turning to run after him, but the woman hooked a hand in her sash and jerked her back.

“Stop it! Stop that behavior this instant!” The woman accompanied her words with a stinging slap to the back of the girl’s legs, bare below her skirts.

Marie Anne, who had never been struck in her life, whirled and gaped at the woman. The man hurried out the door, closing it after him.

“That’s better.” The woman nodded approvingly. “The children of St. Anselm’s do not act that way, as you will soon find out. The children of St. Anselm’s are quiet and obedient. Now…” Satisfied that she had set this unseemly child on the proper path, the woman looked her over. “How old are you?”

“Five,” the girl responded promptly, rather proud of her age.

“And what is your name?”

“Marie Anne.”

“That is scarcely a proper name for a child of your sort. No doubt you are that gentleman’s by-blow. Just plain Mary will do fine for you. Do you have a last name?”

Marie Anne stared at her. “I—I’m not sure. I am just Marie Anne.”

“Do you have a father?”

“Of course I do!” Marie Anne responded indignantly. “And he will come here and get me! And he will make you sorry!”

“No doubt,” the matron said dryly. “There are many children waiting for their fathers to come. In the meantime, we shall have to give you a name. Now, what do people call your father?”

“Chilton,” she answered.

“All right. Mary Chilton. That is your name. I am called Mrs. Brown. I am the matron of St. Anselm’s.”

“But that’s not my name,” Marie Anne protested indignantly.

“It is now. Do not contradict me. I told you before that that is not acceptable behavior.”

“But you’re wrong!”

Mrs. Brown’s hand lashed out and slapped Marie Anne sharply across her ear. “You will not speak to me that way. Do you understand?”

Stunned, Marie Anne nodded, her hand going up to her cheek. Never in her life had she been treated in such a manner. Even during the past few harrowing weeks, rocking about the countryside with Mrs. Ward and John and the baby, running from those bad people and having to pretend that they were Mrs. Ward’s children—even during all that, no one had ever raised a hand to her or talked to her in this way. Tears pooled in her eyes, and for a moment she wavered on the edge of bursting into tears. But years of aristocratic breeding came to her rescue, and she stiffened her back, gazing up at the woman coolly. Mama would say that this woman was déclassée, she decided. Papa, on the other hand, would say that what she had done was “bad form.” She clung to the words, hearing her parents in her head.

“Answer me when I speak to you,” Mrs. Brown snapped.

“Yes, Mrs. Brown,” Marie Anne responded dutifully, but her voice was chilly and carried all the humility of a duchess.

The older woman looked at her sharply but could not quite put her finger on what it was in the girl’s tone that raised her hackles. Finally she turned away, saying crisply, “Follow me.”

She led her up the stairs and down a hallway barely lit by a few sconces on the wall. The candlelight flickered and flared, casting strange shadows. Marie Anne felt fear rising up in her throat, but she pushed it back down. She could hear her Mimi’s voice the time she had gone running to her in tears when John and the boys were teasing her with scary stories: “Head up, my girl. Never let them know you’re afraid. It would give them far too much pleasure.”

Mrs. Brown stopped at a cupboard and opened it, pulling out a thin blanket and a folded brown dress. To the top of the pile she added a white petticoat, faded through many washings, a pair of rough lisle stockings, darned in several places, and an overly large nightgown. She handed the stack to Marie Anne.

“Here are your clothes and a blanket for your bed.”

Marie Anne looked doubtfully at the ugly brown dress. “But I have clothes. I like my dress better.”

The older woman cast a scornful glance at Marie Anne’s attire. “Your clothes are completely inappropriate. Far above your station. You are at St. Anselm’s now, and you will wear the dress I gave you.”

Remembering the stinging slap, Marie Anne decided not to argue. She merely hugged the stack of her new possessions tightly to her chest and followed Mrs. Brown into the room beyond the cupboard.

It was a long room, lined with narrow beds along either side. Beside each bed was a small chest with three drawers. In each bed lay a girl. Marie Anne had never seen so many people sleeping in one room before. Was she expected to sleep here, among so many other children? Where was her room? She thought with longing of the nursery at home, with her own snug little room, and John and Nurse and the baby all in their little rooms across the schoolroom from her.

Some of the children slept, but most of them awoke at Mrs. Brown’s entrance. In the glow of the woman’s candle, Marie Anne could see wide-open eyes peeking out from beneath their blankets. Mrs. Brown turned to Marie Anne.

“Now, I want you to undress and get into bed. Tomorrow you will be introduced to the other children and assigned your duties.”

“Duties?”

“Of course. Everyone earns their keep around here.” The woman turned and started away.

“But—what about the light?” Marie Anne asked, unable to completely hide the tremor in her voice at the thought of being left here in the dark. “How can I see to undress?”

“There is plenty of light from the windows,” the matron answered, indicating the tall, curtainless windows that lined either side of the room. “I don’t allow children to waste candles.”

With those words, the woman strode out of the room. Marie Anne watched the flickering light of her candle recede. Tears welled in her eyes, and her chin began to wobble, no matter how hard she struggled to keep it still. She had never felt so alone in all her life, even the night her mother had handed them over to Mrs. Ward, then hurried out the door, sobbing. At least then she had had John and Alexandra, and she had known Mrs. Ward, who was a kind, soft-spoken woman. But now—now she was utterly alone and abandoned.

A small hand slipped into hers, and a soft voice whispered, “’Ere now, don’t cry. It’ll be better tomorrow, you’ll see.”

Marie Anne turned to see a girl about her size, but with a face much older than hers. She looked at the girl curiously, her tears slowly subsiding. She wiped them away with her hand and said, “Hullo. Who are you?”

“I’m Winny,” the girl responded with a shy smile. “I’m eight. Wot’s your name?”

“Marie Anne. But that woman said now I must be Mary.”

The little girl nodded. “She likes plain names. ‘Ow old are you? Would you like to be my friend?”

“Aw, don’t be daft, Winny.” A rough voice spoke from the bed on the other side of them, and an older girl swung around to sit on the side of the bed, facing them. She had curly dark hair poorly suppressed into braids, and a round, pugnacious face liberally sprinkled with freckles. “’Oo’d want to be friends with the likes o’ you?”

“I would,” Marie Anne told the other girl stoutly. “Winny seems very nice.”

“’Winny seems very nice,’” the other girl mimicked in a high voice, striving to imitate Marie Anne’s precise diction. “’Oo’re you, a bleedin’ princess?”

Marie Anne lifted her chin. “No, but I shall be a duchess one day, if I want. Mimi said so.”

“A duchess!” This statement afforded the other girl much amusement, for she slapped her thigh and rocked with laughter. “Lookee ‘ere, everybody, we got a bleedin’ duchess among us.”

Marie Anne frowned at her. “You shouldn’t use such words. Nurse says it’s wicked and—and low class. Beside, I’m not a duchess now. But I will be, if I want to. Mimi said I could—and she’s a countess!”

“The Duchess of St. Anselm’s,” the other girl pronounced, still chuckling.

“Never mind her,” Winny whispered. “Betty don’t like anyone. I think you look like a duchess.” She touched the sleeve of Marie Anne’s dress admiringly. “But you’d best get into your nightgown now. Miss Patman will be coming through shortly. She comes every hour to check on us, and she’ll punish you if you’re out o’ bed.”

Marie Anne sighed. She didn’t want to take off her clothes and put on the rough nightgown, but she was dreadfully tired. And perhaps if she went to sleep, she would wake up the next morning and find herself back in the nursery with John and the baby, and Nurse waking them up with a cheerful hello and a cup of hot chocolate.

She unbuttoned her dress with Winny’s help, pulled it off and reached for the nightdress to put it on.

“’Ere! Wot’s that?” Betty, still watching her, leaned forward now and reached for the locket around Marie Anne’s neck.

Marie Anne stepped back quickly, her hand closing around the precious locket. Mimi had given it to her last Boxing Day. It was gold and opened to show a cunning little portrait of her mother on one side and of her father on the other. The front was inscribed with an ornate, looping M for Marie. Mimi had given one just like it to the baby, with an A on the front for Alexandra. Of course, the baby was too young to wear it, only two, but Marie Anne had put hers on and never took it off.

“Give it to me,” Betty demanded, getting up and coming around the bed toward her.

“No! It’s mine! Mimi gave it to me.”

Betty’s face lit with a wicked glee. “It’s mine now.”

Her hand lashed out and grabbed Marie Anne’s smaller fist. She jerked it toward her, and the chain of the locket bit painfully into Marie Anne’s neck. All the anger and fear of the past few weeks exploded now in Marie Anne, and she let out a feral shriek and sank her teeth into the other girl’s hand.

Betty jerked back her hand, letting out a yowl. She drew back her other fist to hit the smaller girl, but Marie Anne was on her like a wild thing, hitting and kicking and biting. Finally, laughing, the oldest girl in the room came over and hauled Marie Anne off the bully and set her on her feet. Betty sat up, hunched over, trying to nurse both her injured hand and her bleeding nose, and gasping for air from a blow that had landed square in her stomach.

“I think you met your match, Bet,” the fourteen-year-old said in an amused voice. She made a mocking bow toward the little girl standing beside her, still rigid with fury. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Duchess. I’m Sally Gravers.”

“Thank you. I’m pleased to meet you, too,” Marie told her, giving a little curtsy, just as Nurse had taught her to do when she met important adults. Sally Gravers wasn’t an adult, but she looked the most important person in this group, so the gesture seemed appropriate.

The older girl grinned, further amused. “You’re all right.” She turned toward Betty and scowled. “You leave ‘er alone now. You ‘ear me? That trinket’s ‘ers.”

“All right, Sally,” the bully replied in a surly voice, shooting Marie Anne a venomous look.

“Right now. Let’s get some sleep,” Sally went on. “I, for one, ain’t lookin’ forward to getting up at five and scrubbin’ floors on no sleep.”

Marie Anne gaped at the older girl, scarcely able to believe her ears. Had she somehow become a maidservant? But, given the topsy-turvy events of the last few weeks, she knew that anything was possible. She scrambled into her nightgown, tucking the locket protectively beneath it.

Winny, still beside her, whispered, “She won’t steal it now—she’s too afraid of Sally. But the matron will take it if she sees it. She’ll say it’s above you. I’ve got a ‘idin’ place. No one’s ever found it. I’ll show it to you, and you can ‘ide it there.”

Marie Anne nodded gratefully as she and Winny spread the blanket over the narrow mattress. Then she crawled into bed, remembering with a sigh the deep feather mattress of her bed at home and the layers of thick, warm blankets that Nurse would tuck around her at night. The thought led her to memories of her mother coming in to kiss her good-night. Sometimes she would be already dressed to go out, her elegant brocade dress spreading out wide beneath her narrow waist, her hair powdered and towering in a confection of curls, decorated with jewels or feathers. Other times, she would still be in a dressing gown, and her thick black hair would be tumbling down around her shoulders in a curling cloud. She would bend over Marie Anne and whisper that she loved her. Marie Anne could smell again the orris root of her powder mingling with the scent of her perfume.

Tears seeped out of her eyes, and she lifted the locket out from beneath her nightgown, her fist closing around it. Why hadn’t Mama come for them? She had told them that she and Papa would join them as soon as they could. A horrible lonely feeling welled inside Marie Anne as a wicked voice whispered that Mama and Papa no longer wanted her.

But that wasn’t true! Marie struggled against the engulfing horror. She knew her mother and father loved her. They would come and get her, and they would find the baby, too, and John—and he wouldn’t be sick anymore. She just had to hold on, she told herself, and someday they would come for her. Someday her family would find her, and she would be happy again….

CHAPTER ONE

MARIANNE DREW A DEEP BREATH AS SHE surveyed the glittering crowd. She had never been to a party this large, nor one filled with so many titled people. She wondered what they would think if they knew she was plain Mary Chilton from St. Anselm’s Orphanage, not the genteel widow Mrs. Marianne Cotterwood.

She smiled to herself. The thing she enjoyed the most about her pretense was the idea of pulling the wool over the eyes of the aristocracy, of conversing with some blue-blooded member of the ton—who would have been horrified if he had known that he was speaking to a former chambermaid as if to an equal.

The thought settled her nerves somewhat. This might be a larger and more cosmopolitan set of people than she had deceived in the resorts of Bath and Brighton, but essentially they were the same. If one spoke as if one were genteel, and walked and sat and ate as if one had been trained to do so from birth, people assumed that one belonged. As long as she kept her lies small and plausible and was careful never to pretend to be someone more than the minor gentry, it was doubtful that anyone would sniff out her deceit. After all, most of the people here were too self-absorbed to spare much thought for anyone else, for good or ill. That was one of the traits which made it so easy to prey upon them.

Marianne regarded all members of the ruling class as her natural enemies. She could still remember the days at the orphanage, when the grand ladies would come on their “missions of mercy.” Well-fed and warm, they would stand in their elegant dresses that cost more than would be spent on any of the orphans in a year and look at them with pitying contempt. Then they would go away, feeling vastly superior and quite holy for their charity. Marianne had stared at them with anger burning in her heart. Nothing that happened to her after the orphanage had lessened her contempt for them. She had been sent into service at Lady Quartermaine’s house when she was fourteen, and there she had worked as a housemaid, emptying ashes from the fireplace, hauling water for baths, and cleaning, all for less than a shilling a day, with only Sunday afternoons off—and woe to her if anything was deemed ill-done or amiss. Of course, even that did not compare to what else had happened to her at Quartermaine Hall….

“It’s a lovely party,” Marianne’s companion said, and Marianne turned to her, firmly shoving aside her thoughts.

Mrs. Willoughby was a fluttery woman, so proud of her invitation to Lady Batterslee’s rout that she had simply had to invite someone along with her to witness her glory. Marianne was glad she had been the person with Mrs. Willoughby the day she received her invitation.

A party at the elegant Batterslee House was an opportunity that did not come along every day, and Marianne had seized upon it, even though it meant suffering Mrs. Willoughby’s stultifying conversation all evening.

Not, of course, that she meant to stay by Mrs. Willoughby’s side. She would stay with her long enough not to appear obvious—and to meet as many people as Mrs. Willoughby could introduce her to, for the chance to mingle with this many people who might invite her to other parties was almost as important as examining the treasures of the house. But as soon as she reasonably could, she meant to slip away and spend the evening exploring.

They were almost at the front of the receiving line now, just beyond the doorway of the ballroom. It was the sight of the ballroom filled with people whose clothing and jewelry cost more than most people would earn in a lifetime that had given rise to Marianne’s jitters. The room was enormous, all white and gilt and filled with mirrors. A small orchestra played on a raised platform at the far end, but the noise from the crush of people was so great that Marianne could barely make out a tune. The walls were lined with spindly-legged chairs, as white and gold as the room, except for the red velvet of their cushions. Tall candelabras were filled with white wax candles, and more such candles blazed in the chandeliers, setting off bright rainbows in the prisms that dangled beneath them.

It was a glittering, extravagant scene, made even more vivid and beautiful by the wealth of jewels that gleamed at the women’s ears and throats and wrists, a bounty of diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds, as well as the subtler shimmer of pearls. The men were uniformly clad in the black-and-white elegance of evening wear, but the women’s gowns covered a vibrant spectrum of colors. Silk, satin and lace abounded, and—despite the warmth of the August evening—even velvet. Looking at the rose silk of the woman in line before them, the peacock-blue satin trimmed with black lace of the woman in front of her, and the white tissue embroidered with gold thread that adorned their hostess, Marianne began to wonder if her own simply cut ice-blue silk evening dress was elegant enough. It had done very well in Bath, but here in London…

Marianne glanced around, hoping to assure herself that she was not out of place here. She stopped as her gaze fell upon a man leaning against one of the slender columns of the ballroom, only twenty feet away from her. He was watching her, and when she noticed him, he did not glance away embarrassedly, as most would have. He continued to gaze at her steadily in a way that was most rude.

He was tall and lean, with the broad shoulders and muscled thighs of a man who had spent much of his life on horseback. His hair, cut rather short and slightly tousled, was light brown, streaked golden here and there by the sun. His eyes, too, were gold, and hooded, reminding her of a hawk. His cheekbones were high, his nose straight and narrow; it was an aristocrat’s face, handsome, proud and slightly bored, as if all the world did not hold enough to retain his jaded interest.

The man’s gaze unsettled her. She felt unaccountably warm, and it was hard, somehow, to move her eyes away from him. He smiled at her, a slow, sensuous smile that set off a strange, tingling reaction somewhere in the area of her stomach. Marianne started to smile back, but she caught herself in time, remembering what he was and how she felt about his sort. Besides, a genteel widow did not stand about smiling at strangers. So she kept her face as cool and blank as she could, and raised one eyebrow disdainfully, then turned pointedly away from him.

Their hostess was only two people away from her now, expertly greeting her guests and sliding them along. She greeted Mrs. Willoughby with no sign of recognition on her face, then nodded to Marianne with the same polite, measured warmth. It was such a huge party that Marianne was sure there were many people there whom Lady Batterslee barely knew, which made it a perfect opportunity for Marianne, and silently she thanked her companion for inviting her to come along despite their casual acquaintance.

There were so many people, it was difficult to work their way through the crowd. Marianne did not see how anyone could find room to dance to the orchestra gamely playing at the other end of the room. Finally they reached the wall and were able to find two empty chairs. Mrs. Willoughby plopped down in one, fanning her flushed face, and looked around with all the enthusiasm of a career social climber.

“There’s Lady Bulwen—I’m surprised she’s here. They say she is only a step away from debtor’s prison, you know.” She shook her head, clucking her tongue in apparent sympathy, then plunged on, “That’s Harold Upsmith. Do you know him? An excellent gentleman, everything that’s proper—not like his brother James. An absolute wastrel, that one.”

“Indeed,” Marianne murmured. It took little effort on her part to keep the conversation going, only an occasional nod or comment to assure her companion that she was listening. It was her great good fortune that Mrs. Willoughby was a perfect combination of social climber and inveterate gossip. Before this evening was through, she would know as much about the ton as if she had been a member for years.

After a few moments, however, her attention was distracted by the imperious tones of a woman sitting to her right. “Don’t slouch, Penelope. And do try to look as if you’re having a good time. It is a party, you know, not a deathwatch.”

Curious, Marianne glanced to the side. The voice belonged to a large woman clad in an unfortunate shade of purple. Her bosom jutted forward like the prow of a ship, and her chin had a matching forward thrust. She, too, was watching the crowd like a predatory bird, interspersing comments about this or that eligible bachelor with commands to her young female companion. The girl in question sat between Marianne and the older woman, a plain slip of a thing in a white dress. White, Marianne knew, was considered the only appropriate color for an unmarried girl at a ball, but it was not a color that did anything for this particular young woman, merely emphasizing the colorlessness of her face. Nor was her appearance enhanced by the glass spectacles that perched on her nose, hiding her best features—a pair of warm brown eyes.

“Yes, Mama,” Penelope murmured in a toneless voice, her fingers clenched together in her lap. She reached up to adjust the spectacles that sat on her nose, and her fan, lying in her lap, slid off and hit the floor, bouncing over and landing on Marianne’s toe.

“Really, Penelope, do try not to be so clumsy. There’s nothing so unattractive as a clumsy female.”

“I’m sorry, Mama.” Penelope flushed with embarrassment and bent toward her fan, but Marianne had already retrieved it.

She handed it to Penelope with a smile, sympathy for the girl rising inside her. It must be bad enough to be sitting here against the wall, not being asked to dance, without having her mother carping at her the whole time.

“Thank you,” Penelope murmured softly, giving Marianne a shy smile.

“You’re quite welcome. A dreadful crush, isn’t it?”

Penelope nodded emphatically, causing the light to glint off her spectacles. “Yes. I hate it when there are so many people.”

“I’m Mrs. Cotterwood. Marianne Cotterwood,” Marianne told her. It was not proper to introduce oneself, Marianne knew, but she suspected that Penelope was not the sort to mind. Others, like Penelope’s mother, would meet such boldness with a rebuff.

But Penelope smiled and said, “I am Penelope Castlereigh. It’s very nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine. You must think me bold to introduce myself, but in truth, I find it excessively silly to sit here not talking because there is no one around at the moment who knows both of us to introduce us.”

“You are absolutely right,” Penelope agreed. “I would have introduced myself if I had more nerve. I’m afraid I am the veriest coward.”

At that moment, Penelope’s mother, who had been droning away the past few minutes, finally realized that her daughter was not listening to her and turned to see what she was doing. At seeing the girl engaged in conversation with a strange woman, she scowled and brought her lorgnette up to her eyes to peer disapprovingly at Marianne.

“Penelope! What are you doing?”

Penelope jumped a little, and a guilty look flashed across her face. She turned back to the older woman, saying brightly, “I was just talking to Mrs. Cotterwood. I met her at Nicola’s last week.”

Quickly, before her mother could inquire more deeply into the matter, she introduced Marianne and her mother to each other. Her mother, Marianne learned, was Lady Ursula Castlereigh.

On the other side of Marianne, Mrs. Willoughby leaned forward, saying with delight, “Oh, do you know Lady Castlereigh, Mrs. Cotterwood? Mrs. Willoughby, Lady Castlereigh. If you remember, we met at Mrs. Blackwood’s fete, oh, sometime last Season.”

“Indeed?” Lady Ursula replied in a voice that would have daunted a less determined woman than Mrs. Willoughby.

“Yes, indeed. I admired the dress you were wearing.” Mrs. Willoughby launched into a detailed description of a gown, popping up and moving around the others to plant herself in the empty chair beside Lady Ursula.

Marianne seized the opportunity to escape both women. “Shall we take a stroll around the room, Miss Castlereigh?”

Penelope brightened. “That would be lovely.”

It suited Marianne’s purpose to get away from the chattering Mrs. Willoughby, but she knew that she had proposed the stroll partly to help out Penelope, as well. Penelope, despite her social status, touched a responsive chord in Marianne. She could not help but feel for the poor girl, obviously shy, and just as obviously dominated by her dragon of a mother.

Penelope visibly relaxed as they moved away from Lady Ursula’s vicinity. Marianne glanced around them as they walked, automatically checking the room. There were few of the valuable items she sought in the large, open room. The only access to the doors was a series of long windows, open to alleviate the heated stuffiness created by the crowd of people. Marianne maneuvered Penelope in the direction of the windows.

“Ah,” she said. “It’s much more pleasant here.”

“Oh, yes,” Penelope agreed, following her. “The fresh air feels good.”

Marianne casually looked out. They were on the second floor, looking down at the small garden in the back of the house. There were no convenient trees or trellises nearby. Still, Marianne cast a professional eye over the window and its lock before she guided Penelope away.

As they walked, Marianne felt an odd prickling at the base of her neck that told her she was being watched. She turned her head, scanning the room, and after a moment she saw him—the same man who had been watching her earlier. As she looked at him, he sketched a bow to her. Warmth flooded her, a sensation she was unused to. She told herself it was embarrassment.

“Penelope…” She took her companion’s arm. “Who is that man?”

“What man?” Penelope stopped and looked around.

“Over there.” Marianne indicated him with her head.

Penelope adjusted her glasses, looking in the direction of Marianne’s gaze. “Oh. Do you mean Lord Lambeth?”

“The good-looking wretch with a superior smile on his face.”

Penelope smiled faintly at the description. “Yes. That’s Justin. He’s the Marquess of Lambeth.”

“He keeps looking at me. It’s most disconcerting.”

“I should think you would be used to men looking at you,” Penelope responded, grinning, looking at her companion. With her red hair, vivid blue eyes and creamy white skin, Marianne Cotterwood was stunning. Penelope had noticed her almost as soon as she had entered the ballroom. Marianne’s dress, though simpler than most here tonight, was the perfect setting for her beauty, showing off her tall, voluptuous figure; she had no need for the frills and bows that many women added to their clothes.

“Thank you for the compliment—I think.” Marianne smiled back at her. “But that is the second time I’ve caught him staring at me in the rudest way. And he doesn’t seem at all embarrassed by being caught doing it. He just stands there looking….”

“Arrogant?” Penelope supplied. “That’s not surprising. Lambeth’s quite arrogant. Of course, I suppose he has every reason to be. Everyone fawns over him, especially giddy young girls looking to marry.”

“He’s a catch?”

Penelope chuckled. “I should say so.” She looked at her curiously. “Do you mean you have not heard of him?”

“I’m afraid not. I have spent the past few years in Bath, you see, living rather quietly—since my husband’s death.”

“Of course. I’m sorry. I don’t suppose you would have heard of him. Bath is not the sort of place Lambeth frequents. Not exciting enough.”

“He’s a carouser, then?”

Penelope shrugged. “I don’t know whether he lives a wilder life than most men. But he despises boredom. Bucky says he will go to any lengths to avoid it. Last month, he and Sir Charles Pellingham placed bets on how fast a spider would build its web in the corner of a window at White’s.”

Marianne grimaced. “He sounds excessively silly.”

“Sir Charles is,” Penelope admitted frankly. “But Bucky says that Lambeth is a knowing one.”

“Who is Bucky?” Marianne asked.

Penelope colored slightly. “Lord Buckminster. He is a cousin of my good friend Nicola Falcourt.” She went on hurriedly, “He is considered quite a catch.”

“Lord Buckminster or Lord Lambeth?” Marianne asked quizzically.

Penelope’s blush deepened, “Well, both, I suppose, but I was speaking about Lord Lambeth. They say he’s rich as Croesus, and his father is the Duke of Storbridge, so all the matchmaking mamas consider him fair game.”

“I see.” No wonder the man felt no hesitation in staring so rudely. Probably most of the women at the party would be thrilled to have him notice them. Marianne glanced back in his direction, but he had gone. She and Penelope started their perambulation again.

“But I imagine it’s all useless,” Penelope went on. “Mother says that there’s an unspoken understanding between him and Cecilia Winborne that someday they will marry. It would be a perfect match. Her lineage is as good as his, and there has never been a scandal in her family—they’re all terribly priggish,” she added confidentially.

Marianne laughed.

Penelope looked a trifle abashed. “I’m sorry. I should not have said that. You must think me terrible. Mother says I am always letting my tongue run away with me.”

“Nonsense,” Marianne assured her. “I think you are most enjoyable company—and that runaway tongue is one of the main reasons.”

“Really?” Penelope looked pleased. “I am always afraid that I’m going to say the wrong thing—and then, when I’m expected to talk, it seems as if my tongue won’t even work.”

“I have often felt that way myself,” Marianne lied kindly. In truth, she had rarely been afflicted with shyness. The matron at St. Anselm’s had always maintained that boldness was her worst vice—the first in a long list, of course.

Her words cheered Penelope up, however, for she began to talk again. “Bucky likes Lord Lambeth, says he’s a ‘fine chap.’ But he quite frightens me,” Penelope added honestly. “He is so very proud and cold. Everyone says so. His whole family is that way. His mother is even scarier than he is.”

“She must be a terror, then.”

“She is. Personally, I think she and Cecilia Winborne are cut from the same cloth. But since Lord Lambeth quite disdains love, I suppose it won’t matter to him.”

“Mmm. They sound like a delightful pair.”

Penelope giggled.

“I say—Penelope!” A male voice sounded behind them, and the two women turned to see a man strolling toward them. He was tall and sandy-haired, with a pleasant face, and he was smiling as he looked at Penelope. “What good luck, to catch you without Lady Ursula around.”

Color dotted Penelope’s cheeks, and her soft brown eyes lit up. She held out her hand to him. “Bucky! I wasn’t sure if you would be here tonight.”

“Oh, yes. I left the opera early. Nicola’s mother will probably have my head the next time I see her, but I mean, really!” He paused, indignation clear on his face. “There’s only so much of that caterwauling a man can be expected to take!”

Penelope smiled. “I am sure Lady Falcourt will understand.”

“No,” he replied ruefully. “But she won’t say much, for fear I won’t escort her next time.” He turned toward Marianne, saying, “Sorry, frightfully rude of me—”

His words died as he looked into Marianne’s face, and the color drained from his cheeks, then came back in a rush. “Oh, uh, I—I say.”

It was all Marianne could do to suppress a giggle. Lord Buckminster looked as if someone had hit him on the head.

“Mrs. Cotterwood, please allow me to introduce Lord Buckminster,” Penelope introduced them.

“How do you do?” Marianne held out her hand politely.

“Oh. I say. Great pleasure,” Buckminster managed to get out, stepping forward to take her hand. As he did so, he stumbled, but caught himself. He took Marianne’s hand and bowed over it, then released her and stood grinning down at her foolishly.

Marianne sighed inwardly. It was obvious to her that Penelope had very fond feelings for “Bucky,” but the man seemed oblivious to them. It was just as obvious that he was entranced by Marianne. She had had other men react to her this way. Marianne knew that she had the sort of looks that attracted men, although she was not vain about it—most of her life, her vibrant good looks had been the source of more trouble than good fortune.

Usually an infatuated admirer was no worse than a nuisance; she had learned how to discourage and avoid them. This time, however, she worried that Lord Buckminster’s open admiration would make Penelope dislike her. She glanced at Penelope, who looked a trifle sad, but resigned, then at Lord Buckminster, who was still smiling vapidly.

“It is very nice to meet you,” Marianne said pleasantly to Lord Buckminster, “but I am afraid I cannot stay and chat. I must get back to Mrs. Willoughby, or she will wonder what has become of me.”

“Allow me to escort you,” Buckminster said eagerly, straightening his cuff and in the process somehow dislodging the gold cuff link. It dropped to the floor and rolled away. “Oh, I say…” The man looked with some dismay at the piece of jewelry and bent to retrieve it.

“Oh, no,” Marianne protested quickly. “You must stay here and keep Penelope company. I am sure that you have a lot to talk about.”

She slipped away immediately, while Buckminster’s attention was still concentrated on his cuff link. Her departure was a trifle rude, she knew, but she felt sure that Penelope would not mind.

Weaving her way through the throng of people, Marianne made her way to the door. Snapping open her fan and wafting it as though the heat of the crowd was what had impelled her to leave the ballroom, she strolled along the corridor past a pair of footmen. She glanced about her in a seemingly casual way, noting to herself the locations of doors, windows and stairs. She paused as if to admire a portrait, and as she did so looked out the window, checking its accessibility from the street. Then she wandered to her right until she was out of sight of the footmen.

She made a quick check to be sure that there were no other guests or servants around, then started down the hallway, looking into each room as she passed it. Every one, she saw, was filled with expensive items, from artwork to furniture, but she was concerned only with those things that were easy to transport and just as easy to sell, such as silver vases and ornamental pieces. She was primarily interested in finding the study, for she knew that it was the most likely place for the safe to be located. Finding the safe and the best entrances and exits was always the focus of her job.

She located two drawing rooms and a music room, but no study, so she turned and made her way back down the corridor. As she neared the wide hallway that crossed this one and led back to the ballroom, her steps slowed to a seemingly aimless walk, and she once again began to ply her fan and to look up at the row of portraits as if she were studying them. She crossed the corridor, glancing down it out of the corner of her eye. She could not see that anyone, either the footmen or the two men standing outside the ballroom door conversing, was paying any attention to her.

Once across the hallway and out of sight, she resumed her investigation, opening doors and peering inside. The second door she opened was obviously the masculine retreat of the house, though it appeared to be more a smoking room than a study. There was no desk, nor were there any books, but the chairs were large and comfortable, and there was a cabinet with glasses and several decanters of whiskey and brandy atop it, as well as a narrow table holding two humidors and a rack of pipes. The drawings on the walls were hunting scenes, full of dogs and horses.

With a smile of satisfaction, Marianne reached into the room, picked up the candlestick on the table beside the door and lit it from the wall sconce in the hall. Then she slipped into the room and closed the door after her. This was the most dangerous part of her mission, as well as the most exciting. There was no good reason for her to be in her host’s smoking room, and if someone happened to come in on her, she would be hard pressed to talk her way out of the situation. She could lock the door, of course, but if someone tried to get in, that would seem even more suspicious. The best thing to do was simply to work as quickly as possible and hope that, if she did get caught, a winning smile and a quick tongue would get her out of the situation.

Heart pounding, Marianne set the candle down on the table and began to go around the room, shifting each of the hunting prints aside to examine the wall behind it. The third picture yielded the prize: a safe set into the wall. She leaned forward, examining the lock, which opened with a key rather than a combination.

“I do apologize, but I really cannot allow you to break open my host’s safe,” a masculine voice said behind her.

Marianne jumped and whirled around, her heart in her throat. Leaning negligently against the doorjamb, one eyebrow raised quizzically, was Lord Lambeth.