Anne Barbour (4 page)

“Yes, I can see you are a survivor, Mrs. Finch. However, I would not, if I were you, take the fact that you will soon be meeting his lordship as an indication of his subsequent acceptance of your claim.”

Martha felt a tide of desperation rise within her. Dear God, what was she going to do if the marquess turned her away? “Beginning to turn around,” indeed. She could not return to the bookshop and certain ruin. She had vowed she would never work as a scullery maid again, but her options were painfully few.

A waiter appeared to remove their plates and a few moments later, dessert appeared—a towering
croquembouche
. The earl spoke again, and Martha reluctantly turned away from the spectacular delicacy.

“What was the name of the family for whom you served as ladies’ maid, Mrs. Finch?”

“Murchison, my lord. They were very kind to me, and I was sorry to leave them. But,” she continued, making a sudden decision, “if I may ask, why are you interested in my former employers? Do you think I am lying about my association with them? What reason would I have for doing so? After all, I am not relying on how I lived the last twenty years to convince you of my identity as Felicity Marshall. It is not what I did that should concern you, my lord, it is who I am.”

Martha held her breath for a moment. She hoped she had not made a critical error in taking such a bold stance. She had known only that were she to continue quailing defensively under his questions, the earl would soon simply roll her up and throw her away. She watched intently as what seemed to her a spark of amusement flared in his dark gaze.

“Yes,” he responded softly, “but since there is so little actual evidence of who you are, it is necessary for me to delve as far as possible into what you are. You might be Felicity Marshall. Or you might not. I think you must agree I would be a fool were I to take everything you tell me at face value.”

And you are certainly no fool, my lord, thought Martha rancorously.

“Thus, in determining the veracity of your claim, I must ascertain your general truthfulness. If I find you are lying about your employment with the Murchisons, for example, it will be difficult to accept your touching story of being found on the beach wearing the silver locket.”

Martha forced a smile to her lips, grateful once again that she had not been forced to lie—about the Murchisons, at any rate. “Of course, my lord. In fact, I take leave to tell you I very much appreciate your candor. I prefer to keep matters strictly aboveboard and open. That way, each of us will know without a doubt where the other stands. I can understand your skepticism, and will do everything I can to assist you in your search for the truth. For that is my goal, as well.”

“Very well put, Mrs. Finch. In view of your admirable sentiments, I’m sure we shall deal well together.”

When hell freezes over, added Branford to himself.

When pigs sprout wings, thought Martha privately.

“By the by, Mrs. Finch, I cannot help but notice that although you say you were raised in Yorkshire, you speak with no trace of the dialect of that region. How—?”

“Why, thank you, my lord. I have worked very hard to speak in more genteel accents. I must give Mrs. Murchison credit for my transformation. She was gently bred, and when I became maid to her daughter, she was kind enough to teach me to speak like a lady. She gave me lessons on the pianoforte, as well, and Mr. Murchison opened his library to me.”

“Mmp. How extraordinarily condescending of the Murchisons.”

“Yes,” Martha said simply. “They were very nice people.”

She could not keep the weariness from her voice as she continued. “My lord, I know you look on me as a thieving adventuress, but I have told you nothing that is not the truth. The locket I showed you has been in my possession since I was cast up on the beach at Tenaby eighteen years ago.”

“A rather slim testimonial, I think you will agree.” He threw up his hands. “However, I suppose it will accomplish your purpose.”

Martha gaped at him. Had she heard aright? Was Lord Branford admitting defeat? She struggled to regain her poise. Did this mean she would now achieve her goal? She felt no joy—only a curious emptiness. At least, for the moment. She supposed that once the shock wore off ... She had not realized how important it was to her that she find the love and acceptance of a real family. How she had yearned for the warmth and security she would find there—of people who would love and cherish her. She glanced once more at the earl. Dear God, he looked as though he were waiting for someone to hand him a fiery sword with which to banish her from London—or at least from the environment of the Marquess of Canby. Seated opposite her, she was intensely aware of the aura of controlled power that emanated from him like lightning shooting through a bank of storm clouds. And yet, she realized with some surprise, she was not intimidated. Instead, she felt oddly comfortable, as though she’d sparred with him in the past to their mutual enjoyment.

“You have estimated to a nicety the effect the locket will have on Canby. I am impressed by the excellence of your mind.”

Martha laughed shortly. The fleeting sense of rapport vanished. The arrogance of the man! Did he think her a sniveling hinney who would wither under his contempt? “I suppose I must thank you for the compliment, my lord.”

“No, you must not, for I did not intend it as such. To my mind, your intelligence makes your actions all the more heinous. You must realize the effect of your inevitable exposure on an old man who has lived for many years on the hope that the last remaining member of his immediate family would be returned to him from the dead. What you are doing will destroy him, Mrs. Finch, and he does not deserve that. Canby is a good man.”

Martha almost recoiled under the violence of his words. His voice had phased from his usual smooth arrogance to a harsh growl.

“But I am wasting my breath, am I not,” he concluded, “on the likes of you.”

Martha knew a moment of self-loathing. She had tried to convince herself that what she was doing would hurt no one. Lord Canby wanted a granddaughter, and she was prepared to fill the bill. The old man would never know of her deception. However, she was possessed of a sudden, wholly unwelcome desire that the earl might think better of her. The scorn in his dark gaze pierced the wall she had so carefully built around her conscience.

“My lord,” she said, forming the words with difficulty, “I promise you, I will cause the Marquess of Canby no pain. I will be the child of his heart and the joy of his final years.”

The earl appeared to remain unmoved. Instead, he spoke in a minatory tone. “Do consider, dear lady. As I told you, I have set investigations in motion, and the people I hired are most thorough in their methods. I have not the slightest doubt there are one or more loose threads in your, er, interesting past that you have overlooked. Believe me, I shall discover them. And when I do, your charade will be at an end, and you will spend a very long time in a very unpleasant prison cell.”

Martha clenched her fingers in her lap, but she replied smoothly. “You may investigate until your eyes bubble, my lord. You will turn up nothing beyond what I have told you.”

The earl made no response for several moments, merely gazing at her as though he contemplated a particularly repellent bug in his salad. At last, he spoke calmly.

“Very well, Mrs. Finch. I shall only say that I believe you will regret this night’s work. And now, if you are finished, I believe we must be on our way.”

6

Shortly after the carriage pulled away from the Grand Hotel, it passed Hyde Park, where preparations for a fireworks display were under way. It was growing dark by the time Martha and the earl made their way into what was for Martha the terra incognita of Mayfair, and flambeaux had been lit in the doorways of the elegant town houses. To Martha, they created a veritable fairyland.

Even if they turn me out into the street after tonight, Martha thought fiercely, her hands clenched in her lap, I’ll have this moment to remember. Me, Martha Sounder, riding in a fine coach with a fine gentleman, on my way to visit with a marquess in a bloody magnificent house in Grosvenor Square.

She almost breathed the name aloud. She had never expected in all her life—at least, until a few months ago—that she might become a part of this exalted world.

Might. She addressed herself firmly. That was the operative word here, and she’d better not forget it. If the marquess could not be ensnared tonight, her cause was lost. On the other hand, if she could win him over, the Earl of Branford could frown and growl until his eyes bubbled, to no avail.

She shot a sidelong glance at the earl. The light from the flambeaux, slanting across the harsh planes of his face, lent them a sinister expression, but it could be seen under closer scrutiny that he wore his now-familiar air of boredom. He had apparently sunk into a fit of abstraction, for during the short journey, he spoke not a word.

At last, the carriage swung into the square, a vast empty expanse bordered by an imposing array of elegant homes. At one of these, the carriage halted, and almost before the vehicle drew to a full stop, the front door was flung open to disgorge a liveried footman who scurried to let down the carriage steps and to assist the passengers in disembarking. Another personage, standing in the open doorway, bowed as Lord Branford alit from the carriage.

“My lord,” he murmured in response to the earl’s casual greeting, adding a respectful “madam,” to Martha before admitting them to the house.

Martha gazed about her as they entered a vast entrance hall. A glittering chandelier hung over a floor of marble marquetry that surged like a lake around her feet. It spread to lap at various doors leading into barely visible chambers before washing up against a staircase that curved gracefully upward.

“His lordship is expecting you, my lord,” the butler, Hobbs, informed Lord Branford, who nodded. “He is waiting in his study.”

Lord Branford turned, his face impassive. “Are you ready, Mrs. Finch?”

For an instant, Martha was seized by a desire to turn and flee from the house into the darkness outside. She pictured in horrifying detail what might ensue were she to pursue her present course. The marquess would instantly see into her soul. He would point an accusing finger and his stentorian “Out of my house this instant!” would be emblazoned in the air. The words would flay her and follow her into the night stinging like a thousand vengeful insects.

She stood for a moment, perfectly still. She breathed deeply and told herself not to be absurd. She had come too far and her hope of success was too great to be overwhelmed by her vaporish fears.

“Yes, of course, my lord,” she replied calmly.

Hobbs escorted the little group upstairs. As they moved through the house, Bran glanced at Martha Finch. With his curious attunement to her mood, he could almost feel the tension that radiated from her. What was going through her mind? A careful last-minute rehearsal of her story? Was she exulting in the soon-to-be fulfillment of her schemes? Or—again he shifted uncomfortably—an eager anticipation to greet the family she had never known?

Martha darted a glance into the earl’s saturnine face before lowering her gaze in a pretty assumption of modesty. Somehow, though he had made it perfectly plain that he did not believe a word of the tale she had spun for him, she was grateful that he walked beside her into the lion’s den. She knew she must be mistaken, but she felt almost as though he provided a degree of support for her.

Hobbs stopped at one of the doors, which was immediately flung open. A tall gentleman stood in the aperture.

“Bran!” he exclaimed. “At last!” He flung the door wide. “Well, do not just stand there. Come in. Come in!”

The man glanced sharply at Martha as Branford ushered her into the room and she returned his gaze with equal interest. He carried his height well despite his years, with a slim elegance that bespoke his status and wealth. A mane of silver hair swept back from a broad forehead and aquiline features. He did not look the sort of man to be easily gulled, but according to Seth Pinfold, he was inclined to reach out to anyone claiming to be Felicity Marshall.

“Lord Canby.” The earl’s voice cut crispy into her reflections. “Allow me to present Mrs. Martha Finch.”

Lord Canby took her hand in his. He stared searchingly at her, as though willing himself to see a remnant of the six-year-old face he had so loved. It seemed to Martha as though his piercing gaze could see into her very heart and she trembled at the thought of the lie that hid there, waiting to slither out into the open like an obscene reptile, destroying all that it touched.

Abruptly, he folded her into a warm embrace. “Welcome, my dear child.” He nodded an abstracted greeting to Branford and gestured him to a chair. He guided Martha to a settee near the window and sat beside her.

For a long moment, he said nothing, and the room’s silence roared in her ears. She struggled to remain still and unmoved by his unrelenting surveillance, making herself return his gaze with a degree of composure.

Watching her from his chair at the far end of the room, Bran was forced to admit that so far she was carrying her charade off to perfection. If she really were Felicity Marshall, her behavior would have been no different.

Look at her now, bending that serene, enigmatic smile on the old man as he questioned her. From the eagerness of his expression, he was already halfway to believing every lie she spooned into him. Yes, from the way she was managing her strategy so far, the attractive widow was going to prove harder than her predecessors to dislodge from the marquess’s willing, nay eager, suspension of disbelief.

Martha Finch, he reflected, had proved unexpected from the moment he had met her. What was it that was so appealing about the widow? To be sure, she could not be considered an Accredited Beauty. She was too thin, but she carried her angular body with flair and grace. Her features were delicate, but purposeful, and her eyes . . . Ah, her eyes. A man could lose himself in their velvet depths.