Anne Barbour (5 page)

But that man would not, of course, be he. Despite his family’s efforts, he had assiduously avoided parson’s mousetrap. He had no aversion to the institution, but, as he had told his importunate relatives on many occasions, he had simply been unable to find the right mate. Not that he lived like a hermit. He had enjoyed the favors of many women, from bored ladies of the ton to a wide assortment of delectable ladybirds. He was, fortunately, immune to the charms of Mrs. Finch’s sort of female. Well, perhaps not immune, but he knew when a spot of dalliance might be in order and when it was devoutly to be avoided. Not that Mrs. Finch had so far given any indication that she viewed him as more than a bothersome impediment to the scheme she was putting so neatly into play.

She had not fooled him, of course, with her wide chocolate gaze, or her melting declaration that she wished only to discover her true heritage. He forced his attention to the continuing conversation.

“Yes, my lord,” she was saying, “I have visited London before, but infrequently—on buying trips with Matthew, so I am looking forward to seeing some of the sights while I am here.”

Could it be, he wondered, that Martha Finch was telling the whole truth? That she really did believe she might be Felicity? Good God, he continued, his thoughts unwillingly plunging forward. What if she really was Felicity Marshall? He sat, stunned at this possibility, which he had not so much as considered until this moment. And why should he? It was inconceivable that if Canby’s granddaughter had somehow survived the accident that killed her parents, she would not have come forward before now. At six, she had known her own name and where she lived. She could have told—but, of course, Martha claimed to have lost all memory of her life before the shipwreck. The truth or a well-conceived ploy?

Bran shook himself. Of course, it was a ploy. The memory loss was just too coincidental, as was her story of her rise in the Murchison household due to the death of a ladies’ maid.

He sat back to watch, with an unwilling appreciation, her next move.

“And were they kind to you—these fisherfolk?” asked Lord Canby.

The old man still held Martha’s hand in a painful grip, but it was not this that caused a cold thread of discomfort to snake through her. It was the man himself who made her uneasy, so pitifully eager was he to hear about every facet of her life since she’d been found on the beach at Tenaby.

She had known from the start that she was perpetrating a fraud. However, she had rationalized her actions until she almost believed that if she was not precisely justified in her actions, she was acting sensibly. She knew that Lady Felicity Marshall was dead. But Martha was as certain as she was of sun and wind and rain that the child she had known only as Mary would not begrudge Martha her chance at security, at a life of ease and comfort such as she had never known. And, most importantly, the family she had always longed for.

Mary, all my life I called you “little sister.” I was mistaken, but I was not wrong about the bond between us. Was I? Mary, be with me in this.

The marquess pulled the silver locket from his pocket and opened it. He gazed at the small, painted faces.

“You do not recall ever seeing this lady and gentleman?” he asked gently.

“No,” whispered Martha, swallowing the pain in her throat.

The marquess sighed. “They are Felicity’s mother and father—my son and his wife.”

“Yes, so I have been told.”

The marquess was visibly disappointed.

“I am so very sorry, my lord,” Martha said. “I believe you were told that I have no memory of that time. I can only tell you about how I have lived since.”

The old gentleman sighed. Rising, he carefully placed the locket about Martha’s neck before returning to his chair. “I know, my child. I was hoping that you might carry some memory of the time when you were my darling girl.” His gaze was bright with longing.

From his corner, Lord Branford spoke. “Sir, I think Mrs. Finch has taken up enough of your time this evening. Perhaps, when our investigation is further along, she can return, but until—

The marquess sighed. “I suppose you are right, Bran.” He pulled an ornate watch from his pocket. “It is getting rather late.”

He turned to Martha and said slowly, “I still believe you may very well be Felicity, my dear, but Bran is right. We must have more facts. In the meantime, I would see more of you. I hope you will come to see me again soon—perhaps for dinner.”

Martha swallowed to contain the disappointment that rose in her throat. “Yes, of course, my lord. Perhaps—oh!”

She stared at the marquess’s pocket watch, glittering in the candlelight. The marquess, following her gaze, asked eagerly, “Do you recognize this?”

A wave of dizziness swept over her. “No—but your fob! I’ve seen it before—but smaller. It is etched with the portrait of a lady, is it not? Wearing an odd hat.”

“This is astonishing!” exclaimed the marquess. He handed Martha the watch so that she could examine the fob suspended from the golden chain. “Not a lady—precisely—but the goddess Athena in her helmet. I used to let Felicity play with the watch, and she was so much taken by the fob that I had one made for her in miniature. She wore it constantly.”

“Yes!” The room seemed to reel about Martha. Once again, the image of the small, pale face flashed before her. A tiny girl, dressed in expensive clothing— and— Mary! What am I to do? I cannot tell them—

“I had forgotten,” she continued brokenly, “but—it was pinned to the shawl in which I was wrapped—I suppose it must have been lost some time shortly after my rescue, for I do not remember seeing it later.”

Lord Canby turned to Lord Branford, his face wreathed in a smile that seemed to light the room. “Bran! Do you know what this means?”

Bran, gazing down at Martha, felt as though the world had exploded beneath his feet. My God! Was it possible? This woman, whom he had castigated as an impostor, was, in truth, Felicity Marshall? His first instinct had been to refute Martha’s claimed recognition of the watch fob. A moment later, he realized with stunning force that even the cleverest of frauds could not have known about the little keepsake, or recognized it just now.

Bran lifted a hand to Martha.

“Felicity,” he choked.

7

For some moments, Martha could do nothing but stare into Branford’s face as a black vortex of confusion formed in her mind. She had spoken inadvertently, and for an instant, wondered at the wisdom of this unplanned utterance. But the recognition of the fob had struck her like a thunderclap and she had blurted out the memory without thinking. What did it all mean? It was simply more proof, she supposed, that Mary, the child whose past she had usurped, was, in reality, Felicity Marshall, for the embroidered shawl and the attached fob had enfolded Mary, not her.

She was brought up short in her wild speculation by a single word, uttered by Branford.

“Felicity!”

She stared up at him in profound shock. He believed her! Whatever upheaval the sudden memory of the little fob had caused in her, she had at least accomplished this. She had won! She had completed her deception—not just of the marquess, but of the Earl of Branford. The realization produced a repetition of that curious emptiness she had experienced before. She wrenched her gaze from Branford. For God’s sake, this was her moment of triumph. She must pull herself together.

She turned her face to Lord Canby and allowed her lashes to flutter over her cheeks. “Please, my lord,” she whispered. “I—I don’t know what to say. I did not expect to remember— Oh, this has all been too much! May I please be excused? May I please return to the hotel?”

“Of course, my dearest child. But you must not call me ‘my lord.’ I am your grandpapa. And you are my dearest Felicity.” The marquess was almost sobbing. “You are returned to me after all these years. Of course, you may retire, but not to the hotel. You must stay here now. This is your home, and—

“No!” The word was out before she could recall it. No, she must not stay here. Without examining her reasons, she knew only that she must leave Canby House. She must retreat to the neutral haven of the Grand Hotel, at least for tonight. Tomorrow, perhaps, she would be ready to make a triumphal entry into the home of Felicity Marshall.

To her surprise, Branford spoke just then, his voice cutting coolly into her heated reflections.

“No,” he echoed, “it is not surprising that Felicity needs some time to herself at this moment.”

“What nonsense,” began the marquess. “This young woman is, without a doubt, my granddaughter. I wish to—

“Please, my—Grandpapa,” said Martha, her voice now clear and composed. “Lord Branford is right. I cannot tell you how it warms my heart to know that you believe in me and that you want me here in your home. But, he is right. I need some time to reflect. There will be plenty of time to begin our new life together.”

The marquess made an impatient sound, but, after a long moment, stepped back.

“Very well, Felicity, but you will return tomorrow. First thing. For there is much I would discuss with you. Of course you will want to do some shopping with Mrs. Coppersmith. If you are to go out and about in society, we must deck you out accordingly.”

The marquess issued further instructions, almost babbling in his excitement, but at last, he embraced her once more and saw her from the house in Lord Branford’s company.

In the carriage, Martha was intensely aware of the earl’s intense scrutiny.

“It appears you have proved your case, Mrs. Finch. Or—no, I must call you Felicity now, must I not?”

“Because of a single, vague memory?” murmured Martha warily.

“Oh, no. Er, well, yes, but such a memory. Only the real Lady Felicity would recognize that fob.”

Martha glanced up sharply, for his tone held a warmth she had never heard from him. His gaze, too, had lost its glint of speculative assessment, and he now looked at her, it seemed to Martha, with a certain— tenderness? Despite herself, a lovely warmth spread through her.

The streets were still thronged with revelers, and the carriage’s progress was slow, but at last it swung into the hotel drive.

On their entrance to the hotel, Lord Branford steered Martha toward the desk, again occupied by Mr. Simmons. Good heavens, did the man never sleep?

Upon receiving the room key from Mr. Simmons, Lord Branford, to Martha’s surprise, turned toward the stairs. Was he planning to launch another interrogation, despite his averred belief in her story? No, she couldn’t bear it. She desperately needed some peace and quiet in which to mull over this abrupt change in her situation.

“It is very kind of you to have escorted me home, my lord,” she said imperiously, reaching for the key, “but I believe I can find my way back to my chamber on my own.”

The earl did not relinquish the key. Instead, he smiled benevolently—an expression that sat most peculiarly on his stony features.

“But, my dear, it is the duty of a gentleman to escort a lady staying in an establishment such as this to her chamber. He is obliged to open the door for her and inspect the premises for, er, marauders or burglars, or any other evildoers.”

Bending a gaze of extreme skepticism on her escort, Martha shrugged and accepted the arm he offered for the journey upstairs.

Upon entering their chamber, she looked around the sitting room. To her dismay, Mrs. Coppersmith had apparently retired for the night. There was no sign of Peters, and only a single candle had been left lighted. Martha turned to Lord Branford with a nervous smile.

“Well, the room seems relatively marauder-less, does it not?” she said hastily. “I do thank you for accompanying me, my lord.” She had remained close to the open door, and now she offered the earl her hand. “I would offer you some refreshment, but I hope you will excuse me. I find I am quite exhausted from the, er, events of the evening. It looks as though tomorrow will be a busy day.”

The earl did not take the hint. Instead, he moved farther into the room.

“Indeed. Tomorrow morning, I should imagine you will find your grandfather knee-deep in preparations for your presentation to the rest of the family—and to the ton at large.”

Martha fought the sickness that rose in her throat like bile. Dear God, why could she not produce a little exultatance in this situation? She had won! Why did she feel like vomiting?

She sank into the nearest chair, a settee, without taking her eyes from him. “My lord,” she grated, “do you believe I am Felicity Marshall?”

Branford sat next to her, and Martha realized suddenly that she had made a poor choice of seating, for the couch was small and the earl was very large—and he was very close to her. His eyes glittered in the candlelight, but his expression was serious.

“I suppose I owe you an apology, Felicity, for until this evening I was convinced that you were merely the latest in a long string of unscrupulous fortune hunters. I must admit that I found myself wishing to believe you, for you seemed as different from that breed as cheese from chalk. My skepticism was too long ingrained, however. I hope you will forgive me for that. At any rate, tonight you put all doubts to rest, and I am delighted to welcome you home, Felicity.”

Martha drew a long, shuddering breath. She could barely force herself to look at him. “You believe that my recognition of the fob was genuine?”

Bran chuckled. It was a lovely sound, she thought, so at odds with his formidable appearance that she was startled. “It took only a moment to realize that you could not have recognized a keepsake that vanished with Felicity’s disappearance.” His voice fell. “I must tell you, when I recovered from my initial shock, I was inordinately pleased at this revelation.”

“P-pleased?”

“As I have told you, Stewart Marshall was almost a brother to me. Felicity—you—were the sister I never had. You were too young to participate in our activities—not that we would under any circumstances have allowed a mere girl to join in our games—but you have always been a presence—an enchanting presence—in my boyhood memories.”

It seemed to Martha that the air about them had grown dangerously thick, and she was intensely aware of the silence of the room and the candlelight that enclosed them in an intimate pool. Hastily, she rose.