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Henry heard it again, the betraying tremble in her voice. She
was trying so hard to conceal her fear but her body betrayed her. He came over
to her. He put both hands on her shoulders, gently this time. He could feel her
shaking; she was racked with tiny shivers. She would not meet his eyes.

“It will be all right,” he said. He stroked her shoulders,
feeling the slenderness of her beneath his hands. She was so taut it felt as
though she might snap. He had no idea how to console her, how to help her. He
wanted to pull her close and comfort her and the realization shocked him. He was
no good at intimacy. He had no use for it.

“What is he like?” she asked. “My grandfather?” She raised her
gaze to Henry’s at last and he saw all the apprehension and bewilderment in her
eyes. It was the look of someone whose life had been turned inside out in the
space of a few short moments.

It would not help to tell her that her grandfather was a
terrifying autocrat who, once he had set his mind to something, would not be
gainsaid.

“He is a lonely old man,” Henry said, “and he will be
extraordinarily happy to know you.”

It was the right thing to say. The spontaneous smile that he
remembered from the previous night broke across Margery’s face and Henry was
taken aback to feel another stab of tenderness for her, this one more piercing,
more compulsive than the last. He almost drew her into his arms but she stepped
back, deliberately putting space between them.

Her trust in him was gone. Henry told himself that it was
better that way.

All he had to do now was take her to Templemore. And then he
would be gone from her life.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Nine of Pentacles: Comfort and prosperity

I
T
WAS
THREE
HOURS
before they were ready to
depart, by which time Margery was pleased to observe that Henry was in a very
bad mood indeed. It was not that she had been deliberately slow, more that there
suddenly seemed to be so much to do.

First, Margery wrote to all her brothers to tell them what had
happened and to ask them to visit her at Templemore. She suspected that Jem
would be the only one to come. Billy never left London and Jed would be unable
to read her news since he had never learned his letters.

She had also sent a hastily scrawled note to Lady Grant’s
cousin by marriage, Francesca Alton. Lady Alton was a widow whose husband had
died the previous year when he was run over by a carriage while reeling blind
drunk across the road. Everyone had agreed that Fitzwilliam Alton’s death was no
loss, but his family had cut Chessie out completely, consigning her to live off
the generosity of her relatives. Joanna Grant had pointed out that Chessie would
make Margery the most perfect companion. She was young, pretty and fun and she
knew how to go on in society. Margery had agreed. She liked Chessie Alton and
she desperately needed a friend.

Then there had been the packing.

“You need not take any portmanteaux,” Henry said. He was
striding impatiently back and forth across the checkered marble floor of the
entrance hall while he waited for her. “I am sure Lord Grant will be kind enough
to send on your belongings. and once we reach Templemore you may purchase
anything else you need.”

“That sounds frightfully extravagant,” Margery said. “I do not
know the sort of ladies you are familiar with, Lord Wardeaux, but my packing
will take all of ten minutes and fill no more than one small box.”

Lady Grant had other ideas, however. “You are Lady Marguerite
now,” she said firmly. “Come with me.”

Margery followed her former employer up the stairs to her
bedchamber. There was no question this time about her using the servants’ stair.
Those days, she realized with a pang, were gone forever. Already her former
colleagues were treating her differently.

Not everyone was pleased for her. In fact, it felt as though no
one was pleased for her. Lady Grant’s matching handsome footmen were positively
seething with annoyance that someone so plain could turn out to be an heiress.
Jessie, the third housemaid, was so overcome with jealousy that she had
hysterics and Mrs. Biddle had to slap her.

“I am afraid we are all at sixes and sevens with your news,”
Lady Grant said, as she ushered Margery into her dressing room and shut the door
on Jessie’s loud sobs.

“Dearest Margery.” She clasped Margery’s hands tightly. “I am
so very happy for you, but where shall I find another maid? It really is most
unfortunate.”

“Lady Durward’s personal maid is looking to move, ma’am,”
Margery said. “She is extremely accomplished and has studied hairdressing in
Paris.”

“Has she?” Lady Grant brightened. “Then I will most certainly
try to tempt her to come here. Thank you!” She released Margery’s hands and
hurried over to the chest of drawers by the window. “Now, my love, you need
underwear and gowns and accessories and a hundred other things that a lady
requires.”

She threw open the drawers, swiftly disordering all the tidy
piles that Margery had stacked the previous night. “You are very welcome to some
of mine—”

“Ma’am,” Margery said, placing a soothing hand on Lady Grant’s
arm. “You are five inches taller than I am.”

“And five inches wider, as well.” Lady Grant sighed. “You are
right, Margery. It will not serve.” She sat down heavily on the embroidered
stool before the gilt peer glass.

“My Sunday best will do very well for now,” Margery said. “You
heard Lord Wardeaux, ma’am. I may purchase anything I need.”

“Ten times over, I should think,” Lady Grant said.

“Am I really so rich?” Margery said. She stared at her
reflection in the pier glass. The richest heiress in the country, Henry had
said. A shiver that was part excitement, part apprehension tickled its way down
her spine.

There she was in the mirror, Margery Mallon, pale, small, brown
hair, gray eyes and cheap blue cotton gown, four shillings a yard.

She was the richest heiress in the ton
.

It was almost enough to make her faint with shock, except that
she never had the vapors and she was certainly not going to start now she was a
lady.

She was Lady Marguerite Saint-Pierre, daughter of a French
count and granddaughter and heir to an earl.

No, it was no use. She could repeat the words as much and as
often as she wanted but she still could not quite believe them.

“You have two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand pounds,” Lady Grant
said, “and seven country estates and a London town house.” She frowned. “Or is
it two hundred thousand, and eight houses? I forget.”

Once again Margery felt quite faint. “Oh, my goodness. I cannot
possibly be that rich,” she protested. “And no one needs eight houses. There is
only one of me so why would I require more than one house?”

Henry had known, she thought. Henry had known everything about
her inheritance. She felt misery and anger knot in her stomach again just as
they had when she had confronted him earlier in the drawing room. She should be
glad that he did not want to marry her, because she would only marry for love
and not to a man she could not trust.

She thought about the way Henry had kissed her in the drawing
room. Slowly, unconsciously, her fingers came up to press against her lips. It
was odd that Henry could kiss her with such tenderness and passion so that she
came apart in his arms and yet at the same time she really did not like him at
all. She wondered if that was the effect that kissing had on her rather than the
effect that Henry had on her.

Since she had not kissed anyone else she had no basis for
comparison, but she suspected that when it came to kissing, when it came to
making love, not all men were equally adept. She had a suspicion that it was
something at which Henry excelled. But that was a direction that she was never
going to take again. She would go to Templemore and Henry would go away and she
would not see him again. Hell would freeze before she allowed him even to touch
her again.

Lady Grant had started to collect up a few pots from the
dressing table top. “I am giving you my bluebell scent from Floris of Jermyn
Street,” she said. “Nonsense—” She held up a hand as Margery started to protest.
“A lady needs some elegant perfume. And you need an attractive bonnet, too. My
emerald plumes—”

“I beg you, ma’am, no,” Margery said, thinking how ridiculously
out of place the plumed bonnet would look with her plain gown. “The straw hat
with the pink ribbon, if you insist…”

“I do!” Lady Grant was flying about the room now, placing items
into a disturbingly large portmanteau. “Oh, this is such fun! The pink spencer
and the beaded reticule to match…” There was more rummaging. A waterfall of
gowns tumbled from the chest in multi-colored profusion. Margery automatically
picked them up and started to refold them.

“Margery, you should not!” Lady Grant looked horrified.

“I know,” Margery said. “I am Lady Marguerite now. I assure you
it does not affect my ability to fold clothes, ma’am.” She thought of what
Granny Mallon would have said about idle ladies who needed to be waited upon and
had to stifle a smile.

By the time that Lady Grant had selected what she referred to
as “a few small items” for Margery, the long case clock in the hall was chiming
the hour of eleven.

“Lord Wardeaux is waiting in the library, my lady,” Soames
imparted as they came back down the stair, followed by a footman panting beneath
the weight of the portmanteau. “He asks if there is any likelihood of you being
ready to depart before midnight, ma’am.”

“How odiously sarcastic of him,” said a voice behind them. “A
gentleman can have no idea of the number of matters a lady has to deal with at a
time like this.”

Margery spun around to see Chessie Alton hurrying in at the
door. “I came as quickly as I could,” she said, folding Margery in a warm hug.
“I am so pleased you sent for me, Margery, though I am not sure that I am the
dowagers’ idea of a respectable companion.”

“I need a friend,” Margery said, “someone who knows society’s
rules.”

“Well, I can help you there, Margery,” Chessie agreed, “since I
have broken every one of society’s rules at one time or another.” Her big blue
eyes sparkled with amusement. “As for friends, you will be overwhelmed by them
once word of your inheritance gets out.”

“That’s why I want a real friend,” Margery said.

“I can imagine,” Chessie said. She checked herself. “Actually,
no, I cannot imagine it at all. It must feel like a dream.”

“A nightmare,” Margery said, with feeling. She saw Chessie
frown and tried to explain. “Everyone thinks that I should be happy to be rich
and titled, but I liked being Margery Mallon. Now I don’t know who I am.”

Chessie nodded slowly. “Give it time. When your life changes in
such a dramatic manner you cannot expect it to feel anything other than strange.
And don’t let Henry tell you what to do,” she added, giving Margery’s arm a
squeeze. “He can be dreadfully autocratic.”

“Do you know him?” Margery said.

“We’re distant cousins,” Chessie said. “Everyone is in the ton.
Ah, Henry!” Her eyes lit with mischief as Henry came striding bad-temperedly
from the library. “We were just talking about you. Are you ready to go?” She
arched her brows. “It is very poor of you to keep Lady Marguerite waiting like
this.”

“Francesca.” Henry sounded exasperated. Margery stifled a
giggle. “I was quite delighted to hear you would be accompanying us.”

“I am sure you were,” Chessie said, smiling demurely.

Henry turned to Margery. “I hope that you have had sufficient
time to prepare for the journey,” he said. “You were so long that I thought you
had run off.”

“Not yet,” Margery said sweetly. “Give me time.”

Their eyes locked. The tension rippled between them, fierce and
hot. Henry was the first to break it, turning away.

“We’re leaving in ten minutes,” he said abruptly. “As it is, we
shall be fortunate to reach Templemore before nightfall.”

“Will you ride?” Margery enquired. The prospect of sitting in a
closed carriage with Henry for hour after hour, even with the soothing presence
of Chessie and Mr. Churchward, was not an appealing one. The atmosphere between
them felt scratchy with conflict and underscored by a disturbing thread of
awareness.

“Certainly not,” Henry said. “I am not risking you climbing out
of the carriage and running off when my back is turned.”

“I am surprised you do not handcuff me to your side,” Margery
said shortly.

Something flared in Henry’s eyes. Margery felt suddenly hot.
Then he smiled and she felt even hotter.

“Don’t tempt me,” he said softly, leaning close, speaking for
her ears alone. “You have no idea how much the idea of restraining you appeals
to me.”

Suffering from an uncomfortable combination of irritation and
acute awareness, Margery stalked out to the carriage. Her sore heart was aching
again. She had made a terrible mistake with Henry. Not only had she been led
astray by her attraction to him but she had liked him.

And he had used that against her with cold calculation. Every
time she looked at him, she remembered the way that she had trembled in his arms
with emotion and passion. She wanted to curl in on herself, to shrivel and hide,
except that she had too much pride. So she would travel with him to Templemore,
and she would pretend absolute indifference, because the only thing worse than
being vulnerable to him would be for Henry to know it.

* * *

I
T
WAS
LATE
BY
THE
TIME
they approached
Templemore, and the sun was setting across the hills to the west. Henry was
watching Margery and saw her sit forward as they passed the edge of Templemore
land on the left of the road and the long estate wall started to unroll beside
them.

As mile passed after mile and the wall did not end he saw
Margery’s expression change and her whole body tighten with tension. She had
been told that the estate was huge; she had known it in her mind but now she was
seeing for herself just how vast was her inheritance. Henry saw her clasp her
hands together tightly in her lap. She gave a little shiver. He could feel her
nervousness but he knew better than to mention it. Margery had made it plain
during the long journey that she was only tolerating him out of courtesy to Mr.
Churchward. She had reluctantly accepted his hand in and out of the carriage
during the snatched stops to change the horses and take refreshment. She had
eaten little and conversed less. The rest of the time she had ignored him.

The carriage finally turned through the entrance with its huge
iron gates emblazoned with griffins, and set off up the lime tree drive. A lake
flashed past on the right, illuminated by the last rays of the setting sun.

“That is known as the Little Lake,” Henry said. “There is a
larger one to the west of the house.”

The carriage rattled over a narrow, elegant bridge and veered
to the left, through an archway and onto a gravel sweep at the front of the
house. There was a range of fifteen stone steps up to the wide frontage. Henry
suddenly saw the house through Margery’s eyes, a dark, daunting edifice full of
the unknown. He wondered if the earl had decreed that the entire servants’ hall
should be drawn up to welcome the lost heir home. Margery, he thought, would
absolutely hate that.