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It was as she whizzed past the turn in the stairs that she
realized she had miscalculated. She was going faster and faster, her skirts were
flying up around her knees and the floor was approaching at nerve-racking
speed.

She was just preparing herself for a very hard landing indeed
when she saw Henry crossing the hall below. Immediately her racing heart
performed another giddy somersault, quite different from the one induced by
fear. Henry was still in his shirtsleeves, without his cravat, his pantaloons
splashed, his boots muddy. He must have just come in from the estate rooms and
be on his way to get changed. As she raced down the banister and shot off the
end like a circus artist out of a cannon, she saw him break into a run.

His arms closed hard about her and he staggered backward. For
one long moment she was held close against his chest and she could feel the
warmth of him through the linen of his shirt. He brought with him the scent of
fresh air and sunshine. It was in his tousled hair, and on his skin, and all of
a sudden the hall at Templemore, for all its size, felt airless and stifling,
and Margery did not seem to be able to breathe properly, as though a weight were
pressing on her chest.

“It seems,” Henry said in her ear, “that clothes do not make
the lady after all.” He placed her gently on her feet.

“It takes more than striped muslin to change me,” Margery
said.

“I can see that.” His gaze traveled over her in slow appraisal.
Then he smiled, a mocking smile that lit his dark brown eyes. “The stockings and
the garters are very pretty, though. I had been wondering whether you had
freckles on your thighs and now I know.”

Margery, well aware that her petticoats, stockings and much
more had been on display as she raced down the banister, turned scarlet. Her
skin prickled all over with an odd sort of awareness. It was part embarrassment,
part something far more potent. She smoothed down the offending skirts and
tucked her feet away beneath the hem of her skirt. Henry’s hands were still
resting lightly on her shoulders.

“You need to slow down as you take the turn in the stair,” he
said. “Otherwise you have too much velocity.”

“Velocity?” Margery said faintly.

“Too much speed,” Henry said. “You go too quickly and do not
have enough time to prepare to land. I know from painful experience. I broke my
arm falling from the stair when I was nine years old.”

Now he had surprised her. Margery had never envisaged that the
solemn boy he must have been would ever have slid down the banisters.

“Did we know each other as children?” she asked abruptly. It
had not occurred to her that they might, before now. The idea disturbed her
because she could remember nothing of her early childhood at Templemore.

Henry nodded. “We met a few times.”

“What was I like?” Margery asked on impulse.

“You were a baby,” Henry said. “You had no personality at that
stage.”

“Even babies have personalities,” Margery argued. “It is simply
that you were not interested in me.”

“I was a ten-year-old boy,” Henry said dryly. “What do you
expect?”

“Do you remember my mother?” Margery asked. “What was she
like?”

She felt Henry stiffen beside her. It was only for a second,
the very slightest of hesitations, and she felt it rather than saw it because,
as always, his expression was quite impassive.

“Lady Rose was very beautiful,” he said.

As an answer it was unsatisfactory, telling Margery only what
she had already seen in the portraits and nothing of the woman she wanted to
know. Something in Henry’s face forbade her to question further, though, and she
had the strangest feeling that he had held something back, not to hurt her but
quite the reverse. She was already starting to suspect that she knew what it
was. Her mother, she was certain, had not been a very nice person. She had been
haughty and proud and spoiled. And no one wanted to tell her because they did
not want to upset her.

Henry sketched a bow to her and set off up the staircase and
Margery turned back toward Lord Templemore’s private parlor. As she reached the
door, she stopped and looked around. Henry was standing on the first landing,
his hand resting on the banister and for one mad moment Margery thought he was
going to emulate her and slide down to the bottom.

But that would be ridiculous. Henry had too much self-control,
too much containment, ever to do so inappropriate a thing. Nevertheless she
waited, almost holding her breath. She saw him shake his head slightly, and then
he turned and disappeared from her view.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Devil: Lust

“H
OW
DELIGHTFUL
THAT
YOU
are able to spare me the time
to meet for tea, Marguerite,” Lady Emily said, with her vague, sweet smile,
beckoning Margery into her private sitting room and gesturing her to take the
seat nearest the fire. The room was blisteringly hot. Sunlight falling through
the mullioned panes fought with the heat from the grate. Margery could already
feel the uncomfortable prickle of sweat on her forehead and she surreptitiously
tried to push the old velvet wing chair a foot away from the fire. It refused to
move.

Lady Emily seemed oblivious to the stuffy, airless atmosphere
of the room. She wafted across to the little side table and poured tea into tiny
china cups. A scent of jasmine arose. Lady Emily’s bracelets clinked against the
china and rattled against each other as she handed the cup to Margery.

“It’s a pleasure to have some time with you, Aunt Emily,”
Margery said. She knew she sounded stiff and formal. There was something about
Lady Emily that discomfited her and she could not explain why. She also felt
guilty. It was all too easy to ignore Lady Emily, who fluttered around
ineffectually in Lady Wardeaux’s shadow, as insubstantial as her floating
draperies. Margery had been at Templemore a week now and knew her aunt as little
as when she had arrived.

“This is a charming room,” Margery said, clutching desperately
for a topic of conversation as Lady Emily settled opposite her and smiled
benignly across the rim of her teacup. “You have a lovely view across the deer
park.”

“Oh, I am very lucky,” Lady Emily said lightly. “Very, very
lucky. I have lived at Templemore all my life, you know.” She offered Margery a
plate of little ginger biscuits. “Yes, indeed.” Her eyes, gray as Lord
Templemore’s and Margery’s own, were pale and inward-looking. “My mama came here
as the housekeeper. Your great-grandfather took her as his mistress while his
wife was still alive. He was in his seventies then, and my mama no more than
five-and-twenty. It was quite a scandal!”

She laughed merrily, as though the sexual exploits of her
parents were greatly entertaining. “Old Lady Templemore had been refusing papa
her bed for years. She was very devout and would not sleep with him on saint’s
days, and of course every day of the year is dedicated to one saint or
another.”

“I see,” Margery said, feeling vaguely uncomfortable at this
insight into the intimate life of her ancestors.

“Oh, the Templemore men!” Lady Emily smiled indulgently. “Such
rakes. Deplorable. Papa practically had a harem of mistresses. They called the
women his game parlor. Casper, my brother, was the same. He married late and
then he was unfaithful to your dear grandmama before the ink was dry on the
wedding lines. Of course, he only married her for her money. Why do you think he
never speaks of her?”

“Guilt, I imagine,” Margery said dryly. She loved her
grandfather but as she learned more about him she could not ignore his faults.
She wondered how much the influence of a libidinous father had set him on the
same track.

“Casper has always been a most generous brother to me,” Lady
Emily continued. “So much older, of course. Thirty years! I’ve always been the
indulged little sister.”

She started idly turning over the pile of tarot cards at her
elbow. Margery’s eyes were drawn to the vivid pictures and garish colors, the
Hanged Man, smiling as he was strung upside down from a scaffold. The Devil
horned and chained. Death the skeleton, riding a black horse, carrying his
bloodred scythe.... Margery shuddered at the images of suppressed violence.

Lady Emily smiled. “Drink your tea, my dear,” she said.

The tea tasted vile. Margery took one sip then quickly tipped
the rest into a potted plant when Lady Emily was not looking.

“You must have been quite young when my mother was born, Aunt
Emily,” she said. “Were you not closer to her in age than you were to
grandpapa?”

She saw Lady Emily’s fingers check as she shuffled the pack of
cards.

“I was twenty-three when dearest Rose was born,” Lady Emily
said after a moment. She smiled, wide and vague. “Such a beautiful child! She
was almost like a sister to me. More tea, Marguerite?”

“Oh, no, thank you,” Margery said hurriedly.

Lady Emily poured herself another cup. “Of course, dear Rose…”
She paused and shook her head, while Margery wondered what on earth she was
about to say. “Such a tragedy,” Lady Emily murmured. “So sad. First marrying
that dreadful man and then…” She shuddered.

“You knew my father, then,” Margery said. She thought she
should probably leave well enough alone, since she had not met a single person
with a good word to say about Comte Antoine de Saint-Pierre, but she could not
help herself. The man was an enigma to her. She knew nothing of her father and
it felt strange and lonely.

Lady Emily did not answer at once. She blinked, raising her
hand to rub her eyes. One of the tarot cards fluttered down onto the rug.

“The sun,” Lady Emily said vaguely. “It is very bright today.”
She looked up at Margery. “Your father? He was very handsome, my love. Poor dear
Rose was so taken in by him. She was not the only one.”

Margery remembered Henry referring to her father’s roistering
about Town, his drinking, his mistresses, his gambling. It was extremely
lowering to think that she was descended from a haughty society beauty and a
rakish spy. Between them, they appeared to have had few good qualities to endow
her with.

“I don’t suppose he was a very nice person,” she said, a little
wistfully.

“No,” Lady Emily agreed with surprising firmness. “He was not.
Vain, I fear. He and Rose were always competing for the mirror. And really quite
cruel…” She was turning one of the tarot cards over and over between her
fingers. “Best not to ask, my love,” she said. Suddenly her eyes were very
bright. “Best to let the past lie.”

“I don’t really remember it anyway,” Margery said. “I think I
was too young.”

“Good,” Lady Emily said, smiling. “That’s very good.” She
frowned. “Are you happy at Templemore, Marguerite? I fear there are shades here,
the ghosts of the past. They walk. It is not a happy house.”

“It is certainly dark and gloomy,” Margery agreed. “But I have
not experienced any ghosts. I have no sensibility. No ghost would appear to me.
I am far too practical.” Suddenly she was desperate to be away from Lady Emily
and her ceaseless turning of the tarot cards. The heat in the room was getting
unbearable. Margery stood up and her head swam.

“Excuse me, Aunt Emily,” she said. “I need some fresh air.”

“Of course, Marguerite, my love,” Lady Emily said vaguely. She
waved a hand. Her bracelets clashed. “It was so charming of you to join me for
tea.” She raised her gaze to Margery’s face. “I do hope that I have been able to
tell you something of your parents.”

“Yes, thank you,” Margery said. Her hand slipped on the
doorknob. Her palm was damp. She looked at Lady Emily sitting in a shaft of
bright sunlight that pitilessly illuminated the faded gray of her hair and the
tiredness of her face, and wondered why she was thanking her aunt for making her
feel more miserable and lonely than she had been before.

* * *

“I
HAVE
BEEN
GIVING
some thought to the Templemore jewels,” the
earl announced at dinner that night. They were eating informally by Templemore
standards,
en famille,
as Lady Wardeaux put it,
which meant that the extra leaves on the long mahogany dinner table were not
being used and they sat only four feet apart from one another, rather than six.
It made conversation slightly easier, although a chilly silence was apparently
the normal environment around the Templemore dinner table.

Margery, who had been trying to disguise her disgust with the
turtle soup—there was no way that it could surreptitiously be fed to the
dogs—saw everyone fall silent. Lady Emily’s pale gray eyes opened wide and her
soupspoon was suspended on its way to her mouth. A quick frown touched Lady
Wardeaux’s brow. Mr. Churchward broke off in the middle of whatever he had been
saying to Chessie. Only Henry seemed unperturbed.

“Margery shall try them on after dinner,” the earl said. “Fine
jewels are better admired by candlelight.” He smiled at Margery. “They
glow.”

“I doubt the Templemore jewels will glow in any light,” Henry
said. “They have been in the vaults so long they will surely need cleaning.”

“Churchward may take them back to London with him,” Lord
Templemore said, with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Then they may be cleaned
for Margery’s come-out and the Templemore diamonds reset.”

“Come-out?” Margery said faintly. It had not once occurred to
her that she might have to return to London and have one of those grand and
thoroughly intimidating balls that were the fate of every young lady in society.
She had thought that a local assembly would be the extent of her social ordeal.
“Surely I am too old,” she said. “I have already been out, to all intents and
purposes, for twelve years.”

She saw Henry smile. “Not as Lady Marguerite Saint-Pierre,” he
said. “You must be introduced formally to ton society.”

Margery’s stomach lurched at the thought of being the center of
attention at a ton ball. There would be nowhere to hide and so many people
watching her and talking about her. Henry’s dark gaze was resting on her
thoughtfully, and she was almost certain that he was remembering those foolish
thoughts she had confided to him in London about how she preferred for no one to
notice her.

Well, there was no chance of that in future. She might as well
wear a large placard with her name on it. Suddenly sick with nerves she pushed
away her soup plate and a footman swooped down to tidy it away.

“We will travel up in a month or so,” the earl said, “before
the end of the Season.”

“I am so very glad that you feel well enough to make the trip
to Town, Casper,” Lady Emily trilled. “The cards told me we should be making a
journey. I drew the Chariot in my reading today.”

Silence fell again, since no one seemed able to find an
adequate response to this. The plates were cleared and the roast beef served.
Lord Templemore instructed his butler, Barnard, to fetch the jewels from the
strong room and lay them out in the Red Saloon.

“The Templemore jewels are exquisite,” Lady Wardeaux said to
Margery. “You are most fortunate.” Her tone implied that Margery scarcely
deserved such good luck. “Of course, your grandfather is quite right to have the
diamonds reset. You are far too small to carry them off.”

“I am grateful,” Margery said. “I am sure the mere weight of
them would have squashed me flat.”

“One requires stature to wear the Templemore diamonds,” Lady
Wardeaux said. “One needs Town bronze. They would have suited a beauty like Lady
Antonia Gristwood perfectly. Such a pity she will never wear them—”

“Mama!” Henry’s voice cut like a whip and Lady Wardeaux fell
silent.

Margery looked up.

“Who is Lady Antonia Gristwood?” she asked.

There was an odd silence around the table.

“Lady Antonia is the daughter of the Duke of Carlisle,” Lady
Emily said brightly. “She was going to marry Henry before she jilted him because
he lost Templemore.”

“The woman in the stripy gown,” Margery murmured, remembering
Joanna Grant’s ball and the supercilious beauty who had so arrogantly demanded
to be waited upon. The woman had been proud to a fault.

“Emily!” Now it was Lady Wardeaux’s turn to snap a rebuke, but
Margery could see a furtive spark of triumph in her eyes. She knew Lady Wardeaux
had wanted her to hear about Lady Antonia, who would have carried off the
Templemore diamonds with so much more style than she could ever hope to achieve.
She felt upset, which was no doubt precisely what Lady Wardeaux had wanted. More
disturbingly, she felt jealous of the woman Henry had apparently been going to
marry. It had never occurred to her that he might have been betrothed. Nor that
he might have lost his fiancée when he had lost his inheritance.

She looked at Henry. He was staring at his mother and he looked
angry.

“I am very sorry,” she said, addressing him directly. “Sorry
that Lady Antonia jilted you, I mean.”

Now everyone was looking at her as though she had committed
some unspeakable act at the dining table. She knew she was supposed to have
ignored Lady Emily’s comment and soldiered on chewing the tough roast beef,
because that was what a lady would do. A lady would pretend to be selectively
deaf.

Henry shrugged. “It was bound to happen,” he said. “Carlisle
would not have let his daughter throw herself away on a mere baron.”

There was absolutely no emotion in his voice. Margery stared,
wondering if he could truly be so unmoved.

“But did you love her?” she asked.

This time there was a distinct gasp of shock around the table,
as though she had taken off her gown and danced naked amid the crockery. Lady
Wardeaux had her eyes closed in horror. Lady Emily’s mouth hung open. Even the
footmen’s wooden impassivity was threatened. The earl was smiling slightly as he
fed some beef to one of the spaniels.

Henry’s eyebrows shot up. “My dear Lady Marguerite,” he
drawled. “Marriage has nothing to do with love. It is a business agreement based
on mutual benefit.” His tone made Margery feel as naive as the little
maidservant she had once been, reading penny romances in the attic. “I assure
you my heart is not broken and neither is Lady Antonia’s, assuming she has a
heart, which I beg leave to doubt.”

“Well, then,” Margery said, “it is a great pity the wedding did
not come off because it sounds as though you would have been ideally
suited.”