Tender Torment (21 page)

The pacing stopped. Her anger ebbed to be replaced by despair. In total dejection she leaned her head against the window pane,
staring unseeing into the street below. The light went out of the day, and still she remained frozen in her misery.

“My lady,” Lucy peeped her head around the door. “Shall I lay out your dress for Lady Claridge’s ball?”

“I’ve decided not to attend, Lucy.” Exhausted, Marisa slipped onto the chaise longue and rested her head against the pillows.

“But, your ladyship, everyone will be there. It’s to be one of the grandest affairs of the season. ‘Tis the
on dit
in the servants’ hall.”

“Oh, is it?” The countess permitted herself a half smile, slightly amused by her maid’s remarks.

“No disrespect intended, my lady, but it would be corkbrained not to wear that pretty new yella concoction and go out for
some fun.”

Marisa was perturbed by the girl’s unsolicited informality. She was about to reprimand her for the liberty she had just taken
by addressing her in such a casual manner, when the girl added, “I’m sure his lordship wouldn’t expect you to sit ‘ome blue-deviled
because he can’t join you this night.”

Under her lashes the countess surreptitiously studied the girl. What had she heard? Was her husband’s affair
already common knowledge? Would it be duly reported that she was sitting at home brooding over it? No, that would never do!
Shaking off her lethargy, she rose proudly from the chaise longue. “I’ve changed my mind after all, Lucy; you may help me
dress.”

The countess wore a classical high-waisted gown with a low decolletage. The pale yellow skirt of chiffon was slightly flared
at the back, and the long, close-fitting sleeves were transparent. The costume was completed with the Straeford emeralds which
hung from her neck and ears. At the last minute she decided to slip the emerald ring she rarely wore onto her finger.

She was pleased with her appearance, and Fox-worth’s praise as he placed an appliqued shawl about her shoulders added to her
confidence.

The countess was never gayer, flirting and dancing with every gallant who sought her hand, revelling in the attention accorded
her and hoping Straeford would be apprised of her success. Until tonight it never occurred to her that her subdued reception
by the polite world was in part caused by her husband’s formidable presence. That was all changed now as her customary friends
and acquaintances, the sedate matrons and quiet gentlemen, were replaced by the more dashing, reckless members of the ton.
It was heady stuff to be surrounded by so many admirers and flamboyant ladies, and Lady Straeford sparkled for their benefit
cavorting with Foxworth, toying with Relington, and captivating half the men at the ball. No one would accuse her of wearing
the willow for a faithless husband.

It was just before the supper dance that Lady Maxwell finally cornered her and led her away to one of the withdrawing rooms
where she mildly reprimanded her for her unusual behavior.

“What is the matter, child?”

“The matter?” Marisa prevaricated. “Why, nothing is the matter. I am just learning how to behave like any society belle.”

“This is not like you, Marisa. Consider what you are doing before you regret it and make a mistake…”

“Regret… make a mistake?” she retorted almost
hysterically. “That is not putting it half strongly enough, dear lady.”

“Straeford…”

“Straeford is… I do not wish to discuss him! If you will excuse me, I think I am engaged for this dance.”

She took herself off and continued her madcap fling until the early hours of the morning when she returned home.

Lucy slipped the emeralds from about her mistress’s neck, and waited to receive the other heirlooms from the countess to be
placed in the jewelry box. Suddenly Marisa stumbled to her feet, a stricken expression distorting her features.

“What is it, my lady?”

“The ring… it’s gone!”

“Oh, madam, no!” Lucy looked agog as her ladyship held her empty fingers out to her.

“I always meant to have it adjusted only…” she did not finish her thought aloud but it echoed in her mind. Only, I wanted
Justin to make the gesture…

“What are we to do, my lady?”

“I must contact the Claridges… and Richard Fox-worth. If I did not lose the ring at the ball, I may have lost it in the carriage.
Quickly, some note paper.”

It was after six o’clock in the morning when she received word from both parties concerned that neither was able to locate
the jewel. Consequently, in the cold light of dawn, Marisa sat huddled in a chair, clutching at the shawl about her, racking
her brain, trying to decide what to do next. Straeford would have to be told.

Seated on a footstool near her mistress, Lucy noticed that the countess was trembling and attempted to put her to bed, but
Marisa rejected the idea. As exhausted as she was, she knew sleep was impossible unless she had come to terms with the calamity
facing her. Suddenly a solution presented itself to her. She would go see her father and ask his advice. He might be able
to help her.

Although it was barely seven o’clock in the morning, Lucy could not persuade her ladyship to wait a minute longer, and they
were soon on their way to the Loftus residence in Bloomsbury.

Loftus was about to leave for his office in the city when his daughter arrived. Shocked by this unexpected visit, he quickly
ushered her into his private study where Marisa’s calm completely deserted her, and she buried her face in her handkerchief
weeping softly.

“My dear child, whatever is the matter?” He was deeply concerned and expected to be informed of the most dreadful mishap.
This was not at all like his daughter. What could it be to bring her here still attired in her evening clothes?

When she finally regained her composure and explained her misfortune, he was relieved. A lost or stolen emerald ring, even
if it were an heirloom, seemed a small matter to him. Nevertheless, he assured her that if it had been stolen and not lost,
he could probably locate it through certain business associates of his.

“It will take a few days to come up with it. In the meantime you go home and relax. Stop worrying.” Angus frowned, not liking
the unhappy troubled look in his daughter’s eyes. Could one heirloom ring have caused that, or was there something more? Guilt
was not an emotion he was familiar with, but niggling doubts about her happiness kept crossing his mind lately, ever since
he had learned of Straeford’s coming to the city without her. Impulsively, he kissed her cheek. “I’ve missed you, my girl.”

“And I you, Father. Won’t you come to visit soon?”

“You know my views on that, daughter.” He suppressed his natural loving instincts as he was reminded of his goal. “I’m not
a gentleman born, and I don’t intend to interfere once my children are established. I’ll be content to remain in the background.”
He tweaked her chin. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t pay you an occasional visit. You say the earl is out of town? When does
he return?”

“Oh, soon.” She flushed slightly under her father’s scrutiny. It would be impossible for her to tell him about Justin and
Amanda even though he was the one who had informed her of how it would be. Quickly she changed the subject, reminding him
that John and Meg were to spend the next month with Straeford and her so that they might participate in the Season. Loftus
was only too eager to
discuss the future of his two younger offspring with her. He cautioned her to watch John closely because he was acting strangely
and was not looking forward to the coming weeks. There were no such reservations where Meg was concerned. She was impatient
for her entree into society, and he expected her to be a tremendous success.

Meg whirled before the mirror in her pretty pink frock admiring her own dark beauty. “I still don’t understand why the earl
isn’t here to accompany us to the theater. I hope he’s not planning to renege on his part of the bargain.”

In sudden irritation Marisa grasped her sister by the shoulders and shook her. “Haven’t I asked you not to speak in such a
vulgar manner?”

Meg shrugged loose of her sister’s light grasp and pouted. “There’s no need to get violent about it.”

Disliking her own lack of restraint, Marisa held out her hand to her sister, who reluctantly accepted it. “I’m sorry, dear.
Let us be friends. This is an important night for you, and I don’t want anything to spoil it. Shall we go? John is waiting
for us in the drawing room.”

“I do hope he is not foxed,” Meg whispered as they came in on their brother who was lounging on the settee. “It’s becoming
a most distressing habit.”

Marisa did not comment, but she, too, had observed his increased reliance on spirits and even more disturbing was the change
in his disposition. He was discontented and made little effort to hide it.

At their entrance he heaved himself to his feet and grumbled, “Don’t see why I have to be dragged to the theater. Ain’t Foxworth
and Lady Maxwell company enough?”

“Oh, you are impossible. Ever since your return from Portugal, you’ve been acting like a bear.” Meg stamped her foot in exasperation.
Then, folding her arms across her breast, she taunted, “Do you know, Marisa, he’s still mooning over the doctor’s daughter?”

John’s face suffused with color, and he shouted for her to keep quiet. Turning from them he went to the sideboard and poured
himself another glass of brandy.

Marisa’s heart ached for John, who had lost the
battle of wills with his father. He was still in love with his childhood sweetheart Ruth and wanted to marry her. “Meg,” she
admonished softly, “don’t be unkind.”

“Well, I think he is behaving foolishly. Here we both have the opportunity to marry into the beau monde and he’s crying over
Ruth. Let me assure you, I have every intention of gaining a title for myself.”

Marisa was taken aback by her sister’s self-assurance and warned, “These society matrons guard their families well and can
be extremely difficult if they so choose. It might not be quite as easy to marry a title as you expect.”

“You married a title! You were accepted by the ton!” she stated indignantly.

“That’s because she’s a lady, and you, my dear little sister, are not,” John jeered and downed his glass of brandy.

Stung by her brother’s taunt, Meg tossed her curls and replied with ill-humor, “I went to the same schools as Marisa. If she
succeeded, so shall I. Besides, Richard Foxworth has told me I am a natural.”

“Ha! That dandy! He only hangs around us because our dear father pays his bills.”

“Nevertheless, he was instrumental in father meeting Straeford.”

“Yes, and he fixed his own wagon there, didn’t he? He expected Straeford to be dumb enough to choose you.” John laughed gleefully
as he crossed to her and pointed an unsteady finger in her face which she slapped away. Her cheeks burned an angry red. “Then
Foxworth would have had clear sailing with Marisa, or so he thought. But Straeford saw through you in one night and took Marisa
for himself, leaving you in the cold.”

“You miserable lout!” Meg cried in fury.

“John, Meg, this will never do.” Marisa stepped between them. “Let’s remember we are still members of the same family. It
would be a shame to let what is past come between us.”

After a tense moment John smiled and took each of his sisters by the arm. “You’re right as usual, good sister. Meg, I apologize.
It is foolish for us to argue over what has already happened. Only the future can be altered.”

Before Marisa had the opportunity to ask John what he meant by his last remark, Richard Foxworth was announced.

From the moment Lady Straeford’s party entered the theater, Meg became the center of attention for a number of eager gallants.
Her success that night was the preamble to a whirl of social activities that ran the gamut from Venetian breakfasts to midnight
suppers at Vauxhall. The countess, as chaperon, was included in these entertainments and soon the admirers were dividing their
time equally between the two beautiful sisters—and Straeford was not there to hinder their pleasure.

In her enjoyment, Marisa found little time to brood over her husband’s defection or the missing emerald ring. It was Meg and
John who occupied much of her waking thoughts. Her sister and brother were becoming difficult to handle. Meg’s self-consequence
was growing with every conquest she made, and she gloated over the attention accorded her, accepting it as her due. But it
was Meg’s increasing partiality for the Marquess of Alden, a known womanizer, that caused Marisa her deepest concern. When
she attempted to warn Meg about him, her sister quickly retaliated, reminding Marisa of the frequency with which Thomas Relington
visited the house. Although the countess went riding almost daily with Relington, she could see little comparison between
the two situations. While there was no chance of her succumbing to Reling-ton’s blandishments, there was every danger of Meg—wild,
young, impetuous Meg—submitting to the Marquess. Unfortunately she met nothing but stony resistance from her sister, who all
but told her to mind her own business.

Then there was John, who had withdrawn behind a wall of silence and indifference, blocking out every overture from his sister.
If possible, she was more worried about him than Meg because there was less and less communication between them, and she did
not know what to expect.

The nagging state of worry and stress took its toll on Marisa’s endurance, lowering her resistance. She came down with a spring
cold that forced her to take to her bed for a few days, much to Meg’s displeasure.

It was a relief just to lie in bed and not have to participate in the activities of another hectic day, although Meg was silently
reproaching her for spoiling her fun.

“I think it was mean of Lady Maxwell to refuse to act as chaperon tonight.”

“Meg, how can you be so selfish? That good lady has run herself ragged these past few weeks for us.”

Meg pursed her lips and swung to look at her reflection in the mirror. “Well, I do wish you would contrive to see that I don’t
miss the opera,” she said peevishly, fingering a straying curl.