The Bachelor Trap (20 page)

A look of surprise crossed Mrs. Love's face. “No. Quite frankly, by that point, I would not have believed anything she said. I thought then, and still think, that he was a figment of her imagination.”

Marion's thoughts were on the Hannah she had known and admired as a child. “She had a dog,” she said. “His name was Scruff. Do you know what happened to it?”

Mrs. Love shook her head. “She must have acquired the dog in Longbury.” She leaned forward and spoke directly to Marion. “Apart from your aunt Edwina, we told no one about Hannah. As you may imagine, we had no wish to become embroiled in a scandal or cause gossip. We left it to your aunt to deal with her sister.”

“Thank you,” said Marion, not knowing what else to say.

Not long after, they rose to go.

“By the way,” said Brand, “whatever happened to Mr. Robson?”

“Oh, he's happily married and living in the north of England. He had tears in his eyes that night. He said that he couldn't believe the change in Hannah, that he didn't know her at all. Well, that's how I felt, too. What my husband said doesn't bear repeating.”

“And the letters Hannah wrote to Mr. Robson?”

“I sincerely hope he kept his promise and consigned them to the fire. Well, he would, wouldn't he? No man saves keepsakes from a woman who has made a fool of him.”

After expressing their thanks for Mrs. Love's patience and frankness, Brand and Marion left the house.

As soon as the carriage moved off, Brand looked at his watch. “We have hours to go before the reception.” He lowered the window and shouted to Manley on the box, “Show us the sights, Manley. This is Lady Marion's first visit to Brighton. Take us to the Pavilion.”

Marion didn't care about seeing the sights. Her impatience showing, she said, “How much do you believe of what Mrs. Love told us?”

Brand sighed and took her hand in his. He knew that she wouldn't pull away or try to disengage from him. During the few days of his convalescence, she'd become accustomed to his touch. She would lend him her arm for support. Occasionally, she would go so far as to put her arm around his waist when they were out walking. Now that he had recovered from the gunshot wound, however, he was hard pressed to find excuses to touch her or have her touch him.

Her gloved hand rested trustingly in his, and he wondered what she would do if he peeled the glove from her fingers and kissed her open palm.

“Brand?” Her anxious eyes gazed into his. “Are you feeling all right? This hasn't been too much for you, has it?” She pulled off her glove and touched her fingers to his brow. “You don't feel feverish.”

He thought he felt her fingers tremble and wondered whether, like Hannah, he was allowing his imagination to run riot. Time would tell. He had a week with Marion to himself. No families running circles around them, no prowler stalking them, just he and Marion getting to know each other better.

Except, of course, that they had a mystery to solve, and he had a duty to turn up at party meetings to get to know his constituents.

“Brand?”

He gave himself a mental shake. After thinking about her question, he said seriously, “I believe that Mrs. Love is a decent, honest woman. She certainly believes what she told us.”

“But Hannah's character? I can't believe she was a schemer or told so many lies.”

“Maybe she didn't realize what she was doing.” He squeezed her hand. “Listen to me, Marion. We can't always tell what goes on in someone's mind. We may think we know that person, but we don't. I knew a boy at school like that. He told the most vivid stories of his holidays with his father. Every summer, they went big-game hunting in Africa, and we all believed him. Turns out, his mother was a widow and lived very modestly in a village on the east coast of Scotland, and that's where Nigel spent his holidays.”

“What happened to him? Did he run away when he was found out?”

“Lord, no! He said that his mother had lied because she was jealous of his father. The thing is, his imaginary life was so much better than his real life that I believe the two became confused in his mind.”

She looked at him keenly. “Is that what you think about Hannah? That she was confused about what was real and what was not?”

He took a moment to consider her words. “I think,” he said carefully, “that she liked to dramatize. You heard Mrs. Love. Hannah was romantical and ingenuous. Sometimes things got out of hand, as with Mr. Robson. She was playing a dangerous game.”

She nodded and gazed down at their clasped hands. “That's what I think, too. Maybe Edwina knew as well. Maybe that's why she kept a close eye on Hannah, even before she got that letter from Mrs. Love.”

She looked up at him. “Yet she was fun to be with.”

“Yes, children would think so.” He didn't add that some of the most depraved criminals he'd come across in his time as a newspaperman could have charmed the birds from the trees. “She was like a child herself,” he said eventually. “We should pity her.”

There was a tremor in her voice when she spoke. “Do you think that Hannah did away with herself? After all, she did go home to Longbury in disgrace.”

His voice was very firm. “Absolutely not! In the first place, people who do away with themselves always leave a note, and in the second, this mystery is not finished yet, not when someone put a gun to your head and put a bullet in my thigh.”

“Then why did you mention it to Mrs. Love? Suicide, I mean?”

“Because, in my experience, people become tight-lipped when the word ‘murder' is mentioned, fearing they may incriminate some innocent person.”

Admiration gleamed in her eyes. “That was clever,” she said.

“Yes, wasn't it?”

She laughed, but her smile soon faded. “We're no farther ahead, are we, Brand?”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that. We know that there was someone in Longbury whom Hannah regarded as the great love of her life.”

“What if he was a figment of her imagination?”

He shook his head. “She didn't invent any of the other men in her life. According to Mrs. Love, she led them on. Perhaps the love of her life wasn't as forgiving as Mr. Robson. Let's hope that she wrote him letters, too, and he has kept them. Maybe those are the letters our thief was after.”

After a moment, she said, “Perhaps she eloped with the great love of her life.”

“Without leaving a note?” He fell silent as his mind slotted bits and pieces he had learned about Hannah into a semblance of order. “No,” he said finally. “Hannah was playing to an audience. She would have left a note.”

“Yes,” she said slowly, “I think you're right about that, too. But how will we find him after all these years?”

“We'll do what every good newspaperman does. We'll ask questions, but we'll be very discreet. And I haven't given up hope of your memory returning. I'm not expecting you to put everything in its proper sequence, but some small thing may come back to you that will break the case. Now, can we forget about Hannah for a little while and enjoy the sights of Brighton?”

He lowered the window to give her a better view. It was a beautiful summer day with a warm breeze wafting in from the Channel. For the first little while, Marion could not draw her thoughts away from Hannah, but when they came into the square and she caught sight of the Pavilion, the Prince Regent's summer palace, she let out a breath. She had never seen anything like it. The huge dome of the stables, floating high above the prince's residence, seemed like something out of an Arabian fantasy.

She was intrigued by the shops, surprised by the droves of fashionable ladies and gentlemen who promenaded on Brighton's leafy streets, and awed by ladies who drove their high-wheeled phaetons like seasoned whipsters.

She turned to Brand with a smile. “It has the feel of London, only much freer and gayer.”

“That's because the Prince Regent is in residence. When he returns to London, Brighton will become just another sleepy country town, much like Longbury.”

“There are worse fates,” she said tartly, as though he'd insulted Longbury, and she stuck her head out the window again.

Brand relaxed against the banquette. He had seen the sights before, many times, and he did not wish to see them again. His pleasure came from watching Marion. He was remembering what he had learned about her in London, that she had never been presented at Court or enjoyed the round of parties and balls that other young women of her class expected as their right. She had spent her whole life in a country backwater and, in the last few years, had devoted all her energies to raising her two motherless sisters.

Something, some small part of the picture, was missing. Marion, he had discovered, wasn't the shy retiring wallflower she seemed at first sight. If she'd wanted that Season in London—and what young woman wouldn't?—her cousin Fanny would have been delighted to sponsor her.

So, what was he missing? What was she keeping from him?

Thoughts of her former suitor were never far from his mind. What had that bounder done to make her so wary of men? Had he seduced her, then discarded her? Why wouldn't she confide in him?

He straightened when Marion suddenly gasped and flung herself back against the banquette.

“Marion, what is it?” He got up and stood over her.

“My left eye,” she cried. “There's a piece of grit in it, soot, I don't know what, but it hurts like the devil.”

Tears were coursing down her cheeks as she scrubbed her eyes.

“Don't rub your eyes.” His voice was stern. “Open them wide. I'll get it out. That's right. Relax.”

“Easy for you to say,” she grumbled, and sniffed.

He removed her bonnet, then put one knee on the banquette to steady himself, and with thumb and forefinger, he held her eye open. “I see it. Hold still.” He used the fold of his handkerchief and delicately edged the speck of grit to the corner of her eye. One little dab dislodged it, and he smoothed it away. “There. I got it,” he said.

She closed her eyes and breathed out a long sigh. “That feels wonderful.” Smiling, she opened her eyes and looked up at him. “Thank you.”

He was fascinated by the long sweep of her lashes, arrested by the smile in her eyes, lustrous eyes that had trapped his gaze so that he could not look away. He felt the change in her breathing; her lips parted.

“Brand?” she murmured.

She couldn't possibly know what she did to him when her eyes took on that fragile, appealing look. He knew he could bring her to passion. What he didn't know was whether it was the wisest thing he could do. He didn't want her to think of him as another David Kerr.

He braced himself with both hands on the banquette and lowered his head so that his lips hovered an inch from hers. “You're playing with fire again, Marion,” he murmured.

With a supreme effort of will, he pushed himself away from the banquette and sat down beside her. He gave himself a moment to catch his breath. Arms folded across his chest, he turned his head to look at her. Strands of fair hair had slipped the confines of their pins and blew about her face in adorable abandon. Her face was flushed, and those lovely gray eyes, her best feature in his opinion, were staring at him as though she did not like him at all.

Oddly enough, his ability to fan her temper only added to her appeal. He'd never seen her lose her temper with anyone else.

Suppressing a grin, he said, “This is the second time you've made love to me in a moving coach. You're a dangerous woman, Lady Marion Dane. Next time—”

“Next time, I'll make sure that my chaperon is with me!”

His brows rose. “Will that make you behave?”

She surprised him by spreading her open hand on his thigh. His body quickened, then slowed when she increased the pressure. Her fingers were brushing against his wound, not enough to hurt him, but enough to make her point.

She smiled into his eyes. “I hope so, because if I lay my hands on you again, you are going to require the services of Dr. Hardcastle.”

She removed her hand and looked around for her bonnet. As she tied the ribbons under her chin with quick, efficient fingers, he found himself smiling again, and it occurred to him that, around Marion, smiling was becoming a habit with him.

Now, where had he heard that?

Her brow went up, regal, commanding, putting him in his place. “You were going to show me the sights. Is this all there is?”

Marion dressed for the reception with particular care. Her white stockings were of the finest silk. Her new stays nipped in her waist and pushed up her bosom to give her the fashionable silhouette. She'd worn the gown before, but only once, because it was a dress for special occasions, and the sheer gauze over its lavender under-dress was extremely flattering to her gray eyes and fair hair.

But it was her new shoes that sent her into transports of delight. They were lavender silk evening pumps, tied with ribbons, with heels that added precious inches to her height. Ash Denison had found them for her in a shop on Ship Street when she told him that she hadn't a thing to wear. That they pinched her toes and made walking difficult did not detract from her pleasure one bit.

It was the thought of Lady Veronica and all the other beauties who had graced Brand's arm at his grandmother's fête that made her take such pains with her appearance. Mrs. Chandos would be there and, no doubt, Miss Lacey, Miss Byrd, and Miss Stead as well. Marion was Brand's betrothed and, though it was only playacting, she meant to do him proud.

Playacting made her think of Hannah, and she sighed.

“I'm sorry, milady.” Doris, her maid, put down the comb she'd been using to tease little curls and strands of hair to frame Marion's face. “Did I hurt you?”

“Not at all.” Marion smiled into Doris's anxious eyes. “I was concentrating on breathing. Perhaps you could let out my stays a little?”

Doris, who could not have been more than eighteen, shook her head. “Not unless you wear a different gown. The waist is very small.”

“Mmm,” said Marion. “I'd forgotten that there is a price to pay for a woman's vanity.”

“Shall I choose another gown?”

“Certainly not!” Marion rose and surveyed her reflection from every angle. Her eyes seemed to reflect some of the lavender of the gown; her skin seemed softer. The amethyst drop earrings, her only jewelry, were the perfect complement to the curls framing her face. And her waist was as tiny as a man's handspan.

“I'll have a tantrum if you try to take this gown away from me,” she said.

Doris laughed. “You look lovely, milady. I'm sure that Mr. Hamilton won't be able to take his eyes off you all evening.”

Marion didn't want to deflate her maid's enthusiasm, but she knew better. There would be no dancing at this reception, since its primary purpose wasn't pleasure. It was a political gathering of the faithful, and Brand would be right in the thick of it.

She was putting on her long white gloves when someone knocked at the door. Doris ran to open it and Brand stepped into the room. He was looking at his watch. “We're running late,” he said.

Marion gave a thin smile. “And you look very nice, too,” she said.

In fact, he looked gorgeous in his dark fitted jacket, and the tiny scar below his brow gave him a decidedly rakish air.

When he looked at her, really looked at her, he didn't smile, didn't say a word. He looked as though he'd had the wind knocked out of him, and that was the best compliment of all.

“Doris,” she said, “if you get bored, go downstairs to Mrs. Barton's suite.” Mrs. Barton was the manager's wife. “She said that she gets lonely of an evening and could do with a bit of company.”

“Thank you, milady. I may do that when I'm finished here.”

“And don't wait up for me. I'm quite capable of seeing to myself.”

Marion picked up her lavender pochette, draped a sheer gauze stole over her shoulders, and sailed from the room. Brand followed in her wake.

She teetered a little as she went down the stairs, but that was to be expected in her new shoes.

When Brand handed her into the carriage, there was a tiny furrow on his brow. “You look lovely,” he said, “and I'm sure I'll be the envy of every man there. But you can hardly walk in those shoes. They're not practical. There's still time to change them.”

So much for taking his breath away.

She turned her head and raised one imperious eyebrow. “I'll let you into a little secret, Brand. Women don't dress to please men but to impress other women. Every lady at that reception tonight won't care a straw that my shoes are impractical. She'll be dying to know where I bought them.”

“And where did you buy them?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. Ash got them for me. He seems to know a lot about ladies' fashions.”

Brand hunched down on the banquette. “Ash,” he said. “I might have known.”

Hove Hall was on the east side of Brighton, toward the village of Hove, and was approached through an avenue of elms that formed a canopy above their heads. The house was neoclassical in design, a larger and more opulent version of Marion's home in the Lake District, the one that had passed to her cousin on her father's death. There was another difference. Her own home had gradually become shabby as her father's funds had dwindled. It was obvious to Marion that there was no lack of money here.

As they mounted the stone steps of the portico, they heard the babble of voices above the strains of the orchestra. People were everywhere—on the staircase, in the hall, in the grand salon—and liveried footmen in powdered wigs moved among them, dispensing champagne in long-stemmed glasses.

“If even half these people are Whigs,” Marion said in Brand's ear, “I'd be surprised if you don't wrest the seat away from the Tories in the by-election.”

“I only wish! No, these are mostly hangers-on or imposters; you know, they profess the true faith only as long as the wine keeps flowing. When the wine dries up, so do they.”

“And that doesn't bother you?”

“I'm not paying for the wine.”

“Cynic,” she murmured, but her eyes were smiling.

He drew her hand through his arm. “Come along, I'll introduce you around.” His voice turned serious. “Remember, not everyone here wants me to win the nomination. If they make insulting remarks, let them pass. That's the nature of politics.”

She couldn't imagine Brand Hamilton allowing an insult to pass. He didn't have a temper, but he was a proud man. Or maybe it was just that he was sensitive. He didn't speak much about his life with his grandfather, but she knew it hadn't been easy. He was much more at ease talking about his newspapers or politics.

“Why so serious?”

She cleared the frown from her brow. “I don't think,” she said playfully, “that you got that scar above your eye by allowing insults to pass.”

He patted her hand. “That was in my dueling days. I'm all reformed now.”

A voice halted their progress to the grand salon. “Brand!”

Mrs. Chandos, stunning in slinky red silk, smiled up at Brand, then turned the full volume of her smile on Marion. “Lady Marion,” she acknowledged with a slight inclination of her head. “I've just heard the news. Had I known that this old bachelor”—she gestured to Brand—“was on the marriage mart, I would have snapped him up while I still had the chance.”

It was a joke, so they all laughed, though the laughter on Marion's part was a little strained. Brand was still on the marriage mart, only Mrs. Chandos didn't know it.

Mrs. Chandos now looked around the crush of people. “There will be a few broken hearts here tonight, I shouldn't wonder.”

“Amelia always exaggerates,” said Brand, running his finger under his collar.

Marion merely smiled.

“Lady Marion Dane,” said Mrs. Chandos reflectively. “Any relation to Morley Dane, who recently inherited his uncle's title?”

“Morley is my cousin. My father was his uncle.”

Mrs. Chandos's smile died. “What a pity you weren't born a boy!”

“Not as far as I'm concerned.” Brand swung one arm around Marion's shoulders and hugged her to his side. “You're forgetting, Amelia, Marion is betrothed to me.”

“Silly me.” She stifled a giggle. “What I meant was it's a pity that Lady Marion can't inherit the title and lands. No matter, she has the name. Lady Marion Dane—that means something.”

Her babble of words was cut off when she was pounced on by a young gentleman who carried her off.

There was a silence, then Marion said, “Correct me if I'm wrong, but that gentleman's face seems familiar. Isn't he the one who rescued you from Mrs. Chandos at your grandmother's fête?”

Brand nodded. “Tommy Ruddle. He's always ready to oblige his friends. Besides, I think he is sweet on Amelia. I know she's a silly woman, but she isn't malicious. Her heart is in the right place.”

“What does that mean?”

“She's a Whig, of course.”

She laughed, as she was meant to, but at the back of her mind, she was thinking of Amelia's words.

Brand stayed with Marion for about half an hour, but it was just as she'd known it would be. He was soon in the thick of things, hailed by constituents or supporters who wanted a private word in his ear. She waved him away with the assurance that she was quite capable of fending for herself.

Her feet gave out before her smiles did. The ladies' cloakroom was upstairs. All she wanted was to find a quiet spot where she could remove her shoes and stretch her cramped toes. If there were other ladies there, they would understand only too well.

On the gallery, she came face-to-face with Lady Veronica. Marion had nothing against the girl except that she was a marquess's daughter and seemed very sure of herself: confident, aloof, and above the company. She hadn't seen Lady Veronica mingling.

The younger girl was standing at the balustrade sipping champagne. Marion searched her mind for something to say besides a bland inanity when Lady Veronica spoke.

“I'm green with envy,” she said. “Where did you get those divine shoes?”

Marion's mouth dropped open. In that moment, she was completely won over. She lifted her skirts and looked down at her shoes. They were, indeed, divine.

She smiled ruefully. “I'll have blisters on my toes tomorrow.”

“A small price to pay for perfection.”

“Yes, isn't it?” Oddly enough, her shoes didn't pinch nearly as much as they had a few moments before. “Lord Denison found them for me. A shop on Ship Street. He knows what women like.”

“I can see that.”

Lady Veronica beckoned to a footman carrying a tray of drinks, and when he came up the stairs, she plucked a glass of champagne from it and offered it to Marion. “What shall we drink to?”

“To us,” quipped Marion, “because…well…without us, where would our men be?”

It was a glib response off the top of her head, but it had a powerful effect on the other girl. Her bottom lip trembled. Her eyes bored into Marion's. “Easy for you to say. You don't suffer from nerves. I've been watching you for the last half hour. People really like you. I'm like a fish out of water. My father says that I'm no help to Elliot, that I'm a liability, in fact. He says that Elliot will lose the nomination because of me. But the more my father rants at me, the more I freeze.”