The Marriage Trap (3 page)

“I'm counting on it.”

On the short drive back to the hotel, Lady Sedgewick lost no time in explaining the hard facts of life to her daughter's chaperon.

“I hope, Ellie,” she said, “you have not allowed Lord Raleigh's attentions to turn your head.” As ever, she didn't wait for a response, but continued to babble like a river in spate. “You should know better. You are not a green girl though, to be sure, you are innocent of men and their ways. Mark my words, nothing will come of it.”

When her ladyship paused momentarily to marshal her thoughts, Ellie said, “I am not such a fool, ma'am, as to—”

“You may think that with his fortune, Lord Raleigh may marry at will, but you are sadly mistaken. A man in his position will look for a girl with bloodlines, even though she is without a dowry.”

“I assure you, ma'am—”

“And have you considered how you would feel should his relations reject you, as I'm sure they would? You may not have heard of his grandmother, the dowager countess, but I have, and let me tell you she is a stickler for what is due her name and rank. No, it will not do, Ellie, it—”

“Mama!” cried Harriet, her patience at an end. “This is so unjust! In my opinion, Ellie is too good for Lord Raleigh. I heard things about him tonight that would bring blushes to your cheeks.”

“Oh, that!” said her mother disparagingly. “A sensible girl knows when to look the other way. Every young man has his peccadilloes.”

Ellie ventured to say, “It was only one dance, ma'am, and he wouldn't have asked me had Sir Charles not insisted on it.”

“Then Sir Charles should have known better!” declared her ladyship. “It doesn't do to encourage young women to have ideas above their station.”

Harriet gasped, but her father, who had until that moment appeared to be dozing in a corner of the coach, roused himself to say in a languid tone, “Hush, woman. You don't know what you're talking about. Ellie comes of good stock. I met her cousin tonight, the earl of Cardvale. Sir Charles introduced us.”

Lady Sedgewick's jaw dropped, Harriet stared, and Ellie sat up a little straighter. “A distant cousin on my mother's side,” she replied in a choked tone. “Ah . . . he is well, I hope?”

“Oh, very well. Unfortunately, he had to leave early because his wife was feeling the heat. They are putting up at our hotel, by the way. Oh, and Cardvale asked after your brother.”

“‘Brother'?” interjected Lady Sedgewick.

“Yes, ma'am,” replied Ellie. “You may remember I mentioned I had a younger brother, Robbie? He's eighteen and a student at Oxford.”

Her ladyship nodded. “Yes. I have a vague recollection. But I know for a certainty that you never once mentioned a relative who was an earl.”

Ellie shrugged. “I did not want to embarrass him by admitting the connection. We lost touch over the years and it did not seem right to me to claim the relationship.”

“Very commendable,” said his lordship. “At any rate, since we're all putting up at the same hotel, I suggested that he and Lady Cardvale join us tomorrow for luncheon.”

“I can hardly wait,” replied Ellie, summoning a smile.

As soon as she entered her room, Ellie closed and locked the door, shrugged out of her coat, then collapsed into the upholstered armchair by the fireplace. Neither the fire nor the candles were lit, but her room overlooked the Tuileries, and the light from the lamps filtered through the small panes of her bedchamber window, casting a warm glow.

She was thinking that of all the times to make an entrance into her life, her Cousin Cardvale had chosen the worst. She'd known for over a week that he and his wife, Dorothea, were guests at the hotel. Dorothea was hard to miss. The very day of her arrival, she'd caused a commotion because the room she had been assigned was number 13. Everyone heard of it. Not that it made a bit of difference. The hotel was full and number 13 was all that was available.

Having been forewarned, she'd tried to keep out of their way. Cardvale, she knew, would want to acknowledge the connection, not realizing that it would complicate her position. She'd changed her last name from Brans-Hill to Hill, simply because a double-barreled name was too grand for someone who was little more than a servant. She hated to be treated as a curiosity.

Much good her little deception had done her. She hadn't expected Sir Charles to recognize her. The last time she had seen him was ten years before, at her father's funeral. At least he'd had the presence of mind to follow her lead and address her as “Miss Hill.” Perhaps that's why he had wanted a word with Cardvale, to warn him to keep her secret. Certainly, Lord Sedgewick gave no sign that he knew her real name.

It was becoming too complicated. Nothing like this had happened before, because no one knew her. She'd lived most of her life in the country.

She decided then that it would be better to reveal her full name first thing in the morning, before her employers found out from someone else.

She could just see it. Lady Sedgewick would be annoyed at having been kept in the dark, but that wouldn't last. Soon, she'd be crowing to anyone who would listen that Lady Harriet's chaperon was no less a person than Miss Brans-Hill, Lord Cardvale's cousin, and wouldn't that be a feather in her cap?

Ellie sighed. Lady Cardvale would not be amused. She was highly conscious of her position in society. That she should be related to a mere lady's companion wasn't something she would wish anyone to know.

Cardvale was quite different from his wife. He was a quiet, well-meaning man who had taken Robbie and her into his own home when their father died. It was a generous act, for they were cousins three or four times removed, and there was no necessity for him to feel responsible for them. But that was his way. Things had changed after he married. Dorothea had made things so unpleasant for them that Ellie had felt compelled to take Robbie and strike out on her own. Dorothea had waved them off with a smile on her face. Cardvale was bewildered and was persuaded to let them go only when Ellie confided that she and Robbie had come into a little money.

And so they had, in a manner of speaking, enough to provide for Robbie's education and tide her over until she found employment. It was better than being the poor relations who were expected to be grateful for the crumbs off Lady Cardvale's table.

Not that Lady Sedgewick was much of an improvement. And now that Jack had singled her out, there was no telling what her ladyship's suggestible mind would make of it.

He wouldn't have asked her to dance if Sir Charles had not practically forced him into it.

It was the first time she'd danced the waltz with a man. The only other partners she'd had had been her charges, young girls like Harriet who needed the practice before they made their bows to society. Nobody expected a paid companion to take to the dance floor in public.

And she shouldn't have. It was no good pretending that she didn't have a choice. She was wise to the ways of the world and knew how to decline an invitation without giving offense. The trouble was, Jack had offended
her
and she'd let her hurt pride lead her into an indiscretion.

When Sir Charles brought Jack over, her heart had flip-flopped against her ribs. Her first thought was that Jack had not forgotten the awkward, adolescent girl who had worshiped him all those years ago. Her hope was dashed by his weary smile and the cynicism in his eyes. But it was his condescension that hurt most. He was no different from all the others. She was a nobody in his eyes, a drab little nursemaid to the rich and famous. He thought he was doing her a favor by asking her to dance. And just as though she were that adolescent girl, she had punished him with her acid tongue.

She groaned as she remembered how she had upbraided him. Had he been anyone else, she would have kept her tongue between her teeth. That's what she was paid to do. But she was crushed, first because she didn't want him to see how far she had fallen, and then because he had to be prodded into asking her to dance.

The cynical, arrogant man wasn't the boy she remembered.

Pictures formed in her mind—Jack, riding hell for leather over the downs as she clung in terror to his back. Jack, drying her tears when old Sal, whom she'd raised from a pup, expired in her arms. Jack, letting her down lightly when she solemnly promised that she would wait for him forever the day he left to go back to Oxford.

And that was the last she'd seen of him until tonight.

Laughing, high-spirited, responsive, sensitive—that was the boy she remembered. The man he'd turned into was a sad disappointment.

Much the same could be said about her. She cringed to think what Papa would say if he could see her now.

How had it come to this? Why was she eking out a living as a companion to one of the silliest women in Christendom? Why was she forever bailing Robbie out of one scrape after another? This wasn't the kind of life she had imagined for herself when her parents were alive.

An image of her mother came to mind—Mama with her long russet hair, loose upon her shoulders, as she tucked her in for the night. Mama, practical and down-to-earth, relieving Papa of every household responsibility so he could devote himself to scholarship and the needs of his parish.
The Lord will provide
was the rule he lived by.

Mama was more worldly.
The Lord helps them that help themselves,
she used to say, and she lived what she preached. She had a little business on the side to earn money for the extras that a vicar's stipend did not cover. From her own herb garden, Mama found the ingredients to make lotions and potions, which she sold to the ladies of the county far and wide. Papa knew about the lotions and potions and treated them with amused tolerance. What he did not know about was the exorbitant profit Mama made on each little bottle.

There was no doubt that she took after her mother.

Swallowing hard, she got up and went to the window to look out. It was foolish to look back. The present was what mattered and this was the present, here in this room, at the Hotel Breteuil. Outside her window was the rue de Rivoli, as busy as Piccadilly on a Friday night. Streetlamps were lit and carriages were coming and going, rattling over cobblestones. In spite of the frigid temperatures, pedestrians were sauntering along the pavement as they went their various ways. The hotel was in the hub of Parisian life, or so it seemed to her. The Tuileries, the Louvre, and the Palais Royal were only a five-minute walk away.

The Palais Royal, that was her present.

She was going to the Palais Royal, that well-known nest of immorality, to honor a deathbed promise she had made to her mother—she would look after her younger brother and see that no harm came to him. It was no hardship. Robbie was the apple of her eye, but that did not mean she was blind to his faults or that he would escape the sharp edge of her tongue when she met up with him. He wasn't supposed to be in Paris. He should have been in Oxford studying, having failed an important examination. And tomorrow or the next day, when his debts were paid, she would see him off personally, with suitable threats of retribution if he should fail her again.

Until the next time.

She let out a long sigh. She supposed that Robbie was no worse and no better than young men the world over.

She looked at the clock. There was an hour to go before Robbie's friend, Milton, came to fetch her. That gave her plenty of time to get ready. Robbie, of course, dared not show his face in public because his creditors were after him.

Creditors.
That was a polite way of saying that the thugs who worked for the moneylender who had loaned Robbie the money to pay off his debts were demanding their pound of flesh.

After stripping off her gloves and throwing off the hated lace cap, she removed the pins that held up her long russet hair and let it fall to her shoulders. The next thing to go was the unflattering crepe dress. When she had tidied everything away, she washed her hands and face in cold water. This small ritual removed every vestige of the powder she used to make herself look older and wiser and eminently suitable as companion to a young girl.