Anne Barbour (3 page)

The young woman pressed her fingers to her lips, embarrassed. “Oh, it’s nothing, really—the irony of it, I guess. When I was in school, that’s what my particular friends called me— Vixen. Because of my name, you know.”

Lady Edith smiled indulgently. “Your friends must have had a delightful, if somewhat misplaced, sense of humor. At any rate, getting back to March, we must simply assure him of the purity of your character, and he will be gone back to London and his dismal bride-to-be within a week.”

Alison breathed a troubled sigh.

“I fear the purity of my character is going to escape him when he learns of your plan to provide me with additional funds at the end of the year.”

“Nonsense,” the old lady replied briskly. “I am pleased to gift you with your heart’s desire, though I do not like the idea of your leaving me. When you do so it should be to marry. I shall never understand why someone as young and lovely as you should deny herself the support of a good husband and her own home, merely to open a seminary for young ladies.”

“We’ve been over that, my dear Lady Edith. I am eight-and-twenty and firmly established on the shelf. Added to that, I have no desire for a husband. As far as I can see, unless a female has her heart set on children, she is much better off without one. As the old joke goes, ‘I can purchase a parrot that talks, a fish that drinks, and a cat that will stay out all night. Why do I need a husband?’ ‘‘

Lady Edith did not respond, but waved her hand distressfully. “I have never wed myself, of course, but I know marriage can be so much more.” She sighed. “Very well, I shall say no more on that head. If a school is what you want, a school is what you shall have. My dear,” she continued, observing familiar signs of protest in Alison’s eyes, “I have more money than is good for any Christian woman, and I shall never even miss such a paltry sum!”

“I would not consider fifteen hundred pounds a paltry sum!”

“Never mind that. My only regret is that I shall never find someone to live with me who is half as compatible as you have been.”

“I do not think Lord Marchford will regard such a—a munificent gesture on your part in precisely the same light. In fact, it will merely fuel his suspicion that you have been set upon by the lowest form of criminal—one who preys on the innocent and openhearted.”

Lady Edith uttered a sound that was perilously close to a snort.

“I do not think I shall experience much difficulty in persuading my nephew that I am not a gullible old woman to be caught by a clever sycophant.”

Alison smiled faintly. “I am sure Lord Marchford already knows you better than that.”

Lady Edith returned a demure grin. “And so I should hope. Now,” she continued briskly, “the dinner hour approaches. I think the midnight blue lutestring would be a good choice for you this evening. It is becoming, and it sends an unmistakable message of respectability, which is the impression we wish to create—at least for now,
n’est pas?”

* * * *

An hour or so later, Alison eyed herself narrowly in her looking glass. Adrienne, the highly superior lady’s maid provided for her at Lady Edith’s insistence, had gathered her dark hair into a becoming sweep atop her head. A few curls were allowed to escape their confines to float about her cheeks in engaging tendrils. Still, she did look—respectable. The blue lutestring boasted a modest décolletage, but so well was it cut that the curves thus concealed were softly delineated beneath the silky fabric cunningly gathered over her breasts and thence failing away in a luxurious sweep to a vandyked hemline.

She was sure she would look to Lord Marchford precisely what she was, a valued companion to a generous employer. She paused in the act of fastening a necklace of amethysts about her throat. Perhaps Lady Edith was right—and she had no reason to fear the earl. She closed her eyes and a mental image of his lordship took shape behind her closed eyelids. She examined him carefully. He was certainly not frightening to behold. He was tall, with light brown hair cut shorter than the current mode, waving in an unfashionably neat curve over a broad brow. His frame was compact rather than muscular, and his features were regular, if a trifle harsh, with a square, resolute jaw. There was certainly nothing out of the ordinary about him—at least, until one came to his eyes. They were a light golden brown, and from their depths shone a quiet confidence. No, there was nothing out of the ordinary about Lord Marchford, except... There was something, Alison mused uncomfortably, that gave one the impression that he would be a dangerous man to cross. He exuded an inescapable impression of strength. A shiver passed through her as she pictured those tawny eyes turning on her in rage and contempt.

It was not fair! The cry welled up from deep within her. She had done nothing wrong! Her only crime had been to help a friend. How could she have foreseen the disaster that would result from doing a favor for Bethie.

“Please,” Beth had pleaded, tears sliding down her ashen cheeks. “I know Jack should not have gambled so heavily— and to steal to cover his losses was very wrong. But, if he can just restore the money ...”

“But, Bethie, four thousand pounds ...!” Alison had simply gasped when Beth had told her the sum required.

“I know, Alison—that’s why I came to you. He has only four months in which to return the money, and you are the only person I could think of who could acquire that much in so short a time.”

So Alison had left her home and an ailing father to make her way in the treacherous altitudes of high-stakes gambling in the beau monde. Unwilling to tarnish the good name of her family, she took the name Lissa Reynard and disguised herself with a brown wig and tinted spectacles, content to be considered an eccentric. Another school friend, Molly Selwyn, now the Viscountess Callander, was apprised of the scheme and declared her enthusiastic participation by installing the odd Miss Reynard in her own home, declaring her to be an acquaintance made recently in Brighton.

All went as planned. Alison’s success at the tables was phenomenal, and she was able to accrue the needed pounds well before the expiration of Jack’s deadline. Shedding wig and spectacles in great relief, she accepted Beth’s tearful expressions of gratitude and fled to the sanctuary of her father’s vicarage.

It was not until many months later that Alison learned of the tragedy she had left in her wake. A chance mention in a letter from a distant acquaintance led to further inquiry and at last it was Molly who confirmed that young William Brent, the second son of the Earl of Marchford, had expired with his wife, Susannah, in a tragic accident that many were saying was no accident at all.

Young Susannah was known to have gamed frequently with the mysterious Lissa Reynard, in the process losing great sums of money. She had loudly bemoaned her fate, declaring that the Reynard woman was nothing but a card sharp. The
ton
nodded its head wisely, remembering the astonishing dexterity and the phenomenal luck displayed by the Reynard woman, whom no one really knew, did they? Whether Susannah’s husband believed his wife had been cheated was never ascertained. It was more than evident that he was severely displeased with his spouse. It was whispered that he had made arrangements to have her banished to Marchford Park, the earl’s seat in Hampshire. Lord Marchford, William’s father, was believed to be striving for a reconciliation. Unfortunately, Viscount Rivington, William’s brother and the one person in the family to whom William might have listened, was out of the country. Of the elusive Lissa Reynard, no trace could be found.

A bare three weeks after Miss Reynard’s departure from the glittering landscape of London, Lord Rivington returned to London to be greeted by the news that William had perished in a futile attempt to save the life of his wife as she flung herself one dark night into the swift running waters of the river that ran through the Marchford estate. A year or so after that, the old earl succumbed to an inflammation of the lungs and Lord Rivington became the new earl. Some said the old man’s constitution had been weakened by grief.

Alison learned from Molly that the earl’s son, Anthony Brent, now Lord Marchford, had mounted a frenzied campaign to find Lissa Reynard and destroy her.

“Honestly, Alison,” she had written, “when he came to see me, the man was positively livid. I tried to dissuade him of his belief that you virtually robbed his sister-in-law of her sustenance, but he wasn’t having any of it. He took everything I said as an effort to excuse my own poor judgment of character in inflicting you on an unsuspecting public. My dearest, whatever you do, stay away from London, and above all, pray that you never run into the Earl of Marchford!”

Alison viewed herself again in the mirror and sighed. Upon the death of her own father, shortly after her return home, her Uncle Matchingham had arranged for a position for her as companion to the reclusive Lady Strangeways in the blessedly remote wilds of Northumberland, and it was while she was there that she received news of Beth’s death in childbirth. The child had not survived.  Alison had grieved unrestrainedly, not only for the passing of her dear friend, but for the meaningless sacrifice made on behalf of her ne’er-do-well husband, Jack Crawford. Alison remained in Northumberland, safe and guilt-ridden until taken under the capacious wing of Lady Edith.

She had begun to believe that she had created a cocoon of security for herself, one that would be truly impregnable as soon as she had immured herself in the fastness of her school for girls. Then she made the discovery that retribution was indeed at hand, in the form of her employer’s nephew, and her world had crashed anew. Even then, when the nephew failed to appear on the horizon with fiery sword in hand, she had begun to think herself safe again.

Until today.

She swept from her dressing table a shawl of Norwich silk, last year’s Christmas gift from Lady Edith, and arranged it absently about her shoulders. Perhaps her ladyship was right. Thank God she had gone about her unsavory business in London under an assumed name and in disguise. There was no reason, after all, that Lord Marchford should discover she was anything but a country vicar’s daughter.

With one last worried glance in the mirror, she strode from the room.

Chapter 3

His aunt had been right, mused March idly as he allowed the ladies to precede him into the elegant building in Bennet Street that housed the Upper Assembly Rooms. The company was indeed thin tonight. His gaze wandered over the swirling groups of ladies and gentlemen garbed in festive attire. He recognized a few of the persons visible, but saw no one with whom he wished immediately to engage in conversation.

March and Alison had traversed the short distance between Royal Crescent and the Upper Rooms on foot, accompanying Lady Edith as she was borne in her sedan chair. Conversation had been desultory among the three, but March was aware of the tension in the slight figure beside him. Her contribution to their light chatter had been minimal and he had sensed her relief when they arrived at their destination.

“Now, which shall be first?” asked Lady Edith after they had divested their outer garments in the cloak room. “Dancing or cards—I rather think none of us are ready for refreshments yet. Dancing, I think,” she finished without waiting for an answer. “Will you join us, March, or are you going to vanish into the card room?”

“Perhaps later, Aunt,” replied her nephew dutifully. “I should be delighted to accompany you into the ballroom.”

A country dance was just concluding as they entered the spacious chamber, and Lady Edith, spying a favored acquaintance, moved immediately to seat herself beside the lady in one of the chairs placed around the perimeter.

“You two have my permission to dance.” Her eyes sparkled as she waved an airy hand at the earl, who turned to face the lady by his side.

“It seems we have been deserted, Miss Fox. I see a new set is forming. May I have the honor?”

Alison shrank from him as though he had brandished a hot poker in her face. “Oh, no, my lord! That is—I do not customarily dance. I feel it is improper—”

“Improper Fiddlesticks!” The speaker was Lady Edith, who had overheard. “Alison, you know you enjoy dancing, and there is nothing the least improper about an attractive young woman enjoying herself in such a fashion.”

Reluctantly, Alison allowed herself to be guided into place by the earl. Fortunately, the dance in which they found themselves was a country dance, which permitted only a minimum of contact, physical or conversational, between partners. Nevertheless, Alison was intensely aware of his proximity, as she had been since he was shown through the front door for dinner that evening. This afternoon, in his moderately caped greatcoat and shining top boots, he was all that was proper, and every inch the gentleman. In evening wear, his burnished brown hair reflecting the candlelight, he was disturbingly attractive. In daylight, his eyes had appeared merely light brown. Now, at night they had taken on the lazy, tawny glint of a lion.

She shrugged off her fanciful reflections, realizing that the dance had come to an end. The earl guided her from the dance floor, maintaining an inconsequential flow of chatter. Bereft of speech, she looked around rather dazedly and saw with some relief that Colonel Rayburn was approaching. She was forced to smile inwardly, for this was the first time that she had beheld the retired military man with anything but resignation. The colonel had been most persistent in his attentions of late, making her feel rather like a besieged fortress. Not that George Rayburn wasn’t a very nice man, but she was not in the market for a man—very nice or not.

Nonetheless, when the colonel solicited her hand for the next dance, a waltz, she accepted with almost unbecoming alacrity. Though her partner held her perhaps a fraction closer than was strictly permitted, Alison never noticed. Indeed, she admitted later to herself, the man could have quoted salacious poetry to her and she wouldn’t have heard a word, for her attention was wholly taken up by the figure of Lord Marchford, who impinged continually on her vision. He was not taking part in the dance, but wandered in amiable conversation with various other nonparticipants seated on the settees that surrounded the dance floor. Occasionally, he glanced in her direction, and her pulse pounded uncomfortably in her throat. She was reminded very unpleasantly of a jungle predator stalking its prey. And, to her annoyance, she seemed unable to keep her gaze from returning to him.