‘You entered the dining room where the gentlemen were?’ Lady Ellington’s cousin, Rosemary, Dowager Baroness of St Onge, gasped, clutching the long strand of pearls draped around her thin neck. ‘By yourself?’
Marianne gritted her teeth as she poured Lady Ellington’s tea. ‘It was a matter of some urgency.’
‘But, my dear, you’ll be the talk of the countryside for being so bold.’
Marianne tipped a teaspoon of sugar in the cup. ‘I’m already the talk of the countryside, whether I storm in on the men at their port or spend all my days practising the pianoforte.’
‘But to interrupt gentlemen in the dining room.’ Lady St Onge pushed herself to her feet. ‘It just isn’t how young ladies behave.’
‘Now, now, Cousin Rosemary.’ With a look of sympathy and a small measure of amusement, Lady Ellington took the tea from Marianne. The rings on every finger sparkled in the afternoon sunlight as she leaned back against her chaise. ‘I’m sure everyone understands Marianne was acting on my behalf and not because she wanted to create a scandal.’
‘You give them too much credit, Ella. I can almost hear the country ladies’ tongues wagging from here.’ Lady St Onge shuffled out of Lady Ellington’s dressing room, a long string of muttered concerns trailing behind her.
Marianne frowned. ‘Why can’t she stay at your London town house while the roof of her dower house is being repaired? Why must she be here?’
‘Patience, Marianne,’ Lady Ellington urged, propping her injured arm up on the pillows beside her. After a restless night, Lady Ellington had regained her spirits, but not her usual vigour. ‘You more than anyone know what it is to need a safe haven from the small troubles of life.’
‘If only they were small.’ She splashed tea into her cup and a hail of drops splattered over the edge and on to the saucer. Her undeserved reputation kept good men away while attracting scoundrels and gossip. Sir Warren had been proof of it last night. Despite his defending her against Lady Cartwright, he’d bolted from her the moment his services were no longer needed. Typical gentleman.
‘Your problems aren’t so very large they can’t be overcome,’ Lady Ellington insisted, ever the optimist.
Marianne peered out the window at the tall trees swaying over the front lawn. Welton Place, Lady Ellington’s dowager house on the grounds of Falconbridge Manor, had proven a refuge for Marianne. However, the sturdy brick walls and Lady Ellington’s solid reputation couldn’t keep all the scandals and troubles from touching her. ‘Lady St Onge is right, the gossips will talk. Even with your influence, they refuse to believe that I am nothing like Madame de Badeau.’
‘They are stubborn in their views of you, which is surprising since Lady Preston has all but fallen on top of half the eligible gentlemen in the countryside and no one is cutting her. I think her old husband must not mind since it saves him the bother.’
Marianne laughed, nearly choking on her tea.
‘Now there’s a smile.’ Lady Ellington offered her a napkin.
Marianne dabbed at the moisture on her chin.
‘You’re so pretty when you smile. You should do it more often.’
Marianne tossed the linen down beside the china. ‘If I had more to smile about, I would.’
‘Nonsense. You’re too young to hold such a dim view of life.’ She raised one ring-clad hand to stop Marianne from protesting. ‘Yes, I know you’ve seen a greater share of trouble than most young ladies. But it does you no good to be morose. You’ll only end up like poor Rosemary.’
‘Now, that’s unfair.’
‘True, but we can’t have you languishing here and becoming a spinster, not with your enviable figure and your money. We’ll go to London next Season and find you someone.’
‘No. I won’t go back there.’ She could manage the scrutiny of a few country families, but not the derision of all society. Besides, whatever hopes Lady Ellington harboured about Marianne’s wealth and looks landing her a good husband, she didn’t share them. Marianne brushed at the lace over her breasts, wishing she didn’t possess so much figure, but it was what it was. As for the money, leaving her well settled had been the one and only thing the vile Madame de Badeau had ever done for her. Marianne shuddered to think how the woman must have earned it. ‘The only gentleman attracted to me is the broke Lord Bolton. Hardly a suitable pool of suitors.’
‘Then we’ll increase it. After all you can’t spend your entire life composing pianoforte pieces.’
What else is there for me to do?
The other young ladies in the country were planning amusements for the autumn while the experiences of their last Season in London were still fresh. Those not dreaming of winter balls and house parties were at home with the husbands they’d landed in the spring, or tending to their new babies. There was little for Marianne to look forward to, or to keep the days from passing, one dreary, empty one after another.
She dipped her teaspoon into her tea and listlessly swirled the dark brown water. She should be thankful for the tedium. She didn’t want to flirt with temptation and discover she really was no better than the gossips believed.
‘Speaking of things to do.’ Lady Ellington took up a letter from the table beside her, eyeing Marianne with a whiff of mischief. ‘Mrs Stevens sent a note asking after me. Tomorrow, we’ll pay her a call and thank her and her son for their help.’
Marianne paused over her teacup, the steam rising to sweep her nose. ‘So soon?’
‘I’m not sick enough to lie about all week and I want to see how the repairs to Priorton Abbey are coming. Be a dear and bring me my writing box. I’ll send a note to Mrs Stevens right away.’
With some reluctance, Marianne set down her cup and made for the writing desk. There was no good excuse she could contrive for why they shouldn’t go. After all, they did owe them thanks for their help. She liked Mrs Stevens. She couldn’t say the same about Sir Warren. Despite his assistance, in the end, his response to her had been no different from anyone else’s outside the Falconbridge family. His all but running from her still grated. Who was he to cast judgement? He was no hereditary baronet, only a writer with the Prince Regent for an admirer.
Then again, who was she? The only relation of London’s most notorious lady scoundrel.
She paused over the lacquer writing box, the Falconbridge family crest gold and red against a three-pointed shield. The loneliness which had haunted Marianne since childhood filled her again. It was the same aching pain she used to experience each Christmas at the Protestant School in France when all the other girls had received packages from their families while she’d received nothing. Madame de Badeau had never sent Marianne so much as a letter during all the time she’d spent at the school. The only thing she’d done was arrive on Marianne’s tenth birthday and take her from the only family she’d ever known and carry her off to England before the Peace of Amiens had failed. On her way to London, Madame de Badeau had dumped her with the Smith family, all but forgetting about her for another six years until she’d thought it time for Marianne to marry. Then she’d dragged her to London to try and pawn her off on any dissolute lord who took an interest in her, no matter how old. Only Marianne’s stubbornness had kept her from the altar.
A proud, wicked smile curled Marianne’s lips. Madame de Badeau’s face had practically