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  “He is a lonely old man,” Henry said, “and he will be extraordinarily happy to know you.”

  It was the right thing to say. The spontaneous smile that he remembered from the previous night broke across Margery’s face and Henry was taken aback to feel another stab of tenderness for her, this one more piercing, more compulsive than the last. He almost drew her into his arms but she stepped back, deliberately putting space between them.

  Her trust in him was gone. Henry told himself that it was better that way.

  All he had to do now was take her to Templemore. And then he would be gone from her life.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Nine of Pentacles: Comfort and prosperity

  IT WAS THREE HOURS before they were ready to depart, by which time Margery was pleased to observe that Henry was in a very bad mood indeed. It was not that she had been deliberately slow, more that there suddenly seemed to be so much to do.

  First, Margery wrote to all her brothers to tell them what had happened and to ask them to visit her at Templemore. She suspected that Jem would be the only one to come. Billy never left London and Jed would be unable to read her news since he had never learned his letters.

  She had also sent a hastily scrawled note to Lady Grant’s cousin by marriage, Francesca Alton. Lady Alton was a widow whose husband had died the previous year when he was run over by a carriage while reeling blind drunk across the road. Everyone had agreed that Fitzwilliam Alton’s death was no loss, but his family had cut Chessie out completely, consigning her to live off the generosity of her relatives. Joanna Grant had pointed out that Chessie would make Margery the most perfect companion. She was young, pretty and fun and she knew how to go on in society. Margery had agreed. She liked Chessie Alton and she desperately needed a friend.

  Then there had been the packing.

  “You need not take any portmanteaux,” Henry said. He was striding impatiently back and forth across the checkered marble floor of the entrance hall while he waited for her. “I am sure Lord Grant will be kind enough to send on your belongings. and once we reach Templemore you may purchase anything else you need.”

  “That sounds frightfully extravagant,” Margery said. “I do not know the sort of ladies you are familiar with, Lord Wardeaux, but my packing will take all of ten minutes and fill no more than one small box.”

  Lady Grant had other ideas, however. “You are Lady Marguerite now,” she said firmly. “Come with me.”

  Margery followed her former employer up the stairs to her bedchamber. There was no question this time about her using the servants’ stair. Those days, she realized with a pang, were gone forever. Already her former colleagues were treating her differently.

  Not everyone was pleased for her. In fact, it felt as though no one was pleased for her. Lady Grant’s matching handsome footmen were positively seething with annoyance that someone so plain could turn out to be an heiress. Jessie, the third housemaid, was so overcome with jealousy that she had hysterics and Mrs. Biddle had to slap her.

  “I am afraid we are all at sixes and sevens with your news,” Lady Grant said, as she ushered Margery into her dressing room and shut the door on Jessie’s loud sobs.

  “Dearest Margery.” She clasped Margery’s hands tightly. “I am so very happy for you, but where shall I find another maid? It really is most unfortunate.”

  “Lady Durward’s personal maid is looking to move, ma’am,” Margery said. “She is extremely accomplished and has studied hairdressing in Paris.”

  “Has she?” Lady Grant brightened. “Then I will most certainly try to tempt her to come here. Thank you!” She released Margery’s hands and hurried over to the chest of drawers by the window. “Now, my love, you need underwear and gowns and accessories and a hundred other things that a lady requires.”

  She threw open the drawers, swiftly disordering all the tidy piles that Margery had stacked the previous night. “You are very welcome to some of mine—”

  “Ma’am,” Margery said, placing a soothing hand on Lady Grant’s arm. “You are five inches taller than I am.”

  “And five inches wider, as well.” Lady Grant sighed. “You are right, Margery. It will not serve.” She sat down heavily on the embroidered stool before the gilt peer glass.

  “My Sunday best will do very well for now,” Margery said. “You heard Lord Wardeaux, ma’am. I may purchase anything I need.”

  “Ten times over, I should think,” Lady Grant said.

  “Am I really so rich?” Margery said. She stared at her reflection in the pier glass. The richest heiress in the country, Henry had said. A shiver that was part excitement, part apprehension tickled its way down her spine.

  There she was in the mirror, Margery Mallon, pale, small, brown hair, gray eyes and cheap blue cotton gown, four shillings a yard.

  She was the richest heiress in the ton.

  It was almost enough to make her faint with shock, except that she never had the vapors and she was certainly not going to start now she was a lady.

  She was Lady Marguerite Saint-Pierre, daughter of a French count and granddaughter and heir to an earl.

  No, it was no use. She could repeat the words as much and as often as she wanted but she still could not quite believe them.

  “You have two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand pounds,” Lady Grant said, “and seven country estates and a London town house.” She frowned. “Or is it two hundred thousand, and eight houses? I forget.”

  Once again Margery felt quite faint. “Oh, my goodness. I cannot possibly be that rich,” she protested. “And no one needs eight houses. There is only one of me so why would I require more than one house?”

  Henry had known, she thought. Henry had known everything about her inheritance. She felt misery and anger knot in her stomach again just as they had when she had confronted him earlier in the drawing room. She should be glad that he did not want to marry her, because she would only marry for love and not to a man she could not trust.

  She thought about the way Henry had kissed her in the drawing room. Slowly, unconsciously, her fingers came up to press against her lips. It was odd that Henry could kiss her with such tenderness and passion so that she came apart in his arms and yet at the same time she really did not like him at all. She wondered if that was the effect that kissing had on her rather than the effect that Henry had on her.

  Since she had not kissed anyone else she had no basis for comparison, but she suspected that when it came to kissing, when it came to making love, not all men were equally adept. She had a suspicion that it was something at which Henry excelled. But that was a direction that she was never going to take again. She would go to Templemore and Henry would go away and she would not see him again. Hell would freeze before she allowed him even to touch her again.

  Lady Grant had started to collect up a few pots from the dressing table top. “I am giving you my bluebell scent from Floris of Jermyn Street,” she said. “Nonsense—” She held up a hand as Margery started to protest. “A lady needs some elegant perfume. And you need an attractive bonnet, too. My emerald plumes—”

  “I beg you, ma’am, no,” Margery said, thinking how ridiculously out of place the plumed bonnet would look with her plain gown. “The straw hat with the pink ribbon, if you insist…”

  “I do!” Lady Grant was flying about the room now, placing items into a disturbingly large portmanteau. “Oh, this is such fun! The pink spencer and the beaded reticule to match…” There was more rummaging. A waterfall of gowns tumbled from the chest in multi-colored profusion. Margery automatically picked them up and started to refold them.

  “Margery, you should not!” Lady Grant looked horrified.

  “I know,” Margery said. “I am Lady Marguerite now. I assure you it does not affect my ability to fold clothes, ma’am.” She thought of what Granny Mallon would have said about idle ladies who needed to be waited upon and had to stifle a smile.

  By the time that Lady Grant had selected what she referred to as “a fe
w small items” for Margery, the long case clock in the hall was chiming the hour of eleven.

  “Lord Wardeaux is waiting in the library, my lady,” Soames imparted as they came back down the stair, followed by a footman panting beneath the weight of the portmanteau. “He asks if there is any likelihood of you being ready to depart before midnight, ma’am.”

  “How odiously sarcastic of him,” said a voice behind them. “A gentleman can have no idea of the number of matters a lady has to deal with at a time like this.”

  Margery spun around to see Chessie Alton hurrying in at the door. “I came as quickly as I could,” she said, folding Margery in a warm hug. “I am so pleased you sent for me, Margery, though I am not sure that I am the dowagers’ idea of a respectable companion.”

  “I need a friend,” Margery said, “someone who knows society’s rules.”

  “Well, I can help you there, Margery,” Chessie agreed, “since I have broken every one of society’s rules at one time or another.” Her big blue eyes sparkled with amusement. “As for friends, you will be overwhelmed by them once word of your inheritance gets out.”

  “That’s why I want a real friend,” Margery said.

  “I can imagine,” Chessie said. She checked herself. “Actually, no, I cannot imagine it at all. It must feel like a dream.”

  “A nightmare,” Margery said, with feeling. She saw Chessie frown and tried to explain. “Everyone thinks that I should be happy to be rich and titled, but I liked being Margery Mallon. Now I don’t know who I am.”

  Chessie nodded slowly. “Give it time. When your life changes in such a dramatic manner you cannot expect it to feel anything other than strange. And don’t let Henry tell you what to do,” she added, giving Margery’s arm a squeeze. “He can be dreadfully autocratic.”

  “Do you know him?” Margery said.

  “We’re distant cousins,” Chessie said. “Everyone is in the ton. Ah, Henry!” Her eyes lit with mischief as Henry came striding bad-temperedly from the library. “We were just talking about you. Are you ready to go?” She arched her brows. “It is very poor of you to keep Lady Marguerite waiting like this.”

  “Francesca.” Henry sounded exasperated. Margery stifled a giggle. “I was quite delighted to hear you would be accompanying us.”

  “I am sure you were,” Chessie said, smiling demurely.

  Henry turned to Margery. “I hope that you have had sufficient time to prepare for the journey,” he said. “You were so long that I thought you had run off.”

  “Not yet,” Margery said sweetly. “Give me time.”

  Their eyes locked. The tension rippled between them, fierce and hot. Henry was the first to break it, turning away.

  “We’re leaving in ten minutes,” he said abruptly. “As it is, we shall be fortunate to reach Templemore before nightfall.”

  “Will you ride?” Margery enquired. The prospect of sitting in a closed carriage with Henry for hour after hour, even with the soothing presence of Chessie and Mr. Churchward, was not an appealing one. The atmosphere between them felt scratchy with conflict and underscored by a disturbing thread of awareness.

  “Certainly not,” Henry said. “I am not risking you climbing out of the carriage and running off when my back is turned.”

  “I am surprised you do not handcuff me to your side,” Margery said shortly.

  Something flared in Henry’s eyes. Margery felt suddenly hot. Then he smiled and she felt even hotter.

  “Don’t tempt me,” he said softly, leaning close, speaking for her ears alone. “You have no idea how much the idea of restraining you appeals to me.”

  Suffering from an uncomfortable combination of irritation and acute awareness, Margery stalked out to the carriage. Her sore heart was aching again. She had made a terrible mistake with Henry. Not only had she been led astray by her attraction to him but she had liked him.

  And he had used that against her with cold calculation. Every time she looked at him, she remembered the way that she had trembled in his arms with emotion and passion. She wanted to curl in on herself, to shrivel and hide, except that she had too much pride. So she would travel with him to Templemore, and she would pretend absolute indifference, because the only thing worse than being vulnerable to him would be for Henry to know it.

  * * *

  IT WAS LATE BY THE TIME they approached Templemore, and the sun was setting across the hills to the west. Henry was watching Margery and saw her sit forward as they passed the edge of Templemore land on the left of the road and the long estate wall started to unroll beside them.

  As mile passed after mile and the wall did not end he saw Margery’s expression change and her whole body tighten with tension. She had been told that the estate was huge; she had known it in her mind but now she was seeing for herself just how vast was her inheritance. Henry saw her clasp her hands together tightly in her lap. She gave a little shiver. He could feel her nervousness but he knew better than to mention it. Margery had made it plain during the long journey that she was only tolerating him out of courtesy to Mr. Churchward. She had reluctantly accepted his hand in and out of the carriage during the snatched stops to change the horses and take refreshment. She had eaten little and conversed less. The rest of the time she had ignored him.

  The carriage finally turned through the entrance with its huge iron gates emblazoned with griffins, and set off up the lime tree drive. A lake flashed past on the right, illuminated by the last rays of the setting sun.

  “That is known as the Little Lake,” Henry said. “There is a larger one to the west of the house.”

  The carriage rattled over a narrow, elegant bridge and veered to the left, through an archway and onto a gravel sweep at the front of the house. There was a range of fifteen stone steps up to the wide frontage. Henry suddenly saw the house through Margery’s eyes, a dark, daunting edifice full of the unknown. He wondered if the earl had decreed that the entire servants’ hall should be drawn up to welcome the lost heir home. Margery, he thought, would absolutely hate that.

  He offered Margery his hand to help her down. Her fingers trembled in his and he gave them a tiny squeeze of reassurance. Her eyes met his then, troubled and dark. For a second he thought she was going to smile at him but then she withdrew her hand smartly from his and started off up the steps like a small but determined ship on a choppy sea. Nothing could have made it plainer that she did not need his assistance and did not want him at her side.

  The butler bowed them inside where no fewer than four footmen were waiting to take their outdoor clothes away. Henry saw Margery hesitate for a second as though she could not quite believe her eyes. Her gaze swept around to encompass the black-and-white stone floor and the soaring marble pillars. Her lips parted on a gasp and Henry knew she had recognized the house from those elusive memories of her childhood.

  His mother, Lady Wardeaux, and Lady Emily Templemore were both in the hall waiting for them. Lady Wardeaux offered Henry her cheek so that he could place a kiss an inch away from it in the air. Lady Emily fluttered around Margery like a fulsome moth in a riot of draperies and clashing beads.

  “My dear, I am your great-aunt Emily and so very happy to meet you. Let me look at you…such a happy day…my, what a striking resemblance you bear to your late grandmama…not your mama, she was tall. Do you recall anything about her?”

  Margery smiled, pressed Lady Emily’s hands and tried to answer her questions while she suffered herself to be hugged tightly.

  Lady Wardeaux, elegant in coffee-colored silk and understated pearls, was considerably less effusive. She took Margery’s hand and held it as though she was not sure whether it was clean or not.

  “Welcome, my dear,” she said. “We must not keep Lord Templemore waiting any longer. He has been fretting himself to flinders these three hours past, awaiting your arrival.”

  Henry saw Margery absorb his mother’s tone and the implication that this delay was entirely her fault. He saw her shoulders straighten and her chin come
up. She was not going to be intimidated and Henry admired her very much for that.

  “I am sorry to have kept my grandfather waiting, ma’am,” Margery said politely. Her gaze swept over Henry and he felt her thoughts as clearly as though she had spoken aloud.

  So this cold, empty creature is your mother. Now I understand your cold, empty heart.

  “This way,” he said, abruptly, gesturing to the west corridor. “I will take you to Lord Templemore.”

  The dome in the ceiling above them was dark as they walked beneath it. There was no scattering of colored light tonight. Nor did Henry pause to point out the Hoppner picture of Lady Marguerite Saint-Pierre as a child. There would be plenty of time for Margery to absorb the weight of history and find her place in this huge barn of a house.

  He knocked on the library door. The earl’s voice bade them enter.

  Margery looked very small and unprotected as she stepped into the library. Henry allowed her to precede him then followed her in.

  “Lady Marguerite, my lord,” he said.

  The earl was sitting before the fire, one of his spaniels at his feet, but as they came in he rose, holding himself upright more by force of will than physical strength, Henry thought. His gray gaze, sharp as a hawk, sought them out and fastened on Margery with a hunger and a desperation that was painful to see. Henry felt Margery pause, as though she was afraid. He wanted to reach out to her, to reassure her, but he kept his hands firmly at his sides.

  “Come closer, my child.” The earl’s voice cracked with emotion. For the first time in his life Henry saw the old man’s feelings completely naked, the hope and the fear and the longing.

  Margery saw them, too. She hesitated a moment longer and then she did something that Henry would never have imagined, something that he, for all the years he had known Lord Templemore, would never have done. She ran to her grandfather and put her arms about him.

  Henry heard the old man’s breath catch in his throat and saw him go absolutely still. For a moment he wondered if the shock might actually have killed the earl, or if his godfather would chastize his granddaughter and tell her that no one at Templemore would dream of being so demonstrative, that it was not the done thing to show emotion and that she had a great deal to learn of the right way to behave.