“Ah, Hillary,” Lady Stokeford said, her smile altering subtly with a certain calculation. “The premier hostess of the ton."
“She was speaking to Lord Effingham in the drawing room.” Lady Katherine inclined her fair head toward the doorway. “There she is now.”
A rather stout young woman with a headful of elaborate brown curls made her way toward them. Clad in an evening gown of frilly lilac crepe, she cradled a small, fat white dog in the crook of her arm. The duchess held her nose in the air, now and then nodding to someone as if she were a queen acknowledging a subject.
Vivien’s head throbbed painfully. She wanted to fly at the duchess in a rage, to condemn her with a savagery equal to the pain her father had suffered. Just in time, wisdom prevailed. Denouncing a duchess might cause her to lose her position here—and the promise of two hundred gold guineas.
Lady Stokeford dipped the required curtsy, but the duchess stopped her with an imperious wave of the hand. “My dear Lucy,” she said in a patronizing tone. “You needn’t show obeisance in your own home. Or rather, your grandson’s home.”
“You honor us with your presence, Your Grace,” Lady Stokeford murmured. She stepped back to draw Vivien forward. “I’m delighted to introduce you to my very dear ward and companion, Miss Vivien Thorne.”
Vivien’s limbs felt wooden. She stood stiffly, her fingers crushing the soft folds of her skirt. Never had she expected to come face-to-face with the wife of the nobleman who had ordered that mantrap set—as if a Romany trespasser were no better than a wild animal.
Stroking the dog in her arms, the duchess haughtily looked Vivien up and down. “So you’re the Gypsy girl.”
“Her mother was governess to my grandsons for ten years,” Lady Stokeford said smoothly. “Harriet Althorpe had impeccable bloodlines, the Althorpes of Yorkshire. The family has died out, so I’m sponsoring Vivien.”
With a striking similarity to the dog’s snout, Her Grace’s lips curled into a grimace. “Speak up, miss. What have you to say for yourself?”
“Where’s your husband?” Vivien blurted out, her voice dry and raspy. “Is he here?”
The duchess blinked. “No, he remained in London. Why do you inquire about him?”
Vivien couldn’t trust herself to respond, so she said nothing.
Giving Vivien a baffled glance, Lady Stokeford said, “Do forgive her, Hillary, she’s never seen a duke. La, this is such an exciting event for Vivien, taking her rightful place in society, meeting the most illustrious members of the ton. Now, you and Katherine must tell me all the latest gossip. I hear that Moncrieff has wed a coal merchant’s daughter, Theodora Blatt.”
As the three women launched into a discussion of the scandalous event, Vivien was relieved to have the attention directed away from herself. The remnants of shock had been thawed by the fire of rage. If the Duke of Covington had been present, she didn’t know what she would have done. It was horrid enough to realize that for the coming week, she must live under the same roof with his duchess.
A hand touched her arm. She looked up to see Michael at her side, frowning at her. As a testament to her agitated state, she’d forgotten his presence. “You’re pale,” he said in a low voice. “Are you ill?”
She felt ill to think that his mistress was cousin to the Duchess of Covington. “I’m fine.”
He kept his fingers tucked into the bend of her arm, his flesh firm and warm on her bare skin. “No, you’re not. A moment ago, you looked as if you’d seen a ghost.”
“I’m overwhelmed by all the jewels here,” she whispered. “It’s a thief’s paradise.”
Predictably, Michael scowled. “Don’t be a featherbrain. If so much as one gold ring goes missing, you’ll be blamed.”
“And you’ll be first in line to point your finger at me,” she retorted.
He had no time to reply, for Lady Katherine strolled to his side and whispered in his ear, her generous bosom pressing against his arm. Michael devoted his attention to her for a moment before bowing to his grandmother and the duchess. “If you’ll excuse us, I promised to take Katherine on a tour of the house.”
Lady Stokeford glared. “You shouldn’t leave your guests.”
“Nor should I ignore a promise.”
As they walked away, he flashed a penetrating glance at Vivien, a look she didn’t understand. Of course, the rogue would pursue easier game. Lady Katherine would go willingly to his bed. Those two deserved each other!
Vivien swallowed her bitterness like a dose of bad medicine. She wouldn’t yearn for him. She would see Michael as the gorgio lord he was: amoral and arrogant. Out of her reach.
The Duchess of Covington strolled away, too, no doubt to favor some other lucky soul with her snobbish presence.
“Thank goodness that hurdle is over,” Lady Stokeford said under her breath. “As for my wayward grandson, you must make him jealous by charming the other gentlemen.” Before Vivien could protest, the dowager introduced her to a crowd of men.
“Oh, rose among weeds, thy name is Thorne,” proclaimed stout Sir George Rampling, the man clad in green, his brown eyes shining with fervor. “I’m struck dumb by your beauty.”
“Then do hush,” said Lord Alfred Yarborough, his beautiful curls bouncing as he sprang forward to kiss Vivien’s hand. “You’ve flown to me straight out of a dream, Miss Thorne. Where have you been all my life?”
With effort, Vivien focused on her goal of pleasing Lady Stokeford. She must think of nothing else. Forcing a coquettish laugh, she withdrew her hand. “I’ve been here and there.”
“Really?” Sir George drawled. “And where would ‘here and there’ be? Where do you call home?”
From the gleam in their watchful eyes, she knew they’d heard the rumors. “I call England my home. The greatest kingdom in the world.”
Smiling, Lady Stokeford clapped her gloved hands. “A fine answer, my dear. You gentlemen should applaud her patriotism.”
Hearty male cheers rose into the air. “Hear, hear!” Several other guests gathered around, drawn by the commotion.
Lord Alfred caught Vivien’s gloved hand and reverently kissed the back. “You, Miss Thorne, are a true nonpareil. All the other debutantes of the season pale beside you. They are nothing but silly, tedious girls.”
“Why, Alfred, I’m crushed,” said a female voice from behind Vivien. “You spoke the same words to me last year.”
A pretty girl with rich chestnut hair and leaf-green eyes sauntered into the group, her long-sleeved yellow gown swishing. A lively interest on her fine-boned features, she surveyed the gentlemen, smiling jauntily at Vivien.
“Ah, my godchild, how good to see you!” Lady Stokeford said, kissing the newcomer’s cheek. “Please meet my ward and companion, Miss Vivien Thorne. Vivien, this is Enid’s granddaughter, Lady Charlotte Quinton.”
“I’m honored,” Vivien said, spying a trace of Lady Enid in Charlotte’s impish smile. “I do like your grandmama. She’s very kind.”
“The honor is mine,” Charlotte said. “And the dishonor belongs to Lord Alfred if he cannot appease my outrage.”
“My esteemed Lady Charlotte,” Alfred said, bowing. “I wouldn’t have said the same thing to you. I’m not so dull-witted as to repeat myself.”
“Then you don’t think me a nonpareil?” Charlotte asked with a sly wink at Vivien. “Am I no better than all those other silly, tedious girls?”
“Why, of course you’re different,” he blustered. “It’s simply that...you are unique in your charms. As is Miss Thorne.”
“Well, Vivien,” she said. “Shall we be satisfied or not?”
Vivien liked her at once. “He ought to say which of us ranks first.”
“A capital notion.” Charlotte aimed a wicked stare at the young dandy. “Alfred, we await your decision.”
A sheen of perspiration on his brow, Alfred fidgeted with the lace at his cuff. “I could never make such a choice,” he said. “Why, it would be impossible to choose between two such radiant and ravishing roses—”
“If you cannot make up your mind,” Charlotte said, “then there’s no point to us remaining here. Do excuse us, Lady Stokeford.”
The dowager smiled fondly at them. “Run along, my dears, and amuse yourselves. I must see to the dinner arrangements.”
Leaving Lord Alfred with his mouth agape, Charlotte twined her arm with Vivien’s, and they strolled away into the throng. “What a bore men can be,” Charlotte said. “They must think us ninnies to believe their flattery.”
Vivien smiled. “Men are the same everywhere, thinking themselves our superior. Yet though the cock may crow, the hen lays the eggs.”
A peal of laughter came from Charlotte. “You are an original. I do believe we shall be fast friends. What do you say?”
Vivien had never had a tesorthene, a friend of the heart. Of late, she’d grown distant from the girls of the Rom, who cared only for doing domestic chores and attracting a husband. Yet in the space of a few moments, she felt a connection with Charlotte Quinton, perhaps because they were both linked to the Rosebuds. “I would like that,” Vivien said.
“Then let’s find a quiet place in which to become better acquainted.”
Charlotte steered a path through the milling throng. Bypassing the formal drawing room where the musicians played, they headed down an unfamiliar corridor and ducked into a deserted chamber. Hushed and dim, the room had high arched windows and rows of pews facing an altar of heavy, carved oak, where thick candles flickered against the darkness.
Charlotte draped herself on a pew and leaned back. “Ah, peace,” she said, her voice echoing. “I vow, this is one of my favorite rooms in the Abbey.”
“The chapel,” Vivien murmured, sinking down beside her and looking around in interest. “This must be where Michael’s mother came to pray.”
Charlotte grimaced. “Now there was a peculiar soul, the marchioness with her prayer books and psalms. However, my fondness for this chapel is rather secular. I like the pageantry of baptisms and marriages, the Easter and Christmas services.” She sent Vivien an oddly piercing look. “Michael and Grace were wed here, you know. What a glorious celebration that was.”
Vivien’s heart beat faster, and she succumbed to a morbid curiosity. “Did you know Lady Grace? Was she pretty?”
“Like an angel. But then, Michael has always preferred dainty blondes. Did you notice how swiftly he went off with Katherine Westbrook?”
Aware of a hollow pain in her heart, Vivien struggled to keep a calm expression. “He intended to show her the house.”
“In particular, the bedchambers.” She turned a naughty grin on Vivien. “Do I shock you?”
“Yes,” Vivien admitted. “I don’t like the easy morals of English nobles. Girls must be chaste, yet men and older women take their pleasure as they choose.”
“I quite agree. Oh, I do wish I’d been born male. Dom is allowed to travel all over the Continent—Rome, Athens, Paris.” Charlotte thrust out a pouty lower lip. “While I languish at home with my four sisters and brothers who are still in the nursery.”
Vivien sensed a deep-rooted bitterness in her. “Who’s Dom?”
“My younger brother, Dominic. I’m three-and-twenty years and he’s one-and-twenty, yet no one tells him he’s in danger of being left on the shelf.”
“What shelf?”
With a tinkling laugh, Charlotte cocked her head and studied Vivien. “It’s an expression meaning ‘old maid.’ You are new to society, aren’t you?’
“Very.”
“Forgive my boldness, but is it true you were raised by the Gypsies?”
Vivien knew she should cleverly change the subject. But she disliked glossing over the truth. “I was given to the Rom as an infant, yes. Miro dado and miro dye”—she paused, her heart sore—“my father and mother are wonderful, kind people, and I miss them so very much.”
“Who are your real parents?’ Charlotte leaned forward, her green eyes intent and inquisitive. “Tell me, are you half-sister to Michael Kenyon?”
Vivien gave a start of surprise. “Oh, no! No, most certainly not. I’m the daughter of a lady governess named Miss Harriet Althorpe. She once worked for Lady Stokeford.”
“And your father? Who is he?”
“I don’t know,” Vivien said fiercely. “And I don’t want to know. He tore me from my mother’s arms, and I curse him for that.”
“What drama you’ve experienced.” Her lovely features taut with something like envy, Charlotte sat back, her slim arm draped over the back of the pew. “Life among the Gypsies sounds wild and different. Why ever would you give up all that freedom to live here in the confinement of the ton?”
Because otherwise, I’d have had to wed Janus for his money. “We women of the Rom are no more free than gorgio ladies,” she said cautiously.
“We? You speak as if you’re still one of them. Will you return to the Gypsies one day soon?”
Vivien lifted her shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. “I would like to, yes. I miss the traveling, seeing new places, sleeping beneath the stars. Most of all, I yearn for my father and mother.”
“But the Rosebuds want you to marry. They’re giving you a dowry.”
“Pardon?”
“Didn’t you know? They’re each contributing five thousand pounds for your marriage portion.”
“Five thousand...fifteen thousand...” Stunned, Vivien tried to absorb the news. For a moment, she was tom between disbelief and eagerness, the thought of giving such riches to her parents. Then disgust filled her. Not even for a vast fortune would she wed a gorgio. “Michael will be furious.”
Interest sharpened Charlotte’s features. “Michael?”
“He believes me a thief already,” Vivien said heatedly. “He thinks no one of the Rom is to be trusted.”
“How devilish of him. Well, that would explain why he was staring so intently while you descended the stairs.”
Vivien’s mouth felt parched. Michael had been watching her?
Charlotte gazed at her with a faintly secretive tension. Then she changed the subject with mercurial ease. “Will you tell my fortune?”
Vivien knew Michael despised such deceptions. The devil take him. “If you wish. Show me your palm.” Charlotte slowly peeled off her glove, and Vivien scooted closer, considering what this carefree, impetuous girl wanted to hear. But as she reached out, she froze, staring down at Charlotte’s hand. A mass of whitened scars covered her skin, twisting over her palm and fingers. The hideous, ridged flesh extended up her wrist and vanished inside her long sleeve.
“Oh, Charlotte,” she whispered, raising sympathetic eyes to the girl’s face. “What happened?”
Charlotte stared coolly back. “My right arm was burned in a fire when I was thirteen. Ugly, isn’t it? Prospective suitors are especially horrified.”
Vivien saw a bitter pain in her eyes. Though she sensed Charlotte would spurn pity, her heart went out to the girl. No wonder she’d never married. Men would be drawn to Charlotte’s vivacious beauty, only to be repulsed by her scars.
But why had Charlotte shown her? Did she use her disfigurement to determine who were her true friends and who were not?
“Give me your other hand,” Vivien said, deciding it was best to play her game rather than express compassion. “I’ll read that palm, instead.”
Charlotte regarded her with an understandable suspicion. Then, as she removed her other glove and extended a slim, flawless hand, a deep male voice echoed through the chapel.
“So here’s the entertainment. May I be next in line for the Gypsy fortune-teller?”