Irene had gone straight to their hostess, but Tammadge heard the gasp Maryann tried in vain to suppress, and followed her gaze.
“Ah,” he said softly. “I see my friend has found a new flirt. But you need not worry about Miss Isabella’s safety, my dear. Mrs. Effingham has her eagle eye on the pair.”
“I’m not worried.” Indeed, she was not. But in that instant of recognition, she had wished her friend to the dickens and herself in Bella’s place.
Slightly flustered, she met Tammadge’s sardonic gaze. “I’m merely surprised that Mr. Farrell should have received one of Mrs. Crabtree’s coveted invitations. After all, he hasn’t been in town very long.”
“If you remember, I mentioned that Woverley is Farrell’s friend as well as mine. And Woverley is Mrs. Crabtree’s nephew.”
“And why,” Maryann demanded, “did you say that I need not worry about Bella? Is Mr. Farrell so dangerous to a young lady, then?”
“Farrell is a good fellow,” Tammadge said lightly. “But something of a rake.”
“He is?”
Maryann studied the rake through narrowed eyes. She had thought him many things, but never a man with libertine propensities. Even now, seeing him chuckle at something Bella had said, she tended to believe that Tammadge was wrong.
“He can’t help it, I suppose,” Tammadge said. “Young ladies are inevitably drawn to a dark, mysterious stranger who tells them that he was a spy.”
“Who tells them?” She did not take her eyes off Farrell and therefore did not see the look of satisfaction crossing Tammadge’s face at her obvious chagrin. “Farrell is lying? He wasn’t a spy at all?”
The viscount knew a moment’s temptation to simply say, “Yes, he is lying.” But the records at Whitehall, as accessible to Lady Maryann as they had been to him, showed clearly that Farrell had spent most of his career on special assignments. The specifics of those assignments, however, were still kept under lock and key. Even his friend at Whitehall had been unable to take a look at the secret files.
“I know Farrell’s story,” Tammadge said suavely. “He does not tell an outright lie, but, I fear, he does exaggerate the importance of his role as a spy. Not that I blame him. It makes him a hero in the eyes of romantic young ladies—and an acceptable suitor for a wealthy cit’s daughter.”
Maryann gave an imperceptible start at the mention of a spy-hero and romantic young ladies, but the face she turned to her betrothed was calm. “Are you implying he is a fortune hunter?”
“No, sweet, innocent Maryann. I am simply saying that he may pick his flirts where he wishes, but must consider fortune if he wants to marry. Will you come with me to tell our hostess how happy we are to have received her coveted invitation?”
She permitted herself one more glance at Stephen Farrell—the broad shoulders, the proud tilt of his head, sun-streaked hair gleaming in the candlelight, rugged features softened in a smile at Bella.
He turned his head slightly, and across a distance of some twenty feet, his eyes met and held hers.
As on the night of the betrothal ball when she saw him the first time, she felt the power and strength Farrell emanated, and she could not believe that he would exaggerate the part he had played in the war.
Neither would he broach certain taboo subjects to a young lady unless he had a very good reason.
Maryann took an involuntary step toward him, but Tammadge touched her arm.
“My dear,” he said silkily. “I beg you to remember that Farrell is my friend. If I wish you to speak with him, I shall let you know.”
“You jest! Surely I may speak to whom I like.”
“In general, yes.” A touch of steel crept into his voice. “But, as you pointed out, Farrell is different.”
Maryann thought she saw Farrell raise a brow at her and Tammadge. He bowed and, saying a few words to Bella Effingham, accompanied the girl to her mother.
She might have reason to be irritated with Tammadge, but none at all to feel disappointed, Maryann told herself when she went with her betrothed to make her curtsy to Mrs. Crabtree, a plump, garrulous lady of some fifty years or more. She hadn’t really wanted to speak with Stephen Farrell.
Throughout the evening, Tammadge stayed at Maryann’s side, even when Bella joined her. Bella was in raptures over the many conquests she had made that evening, including Mr. Farrell—Wasn’t he simply divine? A real man!—and chattered like a magpie about the sumptuous parties Lady Effingham had planned for her.
Tammadge plied Maryann with ices, champagne, and tidbits from the buffet supper set out in one of the adjoining rooms. He showered her with tender attention, and everyone, from the Dowager Duchess of Thorpe to the latest debutante, assured her what a lucky girl she was to be the chosen bride of such a gentleman.
And yet Maryann could not shake the conviction that Tammadge was merely playing the part of the devoted fiancé. She felt uncomfortable in his company and made no demur when Irene rejoined them to suggest they start the long drive home. It was not yet midnight, but for Maryann the evening could not end soon enough.
Tammadge left to order the carriage brought around, and Maryann used the opportunity to step out onto the Crabtrees’ magnificent terrace paved with ivory and black marble. Paper lanterns had been strung, and a number of guests had wandered outside to admire the mosaic in the center of the terrace or to exclaim over the potted Mediterranean plants coaxed through the English winters in succession houses by a small battalion of gardeners.
On this night, Maryann had no eyes for plants or flowers. The moment she passed through the French doors, she saw Stephen Farrell standing near the steps leading down into the gardens.
He was half turned away from her and seemed lost in grim reflections. His face had a tight look; his brow was furrowed. She walked toward him, not knowing what she would say when she reached his side. Their last meeting had been painful, embarrassing, and she might owe him an apology.
“Good evening, Mr. Farrell.”
He gave a start and swung around as though she had fired a cannon to get his attention, and that was indeed the effect her clear voice had on him.
Stephen, who had sworn to wash his hands of Lady Maryann, to let her father look after her interests, had gone to the Crabtree rout against his better judgment. He should not care what became of her. She was not his responsibility. Yet he had come to the rout hoping to see her, hoping to see some evidence that she had taken his warning to heart.
He did see her, entering the drawing room on Tammadge’s arm. As to heeding his warning—pshaw! She had allowed her betrothed to sit in her pocket all evening. It had been a slap in the face for Stephen.
And then she had made him jump like the veriest green-head when she finally spoke to him.
“I am sorry if I startled you,” said Lady Maryann. She tilted her head and looked at him in that serious manner she sometimes had. “Or is it that you do not want to speak with me?”
“Not at all.” Drawing on his vast experience at dissembling, Stephen summoned a grin. “I feared I’d never get a chance to greet you. Tammadge was like a guard dog, yapping at your heels all evening and making sure you didn’t stray.”
She immediately perceived the truth of the observation. There were no more than sixty or eighty guests at the rout, an intimate gathering by any hostess’s standards, and the odds were that at some time or other, they should have met face to face. But they hadn’t, due to Tammadge’s clever maneuvering.
“Well, Lady Maryann? Does your betrothed forbid you to speak to me?”
“Of course not,” she said haughtily. He had, quite unwittingly, hit on the truth. But Tammadge’s unreasonable attitude was not a subject she cared to discuss with Farrell. “If you remember, we parted under somewhat, ah, strained circumstances, and I don’t quite know what to say to you.”
He remembered their last meeting well, her cry, “I despise you!” And he promptly read disdain in her manner.
“Strained, indeed,” he said coldly. “No one can accuse you of exaggeration. But don’t fret, I shan’t hold it against you that you lost your temper and flew at me like a little shrew.”
“Of all the odious—” Indignation took her breath away. “If you had not been so provoking and absolutely detestable, I should never have given rein to my temper.”
“Pray, my love”—Tammadge’s soft voice behind her made her start and spin, as Farrell had done a short while earlier—“do not give rein now. I do not care to see my betrothed in the role of a Billingsgate fishwife.”
“Never fear!” She bestowed a scathing look on each of the two gentlemen. “I have nothing else to say to either of you.”
She would have walked away, but Tammadge’s fingers closed around her wrist. Short of making a scene, she had no option but to stay at his side.
Drawing a handkerchief from his pocket, Tammadge fanned himself gently. “Farrell, my good fellow. I must thank you for keeping my betrothed amused while I was absent.”
The gentlemen engaged in a low-voiced conversation, in which Maryann took no part. She stared with distaste at the lace-edged square of lawn in her fiancé’s hand. Carrying a handkerchief was a foppish affectation, and one she found she could not like. It certainly was not a fashion she could imagine Stephen Farrell adopting.
And what the dickens did that have to say to anything? she asked herself irritably. She had always acknowledged that Farrell was no fop, and simply because she was now willing to believe his warnings about Tammadge did not mean she must compare him favorably with the viscount.
Trying to contain her irritation, she counted the embroidered oak leaves on the gently rippling cloth. There were seven leaves—for Sevenoaks, Tammadge’s estate in Northumberland.
“Farrell, you must come and dine with me some evening,” said Tammadge, and the casual pleasantry toward the man with whom he had forbidden her to speak only served to increase Maryann’s annoyance. “There is something I wish to discuss with you.”
“Pleasure. Just send me word when you want me to come.”
Tammadge nodded.
Turning to Maryann, he smiled without warmth and drew her arm through his. “Come, my dear. We must not keep your mama waiting.”
Even the travesty of a smile vanished as soon as they had taken leave of their host and hostess.
“Why did you, against my express wishes, seek out Farrell?” Tammadge demanded.
Still incensed by his high-handed treatment of her on the terrace, Maryann fired up with deplorable heat.
“Because I am not to be ruled by you, my lord. Not unless we’re married may you tell me what to do. And perhaps not even then! If I wish to speak with Mr. Farrell, I shall do so with or without your leave.”
“You are mistaken, ma’am. When we are married, you shall be governed by my every wish.”
Maryann made no reply, and neither did she initiate conversation during the drive to town. She pondered Tammadge’s assertion that a wife must be ruled by her husband—as a daughter was ruled by her father until she married. A bleak expectation. Shivering, she drew her silk cloak tight around her shoulders.
Tammadge kept an excellent stable, and the team of matched grays took them back to Mount Street in little more than an hour. Having seen Maryann and her mother into the foyer, the viscount took his leave, bowing gracefully first over Irene’s, then over Maryann’s hand.
The footman was about to close the door when Tammadge turned back. Light from a lantern affixed above the stoop fell on his face. He was smiling, but Maryann had learned to look at his eyes rather than his mouth for an indication of his mood. And his eyes were cold.
“Dear Lady Rivington,” he said. “Pray forgive me for harping back to a distasteful subject, but I cannot advise you strongly enough not to repeat the gossip you heard about William Fant. Think of the poor widow’s feelings—she’d be devastated if any such rumors came to her ears.”
“Thank you for your advice, my lord, even though it was unnecessary,” Irene said repressively. “Lady Oglesby told me that her sister, Mrs. William Fant, does not want it known her husband committed suicide. I would not have mentioned the matter at all had you not proposed that my daughter take up residence in the house. I must ask you not to repeat what I said.”
Maryann silently applauded. Every now and then, her gentle mother showed a refreshing tartness.
Tammadge’s pale eyes came to rest on Maryann.
“It was to prove my concern for your comfort that I invited you to inspect the Curzon Street house. I apologize for causing you distress. You may rest assured that I shall direct my man of business to put the house on the market,” he said curdy, turned on his heel, and departed.
See if I care! Maryann thought defiantly as she started up the stairs.
“Mama, what else do you know about the Fant affair?”
“Nothing, my love. I believe Lady Oglesby was sorry she told me as much as she did. But she was so overset, the poor dear. Not a penny was left for her sister, and with three little girls to provide for!”
“I think it is strange that no one in town heard about it. Usually, when a gentleman loses his fortune and estate gambling, the ton is abuzz with the news.
“Well, there is, of course, the upcoming royal wedding, which keeps the gossips occupied. And, I suspect, the Fant affair happened at a private card party, and the gentlemen involved are keeping it quiet.”
“Indeed! Who’d want to boast that he had driven a man to take his own life?”
“Or else,” said Irene, stopping on the third-floor landing to kiss her daughter good-night, “it happened in one of those gaming hells where they are not above using pinked cards and loaded dice. And no one would want to talk about that.”
When Maryann entered her bedchamber, William Fant and the Curzon Street house receded from her thoughts as she remembered her resolve to seek out her father in the morning. Nothing that happened this evening between her and Tammadge had been an inducement to change her mind.
The rumors about her betrothed could be true, and there was only one reason why she had refused to acknowledge this earlier: confirmation would mean total disruption of her plans for the future.
For as long as she could remember, she had wanted to be free of her father, but not, as her sisters had done, to become the chattel of a miserly husband. She had not been upset when her father refused several proposals of marriage during the past season. The young men had been eligible, but without prospects.
Not until the wealthy Viscount Francis Tammadge offered for her hand had she seen her way to freedom, and she had grasped her chance, insisting on a generous marriage settlement.
Maryann pulled off the ring Tammadge had given her and looked at it for a long moment before placing it in her jewelry box. She had not known when she accepted the ring that Tammadge, always so bland and indifferent, also had a possessive, tyrannical side to his nature.
Still, the possible loss of everything she had aimed for was not a prospect she could face with equanimity, and as she slipped between the sheets, she determinedly directed her thoughts away from an uncertain future.
That her thoughts would turn wayward and lead to Stephen Farrell, was none of her doing. She did not want to think of the man who made her bristle with indignation every time they exchanged words.