The Bachelor Trap (2 page)

It seemed wrong to her that someone's tragic misfortune should be the saving of her little family.

Hamilton stirred. “So, when the Season is over, you're off to Longbury to start a new life?”

“That's the plan,” answered Marion.

“What was wrong with the old life?”

Marion jumped in before Emily could open her mouth. One had to be careful about what one said in front of Brand Hamilton. He was a newspaperman and had the knack of making people say more than they wanted to.

“You know how it is,” she said. “It passed away when my father died. Cousin Morley and his wife took over our home. It made things…awkward.”

“All the same,” he said, “you're bound to miss your friends. The Lake District covers a wide area. You could sell Edwina's cottage and set yourself up nicely in one of the scenic villages close to Keswick. That way, you could avoid Cousin Morley and keep up with your friends.”

“Longbury has its own beauty,” replied Marion, “and I'm sure we'll make new friends there.” It sounded as though he didn't want her to go to Longbury.

“Oh? You remember the village, do you? And the woods and the downs?”

They'd had this conversation before, and his persistence in trying to jog her memory puzzled her. “Of course, but only vaguely. As I told you, I was only a child when my mother and I visited Longbury.” The holiday was an attempt, she supposed, at a reconciliation between Edwina and Mama, but it hadn't worked. “But should we decide that it doesn't suit, or we start pining for the Lake District, we may take your advice.”

“Marion, no!” interjected Emily. “Keswick is so isolated; Longbury is close to London.” Suddenly moderating her tone, as though remembering her advanced years, she went on, “There is so much to do in London. You've said so yourself. And what about Cousin Fanny? We promised to be here over Christmas.”

Marion flashed her sister an affectionate smile. An eighteen-year-old girl could be forgiven for lusting after the glamour of life in town with its round of parties and balls, especially when there had been little to celebrate in the last few years. It seemed that they were hardly out of their mourning clothes when they were in them again. There had been no parties, no outings of any note, no laughter, and no joy. Cousin Fanny's invitation to take in the Season before going on to Longbury could not be resisted. Her sisters deserved a little excitement in their lives and something to look forward to.

Marion was aware that Hamilton thought she spoiled Emily, but she didn't care what he thought. He could not guess how harrowing these last few years had been, and she didn't want him to know. For one thing, she didn't know him that well, and for another, people who wallowed in their misfortunes soon found themselves without any friends. Her sisters had learned to smile again. That was what mattered.

She forced herself to forget the dull throb in her toes and find a convincing explanation for her desire to start a new life. “Family is important to us, Mr. Hamilton, and Cousin Fanny is the only family we have left now. We want to be close to each other. The Lake District is so far away that we've seen each other only once in the last ten years.”

He inclined his head as though he understood. A moment passed and he observed idly, “I remember Edwina saying much the same thing. You were the only family left to her, but the journey was too arduous for an old woman to make.”

Hearing a rebuke in the words, she gave him a keen look. His eyes reflected nothing but polite interest.

Sometimes she didn't know what to make of this man. He'd appeared on Fanny's doorstep the day after they arrived in London. It turned out that he and Reggie, Fanny's husband, were good friends; they attended the same clubs and shared an interest in politics. Reggie was the member of Parliament for a riding in north London. In fact, Reggie was hopeful of persuading Mr. Hamilton to become a candidate in the next by-election. Mr. Hamilton, he said, had risen from humble beginnings to become, at the age of thirty-three, the owner of a fleet of newspapers stretching from London to all the major cities in the south. Fanny was more explicit. Mr. Hamilton, she said, was the son of a duke but born on the wrong side of the blanket. Both she and Reggie agreed that with his ambition and influence, Mr. Hamilton could go far in politics.

There was, however, more to Hamilton's visits than friendship with her relatives. He'd called on them, he said, because he'd once lived in Longbury and had known their aunt quite well. She thought he must have known her aunt very well indeed, for he never referred to her as Miss Gunn, but by her Christian name, Edwina.

At any rate, he'd taken a proprietary interest in Edwina's nieces, and gone out of his way to make sure that they enjoyed their first Season in London. But there was no getting round the fact that he was a newspaperman. He was naturally curious, and that made her cautious.

When the carriage pulled up outside the house, Hamilton got out first, then turned back with outstretched arms. “I'll carry you,” he said.

Marion balked at the thought of him putting his arms around her, not because she was missish but because she was fiercely independent and quite capable of taking care of herself. Then she remembered that she'd fainted and he must have carried her into the carriage. Too late now to assert herself.

“Marion,” he said, gravely patient, “you're not wearing shoes. We had to remove them so that I could examine your toes.”

“I have them right here,” Emily piped up.

“Do you want to walk into the house in your stockinged feet?”

Her smile was a little tight, but she gave in gracefully. As he held her high against his chest, Emily ran to pull the bell. Since Hamilton was watching the door, Marion took a moment to study him. His features were too harshly carved to be truly classical, and his brilliant blue eyes were sometimes a little too intense for her comfort. Luxurious brown hair brushed his collar, and the thin silver scar that sliced one eyebrow lent an air of recklessness.

It was the scar that fascinated her. She knew that he'd come by it when he'd challenged a celebrated French swordsman to a duel. Hamilton was a shrewd man of business; he commanded respect and admiration. So why would a man like that risk everything in a duel?

“I hope you like what you see.”

She'd been caught out staring. At the sound of his voice, she jerked her gaze from his scar. Never at a loss for words, she said coolly, “You were lucky not to have lost an eye.”

White teeth gleamed in the lamplight. “True, but that is not what you were thinking, Marion.”

The front door was opened by the butler, and Marion was saved the indignity of appearing speechless as Hamilton climbed the stairs.

Brand Hamilton took too much upon himself. This was Marion's thought as she assessed the distance between her bed and the dresser. On top of the dresser was her evening pochette, the one she'd had at the theater. She couldn't remember dropping it, though she supposed she must have when she fell. A maid had brought it in when the doctor arrived, and from that moment on, she could hardly keep her eyes from straying to it. The accident at the theater did not seem nearly so innocent now, and she could not understand why she had not suspected something sooner.

If she'd been allowed to take one of Mrs. Dyce's powders, she could have managed to cross the room. Fanny had even found a cane for her, now propped against the bed. But Mr. Hamilton had mentioned the dread word “concussion,” and that was enough to persuade Dr. Mendes. Concussion and opiates did not mix.

“You've only stubbed your toes, woman. You don't need laudanum for the pain.” A very jovial fellow was Dr. Mendes. “You'll be as right as rain in the morning.”

Easy to say, but her toes were still stinging and she really wanted to get to that dresser while everyone was downstairs, in Fanny's parlor, taking refreshments. The party at the Clarendon had simply moved to Hanover Square, at Fanny's request, when it became known that Marion's injuries were nothing more serious than a few bruised toes.

She thought about the fall at the theater for a long time, visualizing her first misstep. There was no doubt that she'd been pushed, but it hardly seemed credible that it was deliberate.

Incredible or not, she believed it. This wasn't the first mishap that had befallen her. Only the week before, when she was watching the fireworks display in Vauxhall Gardens, someone had come out of the shrubbery, pushed her down, and run off with her reticule. The reticule was returned the next day, intact. The gentleman who returned it had not left his name.

Just like this time.

She didn't think for one moment that anyone was trying to kill her. The mishaps were too minor for that. But someone was trying to scare her. If she could only get to her pochette, she would soon know whether she was right or merely allowing her imagination to run riot.

Gritting her teeth, she pushed back the covers and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Now she could feel the other aches and pains she'd taken in the fall—scraped knees, knotted muscles in the small of her back, and an incipient throb behind her eyes. She was reaching for her cane when her bedroom door slowly swung open. Phoebe stood there, hesitating on the threshold, but when she saw Marion on her feet, her little face blossomed with a huge smile.

“I heard that you fell down the stairs at the theater,” she said.

“I stubbed my toes, that's all. It doesn't hurt.”

Marion spoke lightly. Phoebe had a fear of accidents. Three years before, when she was seven, she'd fallen from her horse and broken her leg. The bone had not set properly. As a result, when Phoebe walked, she limped awkwardly. Marion tried not to fuss over her sister because Phoebe hated to be treated as an invalid. But sometimes, when Marion thought herself unobserved, she would watch Phoebe and worry about her wan cheeks and how thin she had become.

It was late. She should send Phoebe back to her own room with a mild scolding. Instead, she sank back on the bed and patted the mattress, inviting Phoebe to join her.

“You're cold,” she said, as Phoebe snuggled under the covers beside her.

She gazed down at a face that might have been her own when she was a girl of ten—gray eyes, stubborn chin, and pale, pale skin to match her flaxen hair. They'd both taken after their mother, while Emily had the dark good looks of their father. The difference between Phoebe and herself, thought Marion, was that at ten, she would have had a liberal sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Phoebe spent too much time indoors with her nose in a book.

Marion hoped that would change when they got to Longbury. In the Lake District, with its spectacular hills and valleys, it was hard to get around. It also rained incessantly.

Marion resisted the temptation to kiss and hug her sister and made do with rubbing some warmth into her cold limbs. “I know why you're cold,” said Marion. “You haven't come straight from your bed. You've been up to your old tricks again, eavesdropping on other people's conversations.”

One of Phoebe's favorite pastimes was to hide behind the gallery banister and look down on the comings and goings of Fanny's guests.

“I wanted to know what had happened to you,” protested Phoebe, “and when I heard Mr. Hamilton mention your name, I stopped to listen.”

Marion opened her mouth to remonstrate and thought better of it. “Mr. Hamilton mentioned my name?” she asked innocently.

Phoebe nodded. “He said that you'd most likely broken a bone in your toe when you fell.”

“Is that what he thought?” That would explain why the pain wouldn't go away.

“Yes, but the doctor said that there was nothing they could do for it and it would heal by itself eventually.”

“Nothing they could do!” Marion was outraged. “They could have given me one of Mrs. Dyce's powders!”

“I thought you said it didn't hurt?”

Marion folded her arms across her breasts. Phoebe was adept at catching adults out in little white lies. “It hurt then,” she allowed, “when I first came home. It doesn't hurt so much now.”

Phoebe glanced at Marion, then she, too, folded her arms across her chest. Observing the gesture, Marion swallowed a smile. Her little sister's desire to be just like her was a passing fancy, or she hoped it was. Idols always turned out to be a disappointment.

“Was anything else…” She cleared her throat. “Was anything else said about me?”

“No. Not by name. But I heard Cousin Fanny say that it would be a good thing if Mr. Hamilton found himself a wife.”

Marion was astonished. “Fanny said that to Mr. Hamilton?”

“No, of course not. To Cousin Reggie, after he told her that he wouldn't be surprised if Mr. Hamilton became prime minister one of these days. Was she thinking of you, Marion?”

Marion gave a short laugh. “Hardly! What put that idea in your head?”

“Don't you like him, Marion? I know he likes you. And wouldn't it be grand if you married the prime minister? I could write it up in my family history and everyone would want to read it.”

This is what came, thought Marion, of playing fast and loose with one of her own cardinal rules. Everyone was entitled to his or her privacy. She was no better than Phoebe, but at least Phoebe had the excuse that she was only a child.

She'd opened a Pandora's box and she'd better get the lid back on before murder and mayhem were let loose on the world.

“How is the family history coming along?”

Compiling a family history was Phoebe's latest hobby. There was always some new thing to occupy her mind, and whenever Phoebe's interest languished, her sisters thought of something new to occupy her. If she had been an active child, things would have been different. But she tired easily and spent much of her time indoors. She read well beyond her years, sewed, knitted, played the piano, sketched, and kept a diary. The family history had been Emily's idea, and Marion had reluctantly agreed to it, knowing that to forbid it would raise questions she had no wish to answer.

Phoebe gave a huge yawn. “There's not much in Aunt Edwina's letters, and she didn't write very often, did she?”

Marion didn't mention the estrangement between their mother and Aunt Edwina. “Maybe Mama didn't keep all of Aunt Edwina's letters, only the interesting ones.”

“Yes, but that doesn't help me. All I know is that Grandfather and Grandmother Gunn left Brighton for Longbury after they were married, and that's where their children were born.”

“Grandfather Gunn was a partner in the local attorney's office. It's his cottage Edwina inherited, and now us.”

“I know
that,
” said Phoebe. “I know about Mama and Aunt Edwina, but I don't know much about Hannah.”

“Well, she died many years ago, long before you were born.” She thought for a moment. “I do remember that she was kind to me.”

“You
knew
her?”

Marion smiled. “I was seven years old when we visited Longbury, and Hannah must have been about twenty. She was a good many years younger than her sisters. She played with me, read me stories, and took me for long walks through the woods with her dog.” Marion felt a little jolt. “I'd forgotten about the dog. Scruff—that was his name. He adored Hannah.”

Phoebe said plaintively, “You never told me this before.”

“It happened a long time ago. That's all I remember.”

“What about Mama? She never spoke about Hannah. Didn't she like her?”

Marion put an arm around Phoebe's shoulders. “She didn't speak about her,” she said, “because it made her sad. Papa was like that, don't you remember, after Mama died?”

Phoebe was bristling. “Well, I think that's nonsense! If I die, I want you to speak about me all the time. I don't want anyone to forget me.”

“I promise,” said Marion solemnly, “to talk about you so much that everyone will put their hands over their ears whenever they see me coming.”

“I mean it!”

“So do I. I shall probably go into a decline and waste away to a shadow of my former self. Enough!” She held up a hand to silence Phoebe. “I must have a maggot in my brain, allowing you to stay up till this time of night. Don't think I don't know you do this on purpose, get me talking so I'll forget how late it is.”

She pulled back the covers and pointed to the door. “Bed!”

Phoebe looked hopefully into her sister's face, seemed to recognize that the game was ended, and climbed out of bed.

Marion said, “Don't I get my good-night hug?”

Phoebe shifted from foot to foot. “Of course. But no kisses. I'm too old.”

Marion had to smile. She wouldn't insult Phoebe by pooh-poohing the notion that she was too old to be kissed. A quick hug was all she got, then Phoebe limped to the door.

“And,” Marion called after her, “no loitering on the gallery.”

When the door closed, Marion sank back against the pillows. She was not convinced that Hannah had died all those years ago. From snatches of her parents' conversations that she'd overheard, she suspected that Hannah may have eloped. If so, it was a secret her parents had not wished to share with their children, a secret that belonged in the past, and she was happy to leave it there. She doubted that Phoebe would discover the truth, but if she did, it was hardly earth-shattering.

That thought inexorably drew her eyes to the dresser and her pochette. Sighing, she got out of bed and tested her bruised toes. There was no swelling that she could detect, but the least pressure made her wince.

She reached for her cane and, using it to keep her balance, hopped on her good foot to the dresser. Just inside the pochette, tucked in beside her handkerchief, she found it.

Silence is golden. You have been warned.

She crumpled the note into her fist thinking that no one had ever misjudged a man as she had misjudged David.

“Really, Brand, I don't know how you can live like this.” Ash Denison found the bottle on the sideboard and poured a neat measure of brandy into his glass. “It's not as though you're a pauper. You could live like a king if you wanted to. Why do you choose to live in these dreary rooms in St. James's when you could set yourself up nicely at the Albany or on Bond Street?”

“Too fashionable for my taste.” Brand glanced around the sparsely furnished interior. “This serves my purpose, and I don't give out the address. If anyone wants to find me, he can apply to my office in Frith Street. You'd be surprised how many readers
do
want to find me, if only to spit in my face.”

“What about beauty and elegance?” Ash took the leather chair on the other side of the hearth and gazed with ill-concealed distaste at the glass in his hand. “Where are the fine crystal glasses and decanters? The fine silver displayed on the sideboard? The velvet drapes?”