The Other Daughter (24 page)

“None at all,” Rachel agreed, giddy with relief. Her mad plan might have a chance after all. Taking Mr. Trevannion's hat from his hands, she led him over to the side of the room. “There's not really a hatstand, I'm afraid, but if you stash your hat over there, below that ottoman, you might save it from being squashed.”

Mr. Trevannion—John—stepped back as Rachel suited action to words, stowing the high-crowned hat beneath a rather dilapidated red velvet footstool. “You're very good.”

“Call it practical, rather.” Rachel straightened, dusting off her hands on the red chiffon skirts, which, by dint of the addition of several fringed shawls, had been converted to a gypsy costume. “A good hat is a terrible thing to waste.”

John shook his head slightly. “I stand by my earlier opinion.” The expression of frank admiration on his face made the compliment seem more than just words. Jokingly, he said, “Are you quite sure you're Montfort's cousin?”

The words were spoken in jest, of course. They had to be. There was no reason for the little shiver of alarm to run down Rachel's spine.

Rachel scooped her cocktail up off the ottoman, wrapping her fingers around the stem of the glass. “What
do
you have against Simon? Not that he can't be perfectly infuriating on general principle.”

“I don't—” John began, and then broke off, laughing uncomfortably. “Oh, why not? He wrote a rather scathing article about a piece I wrote, on disarmament.”

Rachel raised her perfectly plucked brows. “I hadn't thought the Man About Town involved himself much in politics.”

“This one, he put under his own name.”

“What did he have to say?” asked Rachel, genuinely curious. It was hard to imagine Simon serious about anything.

But he had been, a bit, that day at Heatherington House, and again when she had descended on him in his flat, that miserable, desperate afternoon. Beneath the barbs and the wit for wit's sake, there had been a thread of something, something real and dark and serious.

John shrugged. “Oh, the usual blather about the perfidy of our allies and another war being just around the corner. You know the sort.”

“He's certainly not the only one to think so,” said Rachel cautiously. The headlines of the papers screamed similar warnings every day.

“And what better way to create another war than to wave guns in the face of our allies?” said John vehemently. “It's men like Montfort who set us back decades. If we want to see peace in our time, we need more cooperation, not less. Naturally, the crusty old army sorts all took up his call. I nearly lost my seat.”

Rachel looked up sharply. “Did you?”

Her mind churned with possibilities. Lady Ardmore had been willing to settle for a rising politician for Olivia. But what if the rising politician ceased to rise? What then? Would the match be retracted with a polite notice in
The Morning Post
?

John scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “It was a close-run thing. Mine is a fairly conservative constituency.”

A pocket borough, Simon had called it. Were there even such things anymore? Mere nastiness, Rachel decided.

“But you prevailed in the end,” she said lightly. “When do you and the Lady Olivia marry?”

“Oh, not until after Jicksy's twenty-first.” As if he realized how vague that sounded, John added hastily, “They make rather a thing of the coming of age of the heir, the Standishes. And we're in no hurry, Olivia and I. We do have the rest of our lives, after all.”

He didn't sound quite so pleased by it as he could.

“I'm sure Lady Olivia will be a brilliant hostess.” Rachel took a deep drag on her cigarette. After three weeks, she had mastered the art of doing so without coughing. “Such an asset to you. I understand Lady Ardmore is very active in Conservative circles?”

John discovered a certain interest in the heavy silk folds of his scarf. “Yes. Lady Ardmore is quite … forceful.” His eyes met Rachel's, ruefully amused. “I appreciate her dedication—even if we don't always see eye to eye on matters of policy.”

On an impulse, Rachel said, “Whatever are you doing with the Tories?” Trying to soften her words, she said, “Your ideas sound … well, a bit progressive for that lot.”

John grinned at her. “Mr. Churchill said somewhat the same thing to me last week. In a far less attractive guise.”

“Yes, yes,” said Rachel. “Compliment taken. But why, then?”

John thought for a moment. “I believe in Mr. Baldwin. He's a good man. A thoughtful man. As long as he remains at the helm…”

“And if he doesn't? What then?”

“That's the question, isn't it?” John's lips quirked in a smile. “Has anyone told you that you're really quite perceptive?”

Rachel could feel her cheeks warm beneath the layers of powder and rouge. She shrugged, saying, in her best Madame Zelda voice, “It is all in the cards, you know. Merely cross the palm with silver and hear the secrets of the ages! Or something like.”

“You don't have to spout that nonsense,” John said indulgently. “Not for me.”

Rachel drew her fringed shawl more firmly around her. “You don't like my Madame Zelda?”

“It's not that.” He was looking at her, looking through the silk fringe, the face paint, the gaudy trappings. “You pretend to be like the rest of them. But you're not, are you?”

He didn't know the half of it.

For a mad moment, Rachel wondered what it would be if she told him the truth, then and there. That she wasn't an international heiress with a taste for the clavichord. That she was, in fact, nothing more than a nursery governess in fancy feathers and a borrowed flat.
My name is Rachel Woodley
 …

But she couldn't. Not now, and particularly not with him.

“You can't think what a relief it is,” John was saying, “to have someone sensible to talk to at these things.”

“That's one way of putting it. My cousin”—Rachel looked automatically over her shoulder—“tells me I'm hopelessly bourgeois in my outlook.”

John was touchingly indignant on her behalf. “I should call that a compliment.” He cast a disparaging look around the room. “Especially among this lot.”

Pat on her cue, Cece swirled in upon them, resplendent in a gold lam
é
and crimson feathers. “
There
you are! We've been looking everywhere for you, you naughty, naughty things.”

Behind her stood Lady Olivia Standish, the opposite of resplendent in dull pink chiffon, unbecoming flounces, and drooping roses.

“Cece! Lady Olivia!” Rachel covered her confusion with an excess of enthusiasm, slopping her drink in the process, all too aware of John's presence beside her, as though she'd been caught with her finger in someone else's pie.

One was allowed to chat about politics without feeling as though there were anything sordid about it. That was what one did at cocktail parties. Chat. And drink. She oughtn't to be feeling so flustered.

It was Simon, standing behind them, watching her with a decidedly ironical eye, who had put the idea in her head. Simon and his ridiculous notion that she had an eye on her sister's fianc
é
.

Rachel gathered up her drink and her draperies. “Darlings!” she exclaimed. “You've been an age!”

“We've been an age?” Cece wagged a finger at her. “We ought to be very cross with you, oughtn't we? I've been looking
everywhere
. Livvy wants her fortune told, don't you, Livvy?”

Lady Olivia looked as though she wanted nothing of the kind. And why should she? Her future was assured. Marriage to John and a cozy mansion in Eaton Square.

“Surely you don't need a crystal ball for that?” Rachel moved away from John with a swish of silk fringe. “I see orange blossoms and white tulle…”

“And a voyage over the water?” drawled Simon.

He'd dressed as a sort of swami, in a purple turban, puffy pants, and a pasteboard scimitar at his waist. He ought to have looked ridiculous.

He didn't.

Rachel flicked ash from her cigarette, striking a provocative pose. “Does the Thames count?”

Simon folded his arms across his chest, every inch the pasha. “Better make it the Seine, at least. Far more romantic.”

Rachel wasn't going to allow him the last word. “If filled with frogs?”

“A geographical hazard.”

“Oh, do stop being ridiculous.” Cece gave Simon a little push. The force of the movement made her stumble on her high-heeled slippers. Swaying toward Rachel, she said imperiously, “You do have your cards?”

“They're about somewhere.” Rachel had made sure to practice before leaving the flat, although she had hoped that, in the general scrum, she wouldn't be called upon to perform. Cunningly, she said, “But wouldn't you rather another drink first?”

She kept one eye on Lady Olivia, who was looking distinctly uncomfortable. And no wonder in that dress.

She couldn't let Lady Olivia leave. Not yet. Rachel's latchkey had been left at home, for verisimilitude—and so she couldn't get cold feet.

“Your glass is decidedly empty,” said Simon to Cece. “Allow me to escort you to the bar.”

He raised a brow at Rachel over Cece's head. Giving Rachel a chance to beg off the card reading? Reminding her to take the opportunity to further her acquaintance with her sister? Rachel wasn't sure. With Simon, one never was. One simply had to seize the main chance as it was offered.

“No need.” With an arch smile, Cece held aloft a battered silver flask. “I nicked this off Tommy Digby.”

“Darling, not Tommy!” The role came so easily by now. “After what happened last time…”

“Any port in a storm,” said Simon blandly.

“It's gin, actually,” said Rachel, just to see Simon raise a brow in exaggerated disgust. Since Cece seemed determined to stay for the show, Rachel said dutifully to Lady Olivia, “
Shall
we have a go with the cards?”

“That won't be necessary.” Lady Olivia spoke in her soft, slightly husky voice. “I shouldn't want to put you out.”

Was there a subtle dig in that?

“No trouble,” said Rachel, with a smile that felt as though it had been painted on. She swept a corner of her shawl over her head, adopting a mystic voice. “Nothing is hidden from the all-knowing eye of Madame Zelda! In these cards, I hold the secrets of the future—and the past.”

Cece was lit like a Roman candle, fizzing with excitement. “See?” she said triumphantly, swaying a little on her heels. “Didn't I tell you?”

Lady Olivia looked at Cece and didn't seem to like what she saw. Putting a hand on John's arm, she murmured, “We really ought to go.…”

“Oh, come,” said John indulgently, giving her hand a perfunctory pat. “We came all this way, don't you want to see what Madame Zelda will reveal?”

He smiled, showing that he thought it all a great joke.

Lady Olivia attempted to mimic the smile, but she looked … uneasy. Rachel's eyes flicked from one to the other. To Cece, exultant with anticipation; John, determinedly amused; and Olivia, who looked distinctly uncomfortable.

And then there was Simon.

He slid a casual arm around Cece's shoulders. “You do know that it's all rubbish, don't you?” The words were light, but Rachel sensed something genuine beneath them. “The cards are only bits of paper.”

“Don't be such a bore.” Cece shrugged off Simon's arm, tugging at Rachel's hand. “There's a table over there. Let's sit, shall we?”

In the end, Rachel and Olivia sat. The others stood around them.

The table had been draped in red velvet, a crystal ball in the middle. John, Simon, and Cece all wavered in the glass, a series of carnival images, distorted and unnerving. Rachel ignored the ball and concentrated on the cards.

Rachel fanned the deck in front of Olivia. “I need you to draw seven cards. They must,” she added in her best Madame Zelda voice, “be chosen with your own hand.”

Lady Olivia's hand hesitated over the deck.

“Choose wisely,” said Simon sarcastically.

Cece swatted him on the arm. “Hush. You'll destroy the vibrations.”

“It will be what it will be,” said Rachel soothingly. Particularly since she would be assigning the meaning. The silk fringe fell in her face. She brushed it back again. “Have you made your choice, Lady Olivia?”

The other woman started to reach toward the cards, and Rachel raised a hand to stop her.

“No gloves. Your bare fingers must touch the cards.”

“For the psychic powers to be transmitted?” said Simon.

“Yes,” said Rachel firmly.

There was an awkward silence as Lady Olivia tugged at the engagement ring that was lodged so snugly over the kid of her gloves.

“Do get on with it,” said Cece impatiently.

Lady Olivia didn't grab at the cards, or take them all in a clump. Delicately, she drew the cards at intervals, picking each one as though it were a flower.

Her pale lashes flickered up, revealing those gray eyes that were so familiar and yet so different. Tentatively, she offered the cards to Rachel. “Here.”

“Mmm,” said Rachel, and wondered just what it was that Lady Olivia was so afraid she might see. The old scandal about her elopement with Simon? Or something more recent, more damning? She tapped the cards together into a little pile, then set the first one down, faceup. “Four … a change in your life. And not just a four, but the four of hearts. Marriage?”

Olivia glanced up at John, just the smallest movement, before looking down again, at her bare hands.

Rachel turned another card. “The eight of diamonds. There are festivities in your future, a celebration of some kind.”

“A wedding?” suggested Simon, in dulcet tones.