Promise Me Tomorrow

Her initial spurt of fear over, her normal spirit was returning. The smirk on the man’s face goaded her. He was everything she despised in the aristocracy: supercilious, arrogant, utterly disdainful of everyone whom he considered beneath him—which was most of the world.

“Other than the fact that I should turn you over to our host for rifling through his smoking chamber?”

“Don’t be absurd! I was simply looking around. There is no harm in that, surely.”

“What about the safe?” He nodded toward the picture, still askew, with the safe behind it.

“Safe?” Marianne could think of nothing to do except brazen it out.

His mouth twitched. “Yes. Safe. The one behind that picture. The one you were breaking into.”

“I was doing no such thing!” She put on an expression of utmost indignation. “The picture was crooked, and I straightened it.”

He let out a bark of laughter. “You are a bold one. I’ll give you that. But I have you dead to rights, and you know it.” He strolled toward her. “This was a deadly dull party, but it certainly got livelier once you arrived.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Marianne took a step backward. She found his closeness disconcerting. She disliked him thoroughly; he was her enemy. Yet his smile created the oddest sensation in the pit of her stomach. And when he came near, she could see that his eyes were clear and gold, the color of sherry, darkened by the row of thick lashes around them. She found herself staring into them, unable to look away.

His gaze was knowing and amused, as if he sensed what she was feeling. “Yes, it is. Most young women bore me.”

“I am not a young woman,” she pointed out. “I am a widow.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, of course. What a thing to say!” He was so close now that she could feel the heat of his body. Marianne took another step back but came up against the liquor cabinet and could move no farther. She braced her hands on the cabinet on either side of her and tried to face him down. “You are a very rude man.”

“So I have been told. I am not, however, a flat, so I suggest that you try to stop bamming me. I have been watching you all evening.”

“I know. I saw you. That was when I first realized how very rude you were.”

“I watched you at first because you are devilishly attractive.” He smiled and raised his hand, running his forefinger down her cheek.

A shiver ran through Marianne, unfamiliar and delightful, and she twitched away from him, irritated with herself.

“I was wondering how to get an introduction when I saw you with Miss Castlereigh and Lord Buckminster. I knew they would introduce us, but by the time I got there, you were gone. I followed you out into the hall, and that is when I noticed your extremely odd behavior.”

“You were spying on me? I find that extremely odd, my lord.”

“You have the advantage of me. You seem to know who I am—that is twice you have called me ‘my lord.’ Yet I do not know your name.”

“It is scarcely any of your business.”

“You may as well tell me. I shall find out from Bucky anyway.”

Marianne frowned. “I am Marianne Cotterwood. Mrs. Cotterwood.”

“Oh, yes, a widow. I forgot.”

“I wish you would stop using that supercilious tone. Why should I say I am a widow if I am not?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps you are. On the other hand, perhaps it is simply part of your sham.”

“I am not shamming. This is a pointless conversation, and I am leaving.”

She started around him, but Lambeth reached out and grasped the low cabinet, blocking her exit. “Not until you tell me why you were sneaking up and down this hall, peering into all the rooms. And why you came into this one and proceeded to walk around it, lifting each picture, until you found the one with a safe behind it.”

Marianne’s throat was dry, and only partly because of her trepidation. Lambeth’s body was only inches from her; his eyes were boring into hers. It was hard to breathe, and she felt strangely hot and cold.

“You are a thief, Mrs. Cotterwood,” he said in a low voice. “I can think of no other explanation.”

“No.” Her voice came out barely a whisper. Her lips were dry, and her tongue crept out to moisten them.

Lambeth’s eyes darkened, and his hand came up, his thumb tracing her lower lip. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met, but I really cannot allow you to go about robbing my friends.” He paused, and a smile touched his lips. “On the other hand, Lord Batterslee is not really what I would call a friend. More an acquaintance, actually.”

He leaned closer, his warmth and scent surrounding her. Marianne closed her eyes, almost dizzy from his nearness. Then his lips were on hers, and she jumped slightly in surprise, but she did not move away. The sensation he was creating in her was too sweet and unfamiliar. She relaxed, giving in to the pleasure. She felt the hot exhalation of his breath against her cheek as he sensed her yielding. His arms went around her, and he pulled her closer, his mouth sinking into hers urgently.

Marianne felt as if she were melting, her loins hot and waxen, her whole body shimmering with pleasure. No man had ever made her feel like this. Indeed, she had rarely allowed a man to touch her, not since Daniel. Daniel’s kisses, too, had been sweet at first…

Marianne stiffened at the thought of Daniel Quartermaine. Another aristocrat with kisses and soft words—and no thought in his mind except using and abandoning her. Suddenly she realized what Lambeth was about. She jerked away from him, her hand cracking against his cheek in a resounding slap.

He stared at her, surprised, his hand going to his cheek.

“I know what you are trying to do!” she cried.

“It seems fairly obvious,” he replied dryly.

“You think that I will bed you to keep you from telling everyone I am a thief!”

His eyebrows sailed upward. “I never said—”

“You didn’t have to. As you just said, it is obvious. You accuse me of being a thief, then start to kiss me. What else would I think?”

“That your beauty distracts me from my duty.”

“Please. I am not a fool. Nor am I a whore. You are wasting your time. I won’t sleep with you, no matter how you might slander me to everyone you know.” Marianne’s eyes flashed. She had no idea what an arousing picture she made—her eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed, her lips soft and moist from his kisses.

“A thief with morals, in other words.”

The faint amusement in his voice goaded her, and Marianne opened her mouth to reply hotly. But at that moment the door opened, and a middle-aged man stepped into the room. He stopped and gaped at them.

“I say.”

“Lord Batterslee.” Lambeth nodded to the older man.

Marianne’s stomach turned to ice. Now it would come. He would tell the owner of the house that he had found her going through his study, searching for something to steal. Her only hope lay in the fact that she had nothing on her that she had stolen. But the accusation of a duke’s son would be enough to bring a constable.

“Oh. Lambeth. What the devil’s going on here?”

Lambeth smiled suggestively. “Exactly what it looks like, I’m afraid. I was…ah, seeking a place of solitude to, um, convince the lady of my regard for her.”

Heat stole into Marianne’s face. He was intimating that they had sneaked off to the smoking room for a romantic interlude. She was torn between relief that he had not turned her over to the authorities and humiliation that he was blackening her reputation.

“A tryst? In my smoking room? Really, Lambeth…”

Lambeth shrugged, and his hand went pointedly to his reddened cheek. “Not a tryst, exactly. As you can see, Mrs. Cotterwood was somewhat averse to my suggestions.” He looked toward Marianne. “You needn’t turn violent, you know. A simple no would have sufficed.”

“Don’t speak to me!” The emotion in Marianne’s choked voice was real enough. She felt as if she might burst into tears at any moment from all the conflicting feelings that were tearing at her. But she also had the presence of mind to seize the opportunity to flee. Spitting out, “You cad!” to Lambeth, she rushed out the door, skirting Lord Batterslee’s rotund form. Lord Lambeth could hardly come running after her with the other man standing right there.

She ran down the hallway to the stairs, only slowing when she came in sight of the other partygoers. It would attract attention to run down the stairs in full view of everyone, but she walked as quickly as she could, her body tensed for the sound of her name or a touch on her shoulder. However, she made it to the front doors without incident, and since there were several hackney coaches in the street in the hopes of catching fares from the party, she was able to scramble into one immediately.

To her relief, the hackney set off at a smart pace. She turned and looked out the window. There was no sign of Lord Lambeth. With any luck, he had gone back to the ballroom, thinking that she would have rejoined the party. Or perhaps he would not care enough to search for her. She doubted that Lord Lambeth had any trouble getting women; he would not need to track down a recalcitrant one. But why had he lied to Lord Batterslee? Perhaps he had hoped that he could still blackmail her with his knowledge, given a little more time to persuade her.

Marianne smiled to herself. He was going to find it difficult to see her again. No one there tonight, not even Mrs. Willoughby, knew where she lived. She was always careful to keep her private life separated from the world of what Piers called the “flats.” Besides, this was the first time that she had made a foray into the highest society of London. In years past, they had worked on the well-to-do, the Cits and lesser gentry both in London and in other cities. Their quarry had not moved in the highest circles. The last year or two, as sort of an audition, they had spent their time in the resort towns of Brighton and Bath, where she had mingled with the upper crust who were vacationing there. It had been only two months ago that they had decided to try their game among the ton of London.

She had spent the time establishing herself in London, calling on the women, such as Mrs. Willoughby, whom she had met in Bath and Brighton and who had encouraged her to visit them if she ever came to London. She had hoped to gradually work her way into their social spheres, meeting ever more people. It had been sheer good fortune that she had been calling on Mrs. Willoughby the day the woman received her coveted invitation to Lady Batterslee’s party. Gleeful and wanting someone to witness her triumph, Mrs. Willoughby had impulsively invited Marianne along, thus propelling Marianne higher and more quickly into Society than she had ever dreamed.

Now, of course, she thought gloomily, it was all ruined. Leaning back against the seat, Marianne closed her eyes and gave herself up to depressing thoughts. All their hard work…all the time and effort…all the hopes they had had of making enough money in London to retire from the Game…all was for naught. By the time the hackney stopped in front of her narrow, pleasant house on the fringes of Mayfair, Marianne was thoroughly blue.

Climbing out of the coach, she paid the driver and walked slowly toward the house. Before she could reach for the doorknob, it swung open. Winny stood in the doorway, grinning at her.

“I was watchin’ for you,” Winny confided, the proper English she had been cultivating for the past few years slipping a little, as it always did when she was excited.

She was still small, though the past few years of decent food had put more pounds on her frame and roses in her cheeks. But nothing could make up for the years of malnourishment in her youth. She and Marianne had been friends for as long as Marianne could remember, growing up as best they could in the orphanage. Winny, older than Marianne, had left St. Anselm’s two years before Marianne. She had gotten a job in service at the Quartermaine household, not far from the orphanage. On her rare days off, she had visited Marianne, and when Marianne turned fourteen and left the orphanage, Winny had recommended her to the Quartermaine housekeeper. They had been together ever since, except for the two years after Marianne had been thrown out of the Quartermaine house. But later, after Marianne was established in her new life, she had sent for Winny, and Winny had joined her new “family.” She had not had the skills that the rest of the family used to earn their way, but she had contributed by being their housekeeper, work she was well acquainted with.

“Everyone’s waiting in the sitting room,” Winny went on.

Marianne nodded, her heart sinking even lower. She knew that everyone had been excited about their first foray into the upper reaches of Society, and she hated to face them with her failure. They would be kind, of course; they always were. It was only with these outcasts that she had found kindness. But their very kindness made her feel even worse about letting them down.

She went down the hall into the sitting room, with Winny following her. They were indeed all there. Rory Kiernan, whom they all affectionately called “Da” because he was the oldest among them, was sitting on the couch with his wife, Betsy. Betsy was an expert at cards and at separating the flats from their money, and Da was one of the premiere pickpockets of London, but they were largely retired now. They were the parents of Della, the improbably dark-haired middle-aged woman who was sitting in a chair beside them, and who now sprang to her feet at Marianne’s entrance.

“Marianne!” Della grinned from ear to ear and opened her arms wide to embrace Marianne. She was a short, plump woman with twinkling brown eyes and an infectious laugh, and it was clear that she had been a beauty in her day. She was the closest thing to a mother that Marianne had known. It was she and her husband, Harrison, the short, wiry man beside her, who had rescued Marianne when she came to London over nine years ago.

Marianne had been Mary Chilton then, not quite nineteen years old, frightened and alone—and pregnant. Working as a maid in the Quartermaine household, she had caught the eye of the eldest son, Daniel, when he had been sent down from Oxford. To pass the time, Daniel had first flirted with her, then wooed her with seductive words and sweet promises. Naively, she had thought that he loved her, and for a brief time she had been very happy. But when his words of love did not prevail upon her to come to his bed, he had taken her by force. Crushed and heartbroken, Marianne had gone to the housekeeper, who had told her that she had best keep quiet about the matter or she would only stir up trouble for herself. Daniel would be returning to Oxford soon, the housekeeper reminded her, and in the meantime, she would keep Marianne at work in the kitchen, where she would not have to run into him.

Before long, Marianne had realized that she was pregnant. She wrote to Daniel, putting aside her pride for the sake of her unborn child, and begged him for help, but he never replied. When she began to show, Lady Quartermaine had ordered the housekeeper to dismiss her. Marianne had been unable to get work at any other house in the area. No one wanted a servant with licentious ways. Finally, she had gone to London, hoping that in that impersonal city she would find some job where her pregnancy would not matter. Winny had given her every penny that she had saved, but Marianne could not find work in London, either, and it was not long before all of Winny’s meager savings were gone.

Desperate and hungry, she had stolen some fruit from a vendor’s stall. She had not been very good at it, and the vendor saw her take it and began to chase her. Della and Harrison, who had been watching the scene unfold, saved her. Harrison neatly tripped the vendor, then helped him up with a great many apologies, insisting on brushing off his clothes and explaining at great length how the accident had come to happen. Della, in the meantime, took Marianne by the arm and whisked her away. She had taken her to their home, a set of rooms in a less fashionable part of town, and had given her supper. Marianne, overwhelmed by her kindness, had collapsed into sobs and told Della her story.

Della’s heart had ached for the poor girl, alone in the world, with no family to help her and nowhere to go, no way to make a living. She knew that the workhouse was the only option left to Marianne, and that was a fate that Della would not have wished on anyone. So, with no fuss, she and Harrison had taken Marianne in.

Marianne knew that they had helped her more than she could ever repay, and she would have done anything for them. When she found out that Della and Harrison were thieves by trade, she had revised her moral standards. Whatever she had been taught in the orphanage about right and wrong, she knew that Della and her husband were good people, whereas the supposedly virtuous Lady Quartermaine and the matron at St. Anselm’s were at heart wicked.

Della and Harrison were not common thieves. Harrison was an “upper-story” man, skilled at picking locks, opening safes and breaking into houses without disturbing the occupants. One of the reasons for his success was the work of his partner Della. She spoke and acted like one of the gentry. Her mother, Betsy, had run a gaming hall much of Della’s life, and she had taught Della to speak and act genteelly, preparing her for the same sort of life that Betsy had led. After Della met Harrison, they had realized that if she moved among the wealthier classes, she could determine the layout of a house and the location of its valuables, and then Harrison could far more easily get in and out of the house and lighten its occupants of some of the burden of their wealth.

Marianne stayed with the two of them all through her pregnancy and for several months after the baby, Rosalind, was born. She could not help feeling that she was a burden to them, but she also could not see how she was going to support herself and her daughter, as well as raise the child. The only occupation she knew was being a maid, and she knew that no one would hire her if she had a child with her. But there was no way she could give Rosalind up.

Harrison had come up with the solution to their problem. Marianne, he pointed out, could do the same job as Della. She already spoke rather better than most of her peers, and she carried herself with a natural grace. He and Della, he pointed out, could train her in all the finer points of manners and speech. Dressed like a lady, she would be stunning, and her beauty and youth would help them obtain entré into finer houses—an idea that he expressed with a great deal of tact and circumlocution, until finally Della had chuckled and told him that she was well aware that Marianne outshone her. Indeed, Marianne outshone any woman she knew. Motherhood—and an adequate diet—had made Marianne even more beautiful, giving her skin a luminous glow and adding more curves to her slender body.

Marianne had felt some qualms about entering the world of thieves, but she had suppressed them. She would do anything Della and Harrison asked of her, and, besides, she had a mother’s fierce instinct to take care of her child. She was determined to make enough money to give her daughter an easier and better life than she had had. So she had entered into lessons with Della, and they had discovered, somewhat to their surprise, that she picked up the correct speech and manners of the upper class with ease. She was, Harrison declared, a natural, and by the time Rosalind was a year old, Marianne had adopted the name Marianne Cotterwood, making herself a respectable widow, and was making calls with Della.

It was an easy enough job, as long as one had a quick wit and good nerves, both of which Marianne possessed. In order to pass among the wealthy, one had to dress well, so she had a supply of beautiful clothes. She ate well. She had a great deal of time to spend with her daughter, and when she was not there, Della or Betsy was happy to take care of the little girl. Marianne was also good at what she did. She had a quick eye and a good memory, and without appearing to study a house, she could quickly spot the best entrances and exits, as well as the most expensive and most portable valuables, and carry all the information in her head to give to Harrison. Della readily admitted that Marianne was better than she at what she did, and Della soon slipped into a happy semiretirement, going along with Marianne only when they thought a chaperone was a social imperative.

Marianne had been scouting for Harrison for eight years now, and their fortunes had been steadily increasing all that time. They were able now to rent a fair-size home in a good neighborhood, as well as hire Winny as housekeeper and cook, and two maids to help her. Their “family” had also grown. First, Da and Betsy, growing too old for the Game, had moved in with them. Then Harrison and Della had taken in a stray adolescent who had been scratching out a living as a pickpocket, working for a hard fellow who ran a ring of youthful pickpockets, giving them a place to sleep and some food to eat and taking most of their profits in return. Piers was twenty-two years old now, and Harrison had turned him into a skilled upper-story man.

Now Della hugged Marianne and pulled her toward a chair. “Sit and tell us all about it. Was it terribly grand?”

“The grandest party I’ve ever seen,” Marianne replied honestly. She looked around at the eager faces watching her, from Betsy’s wrinkled, powdered visage to Piers’ freckled, snub-nosed one.

“I knew it!” Betsy let out a hoot of laughter. “His father used to come to my gaming house, and he was always flush in the pockets—at least when he came in the door. Drunk as a wheelbarrow, of course, but, still, a real blue blood.”

“Well, I don’t know the color of his blood, but I’d say the son is flush in the pockets, as well. The problem is…” She hesitated, glancing around at them, then sighed. “Oh, the devil! The truth is, I made a dreadful mull of it.”

“Don’t be daft,” Piers said, dismissing her words with a wave of his hand. “You always think you did something wrong.”

“He’s right. I am sure you did wonderfully,” Della agreed.

“No.” Marianne shook her head, and tears sprang unexpectedly to her eyes. She blinked them away and went on. “It wasn’t just something I did wrong. It was everything. I was discovered.”

The room fell silent. Marianne dropped her eyes, unable to look at the others.

Finally Harrison started to speak, then had to stop and clear his throat. “Wh-what? How could you have been discovered? You’re sitting right here. They couldn’t have—”

“He did not turn me in. But he saw what I did. He accused me. Oh, how could I have been so careless? I didn’t see him at all!”

“But who—I don’t understand.” Harrison came forward. “Who saw you?”

“Lord Lambeth. He had been looking at me earlier. But I didn’t see him as I left the ballroom. I went up and down the corridor looking for the study because I presumed the safe would be there—although I did see some excellent silver pieces in one of the drawing rooms. Anyway, I found a smoking room finally, and I began to hunt around the walls, looking for a safe. Then he appeared.”

Della drew a sharp breath. “Oh, no. What did he say?”

“He thought I was about to try to open the safe. Of course I told him that he had misinterpreted the scene, that I was simply straightening the picture, but he didn’t believe it. He was sure I was a thief. He had followed me out of the ballroom, you see, and had seen me looking into all the rooms up and down the hallway, and searching behind the pictures for a safe. He knew I was lying.”

“But he didn’t say anything to anyone? He didn’t betray you to Lord Batterslee?”

Marianne shook her head. “No. It was very odd. He was—well, he seemed rather amused by the thought that I was a thief. A most peculiar man. When Lord Batterslee came into the study and found us, Lord Lambeth did not say a word about what I had been doing.”

“Thank heavens!” Della replied heartfeltly.

“Yes,” Harrison agreed. “But why?”