Promise Me Tomorrow

“What are you talking about?”

“I am not the only one who would suffer if certain details from the past came to light.”

“How could it? The older one, the boy, didn’t even live, did he? He was at death’s door when I left him.”

“The boy is dead,” Richard replied curtly. “That is not the problem. It is the girl.”

“She can’t have been more than five or six. She couldn’t remember.”

“Perhaps not. But if she saw a face—the face of the man who had ripped her from her brother, say, who had taken her to an orphanage and placed her in that hellhole—who is to say that she might not remember then?”

“Surely—you’re not telling me that they have found her.”

Richard shrugged. “I doubt it. Not yet. But I sent a man to St. Anselm’s, too, when I heard that the Countess was looking for the chit. They told me where she went when she left there.”

“Where was that?” The words seemed pulled from him, as if he did not really want to know, yet could not stop himself from asking.

“She went into service with one of the local gentry. Family named Quartermaine.”

“Good God!” He paled a trifle. “The daughter of generations of earls, a maid.”

“Mmm. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Tragic, I would say.”

“She was cast out of the Quartermaine house—pregnant.”

The other man closed his eyes. “God forgive me.”

“God may, but I doubt the polite world would.”

“I did not want to!” he lashed out, goaded. “You know I tried to argue you out of it. Sweet Jesus, when I handed the little thing over to that dragon of a matron, and she was kicking and screaming and crying….” His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“Yet you did it.”

“You made me! It was the only way I could wipe clean my debt to you. You kept giving me the money, urging me to take it, and I couldn’t stop myself. I had to have that sweet oblivion.”

“I hardly forced it on you. You begged me for the money, shaking and sweating, the color of a corpse. What else could a friend have done? As I remember, at the time you praised me for my generosity.”

“I did not know then why you did it! How you got people in your debt and made them do wicked things! How you twisted and crushed them into monsters scarcely recognizable as themselves.”

“Really. Dear fellow…do you think you would have done it if you hadn’t had it in you already? You could have refused, you know.”

“I know.” Self-disgust filled his voice. “I was weak.”

Richard did not comment. He could have pointed out that the man was still weak or he would not have come in answer to his summons. But there wasn’t any point in antagonizing him unduly. It might put his back up enough to give him some spine.

“Do you think that will help you any? If people know that you took Chilton’s daughter from her family and put her in an orphanage because you had to have money for opium? For gambling and drinking and whoring? Do you think they will feel any sympathy for you?” Richard asked. When the other man glared at him, he went on, “Quite so. You and I both know what would happen to this exemplary little life that you have built up if the ton knew what you had done. Oh, no doubt some people with long memories still can recall that you were wild in your youth—so many men are, and then sober up and become responsible citizens. But none of them know about this.”

“What are you threatening? To tell everyone what I did? It will only implicate you!”

“Oh, no, I shan’t tell…not unless I am forced to. But if the Countess’s man finds the girl…if she tells everyone what happened, and I am brought down because of it, I promise you, I shan’t go down alone. I will take you with me.”

“You are disgusting.”

“What has that to do with the matter at hand? And just think, what if this girl identifies you? You are the one who took her there, you know, the last face she saw. It is you she will remember best.”

“I tell you, she won’t remember! You forget the things that happened to you when you were a child.”

“Even something that changed your life forever? I don’t know. It seems to me to be something she might remember. Or say she chanced to meet you and at the sight of your face those long forgotten memories came back? But if you are willing to risk it…” He shrugged eloquently.

“Damn you! What is it you want of me?”

“I want you to make sure that the Countess’s man doesn’t find her.”

“And how am I supposed to find her?”

“That will not be so very hard. All the servants disclaimed knowledge of her whereabouts, but one of the grooms pulled him aside and told him some interesting facts—for a price, of course. The world is so venal. It seems that little Mary Chilton—yes, that is what she called herself—had a special friend among the other servants, another maid named Winny Thompson. A couple of years after Mary left, this Winny apparently came into some good fortune. She received a letter, and promptly after that she quit her job and took the stage to London. He says the rumor was that Mary had found some means to support herself and had invited her dear friend to come live with her. My man paid him to keep the information to himself, and then he tracked this Winny Thompson to London. It seems that one of the maids gets letters from her every so often, and the housekeeper has seen the most recent address.”

“So he found…Mary?”

“I think so. He found Winny Thompson, in any case. She is the housekeeper for an apparent family, one of whom is a ‘widow’ with a nine-year-old daughter. That is the right age for Mary Chilton’s ‘delicate condition.’ The supposed widow’s name is Marianne Cotterwood. She is in her mid-twenties, and her hair is a bright red.”

The other man groaned.

“Yes. It sounds very much like the girl we seek.”

“If your man has found out so much, why don’t you have him keep her away from the Countess? He sounds quite competent.”

“Oh, he is. He is. But there are two problems. One is that I would like to make sure that Mrs. Cotterwood really is the woman I seek. The other is that I do not like to hire someone for an operation as delicate as this. A paid servant of that type can so easily turn around and gouge more money from you for being silent, you see. You, on the other hand, could scarcely extort money by threatening to break your silence. That is why I realized that you would be the perfect man for the job.”

“What is it you want me to do—pay her to leave London before the Countess’s man can find her?”

“An easy solution, of course, but too unreliable. I find that people so rarely keep their word.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” he asked, his patience obviously wearing thin.

“It’s quite simple. This woman appears to a gentlewoman, not a former maid. She moves in your sort of circle. You could easily meet her and ascertain whether she is, in fact, the woman we seek. Then…”

He paused and fixed a gaze of pure iron on the man. “Then you will kill her.”

CHAPTER FOUR

MARIANNE SMILED DOWN AT HER DAUGHTER. One of her favorite things was teaching Rosalind, who had a quick mind and a ready wit. At nine, Marianne thought she was approaching the age where she would need a tutor. The Quartermaine girls had had a beleaguered governess, a round little brown wren of a woman over whom the three girls had run roughshod. Though Marianne’s knowledge was adequate for the basic subjects she had been teaching up until now—and she could still, with her extensive reading, do a passable job of teaching literature and history—she knew that to be educated as a lady was, she needed someone who could teach music and drawing adequately, as well as mathematics, French, and possibly Latin, as well. Marianne had always thirsted for knowledge. Though the orphanage had seen to it that they were able to read, write and do figures, they had been given no opportunity to venture into the upper realms of education. Most of what Marianne had learned she had gotten from books, which she had read over and over at every opportunity.

They were in the kitchen, books and tablets spread out on the table, deep in a lesson combining vocabulary, spelling and handwriting. Across the table from them, Betsy was enjoying a late morning cup of tea, while Winny, with help from Della, was beginning to prepare dinner. Rosalind, tongue firmly between her teeth, was carefully writing with the stub of a pencil.

“Beautiful,” Marianne encouraged her, watching the copperplate writing slowly unfold. “Now what is that word?”

“S-p-e-c-u-l-a-t-e. Speculate.”

“Very good. Do you know what it means?”

Rosalind looked at her, her big blue eyes, so like her mother’s, serious in her small face. “Mmm. Is it like speculation?”

“Yes. Speculation is the noun form of the word. Speculate is the verb. Do you know what speculation is?”

Rosalind nodded, pleased that she knew the answer. “Yes. Gran taught me yesterday evening when you were gone.”

“Gran?” Marianne turned toward Betsy, who was the only grandmother Rosalind had ever known. Betsy, who had only a rudimentary education, hardly seemed the type to engage in vocabulary lessons.

Betsy gazed back at her guilelessly, her hand halting with the cup of tea halfway to her lips. Marianne’s eyes narrowed. “All right, Roz. Exactly what is speculation?”

“Well, it’s where you ante up a certain amount of money. Gran and I did a ha’pence. Only the dealer antes up double. Then he gives everyone three cards, and—”

“A card game?” Marianne swung to Betsy. “You were teaching her a card game?”

Betsy shrugged. “Just a simple one, to pass the time.”

“It was fun, Mama, and I even won!” Rosalind said excitedly. “Gran says one day she’ll teach me loo, but that takes five people, and we couldn’t get the others to play. They’re always too fidgety when you’re at a party.”

“Betsy, I told you about teaching Rosalind to gamble!”

“She has a natural gift,” Betsy protested. “It’s a shame, it is, to waste it. I never met anyone who caught on faster.”

“Rosalind is not going to be a cardsharp.”

“Of course not. But it never hurts to be able to pick up a little pocket money when you need it.”

Marianne groaned and closed her eyes. She heard a muffled snort and looked over to see Winny and Della smothering their laughter.

“Go ahead and laugh, all of you,” Marianne grumbled.

“I’m sorry, Mary,” Winny said, still smiling. “It’s just—she looked so cute, sitting there, holding those cards and dealing them like a professional.”

Marianne could well imagine it, and even her own lips twitched at the thought. “Honestly, Betsy,” she said, trying to remain stern. “She is only nine years old.”

“I know. That’s what makes it so amazing. I’d ‘a thought she was much older, the way she played.”

Marianne smiled. “Well, in the future, please, could you teach her something besides gambling games? And don’t teach her any of your tricks, either.”

Betsy widened her eyes innocently. “Tricks? Why would I teach the child any tricks?”

“You taught me one last week,” Rosalind pointed out. “You know, about how if you prick the ace with a pin, you can feel it as you deal, but it doesn’t show, and—”

“Betsy! That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

Betsy shrugged. “Well, of course, if that’s what you want. But it seems to me that a girl can always use a leg up, if you know what I mean.”

Shaking her head, Marianne resumed the lesson. It was useless, she knew, to try to get Betsy to understand the desire she had for Rosalind to lead a normal life. She didn’t know how she was going to achieve it, but Marianne was determined that Rosalind grow up not knowing poverty and want and lack of love—or the fear of living outside the law.

The rest of the lesson passed without incident, for Rosalind wanted no delays for her afternoon treat: Piers had promised to take her to fly kites. Promptly after dinner, they set off, and Marianne, faced with the prospect of an afternoon free, decided to visit the lending library.

It was one of her favorite things to do. She loved to read, a habit that everyone else in the house found a trifle odd. She was used to that attitude. All the children in the orphanage had found it even stranger. She had hidden her reading from everyone at the Quartermaine house, sneaking books out of the library in the Hall and spending her entire afternoon off reading in a special place she liked to go down by the brook. When she moved to London and started living with Harrison and Della, she had discovered the joys of a lending library.

So she tied her bonnet beneath her chin and set off. When she was a half block from the lending library, she saw a young lady walking toward her, trailed properly by her maid. As she drew closer, she recognized the young woman’s features.

“Miss Castlereigh!” Marianne was surprised by the quiet leap of pleasure she felt upon seeing the woman she had met the night before.

Penelope, who had been walking along with her eyes down, glanced up, and a smile lit her face. “Mrs. Cotterwood! What a pleasant surprise.”

“Yes. Isn’t it? I was just on my way to the lending library.” Marianne looked at the book Penelope carried. “It looks as though that is where you have been.”

“Yes, it is.” Penelope’s smile grew wider. “Do you enjoy reading, too?”

“Oh, yes,” Marianne confessed. “It is my favorite pastime.”

“Really? Me, too.” Penelope looked delighted at finding a fellow bibliophile. “Mama calls me a bookworm. But books are so much more…exciting than real life. Don’t you think?” Her eyes shone behind her spectacles. “I am quite addicted to the gothic sort of books, with mad monks and haunted castles and evil counts. One never finds that sort of thing in real life.”

“No.” Marianne dimpled. “Though I expect we should not enjoy it so much if it really happened to us.”

“I’m sure you are right.” They stood for a few minutes, chatting about their favorite books. Then Penelope reached out a hand impulsively and touched Marianne’s arm. “Do come visit me, won’t you? We can talk about books and such. I would love for you to meet my friend Nicola, as well. I am sure you would like her.” She hesitated uncertainly. “I—I hope I’m not too forward.”

“Goodness, no. I would be delighted to come.” It was an opportunity that Marianne would not dream of passing up, but she knew that she would have agreed even if it had helped her not at all. She liked this shy girl, and it was an unusual pleasure for her to get to talk to someone about books.

“That’s wonderful.” Penelope told her where she lived, a tony Mayfair address that confirmed Marianne’s initial impression of her mother’s social standing.

Behind Penelope, the maid stirred and said warningly, “Miss…”

“Yes, I know, Millie.” Penelope smiled apologetically at Marianne. “I wish we could talk longer, but I am supposed to meet Mother at my grandmother’s house, and I don’t want to be late.”

“Then I won’t keep you.” Marianne felt sure that the fierce Lady Ursula would ring quite a peal over her daughter’s head if she inconvenienced her.

“But you will come to see me?”

“I promise.” Marianne said her goodbyes and continued on her way to the lending library.

PENELOPE TURNED AND HURRIED OFF toward her grandmother’s house. She knew that her mother would not be well pleased at her making friends with someone she barely knew, and she did not want to make it worse by arriving late.

Rushing into the drawing room of her grandmother’s house, however, she found her mother in a pleasant mood. Lady Ursula smiled at Penelope, saying, “There you are, dear. My goodness, you look quite flushed. These girls…” She flashed a coy look across the room at the two men who had stood up when Penelope entered the room. “Always running about, looking at frills and geegaws.”

Penelope, following her mother’s gaze, understood Lady Ursula’s mellow attitude. Lord Lambeth and Lord Buckminster had come to call on her grandmother, the Countess of Exmoor, and while Lady Ursula dismissed Bucky as a “fribble,” she, like most of the other women in Society, was dazzled by Lord Lambeth. Penelope groaned inwardly. Frankly, Lord Lambeth made her a trifle ill at ease, and she was certain that he had absolutely no interest in her, despite her mother’s fond hopes regarding London’s most eligible bachelor. Though he was polite to her, the only reason he called on them was because he was friends with Bucky.

“Actually, I was getting a book from the lending library,” Penelope corrected her.

Lady Ursula frowned at her horribly. “Now, dear, you don’t want the gentlemen thinking you’re a bluestocking, do you?”

“I’m sure I don’t know why she should care.” The Countess spoke up for the first time. “Any man worth having admires a woman with a brain. Isn’t that right, Lord Lambeth?”

“But of course, my lady,” Justin replied smoothly. “After all, look how much you are admired.”

The Countess laughed. She was a tall, regal woman whom age had bent only a little, and it was clear that she had been a beauty when she was younger. “You are such a flatterer, Lord Lambeth. Fortunately, you are quite good at it.” She turned to her granddaughter. “Come here, child, and give me a kiss and show me what book you got.”

Penelope did as she was bid, kissing the Countess’s cheek and dropping onto the low stool beside her chair. While the Countess took her book from her hand and examined it, Penelope decided that it was better to get her news out now while her mother’s protestations would be tempered by the fact that Lord Lambeth was present.

“I met Mrs. Cotterwood while I was out,” she began.

Both Buckminster and Lambeth straightened at her announcement.

“Did you?” Buckminster asked admiringly. “By Jove, I might have known you would be the one who’d know how to find her. You always were a downy one.”

At his words, Lambeth turned and looked at him consideringly. “Were you trying to find her, then?”

“Well, I—that is—” Color rose in Buckminster’s cheeks. Finally he said, “Thought Nicola would probably want to invite her to her little soiree on Friday. You know. Have to send an invitation.”

“Ah. I see.” Justin thought that he did see, indeed. It was rare for his friend to be so interested in a woman. That certainly complicated the matter a bit. He glanced over at Penelope and saw that she, too, was watching Bucky, a wistful look on her face. He wondered what she made of it.

“Who?” Lady Ursula demanded. “Who is this Mrs. Cotterwood?”

“You know, Mama, the lady we met last night at the party. That woman you know, Mrs. Willoughby, introduced us.”

“I scarcely know Mrs. Willoughby—encroaching woman! I doubt that any friend of hers is someone we want to know.”

“Perhaps she is no more a friend of Mrs. Willoughby’s than you are,” Penelope suggested.

Her mother’s eyes narrowed, somewhat suspicious that Penelope in her quiet way was making game of her. But Lord Buckminster said seriously, “There you go. Probably Mrs. Willoughby was encroaching to her, too. Mrs. Cotterwood is perfectly respectable, I’m sure.”

Lady Ursula’s pursed mouth made clear her opinion of Lord Buckminster’s ability to judge respectability. She turned toward Lord Lambeth. “Is she known to your family, Lord Lambeth?”

“Oh, yes,” Justin replied easily. “I’ve been acquainted with Mrs. Cotterwood for some time.”

Penelope shot him a grateful look as Lady Ursula remarked, somewhat reluctantly, “I suppose that she is all right, then.”

“I invited her to call on us,” Penelope went on, pressing her point.

“Without asking me first?”

“Well, you were not there,” Penelope pointed out reasonably, “and I quite liked her.”

“Are you going to call on her, Pen?” Lord Buckminster asked, blithely unaware of Lady Ursula’s disapproving look at his use of Penelope’s nickname. “I would be happy to escort you.”

“I’m afraid I cannot. I don’t know where she lives,” Penelope confessed. “She did not tell me, and I didn’t think to ask.”

Buckminster’s face fell so ludicrously that Lambeth had to smother a laugh.

“Who is she?” the Countess asked. “Have I met her?”

“I don’t think so, Grandmama. She is very nice—and she’s beautiful, as well.”

“Ah. A rare combination, to be sure.” Lady Exmoor smiled at her granddaughter.

“Yes. But that isn’t even the best part. She likes to read. We had a nice chat about books. She had read this one I borrowed, and she said it was thrilling. In fact, that’s where I met her. I was coming from the lending library, and she was going to it.”

“I hope I shall meet her.” The Countess looked across at Lord Buckminster, who seemed to have sunk into a gloom, and Lord Lambeth, whose attention was focused on a tiny piece of lint he was picking from his trousers. “But I am afraid we are boring our visitors. Lord Buckminster came to see if we had had any word from Thorpe and Alexandra.”

“Oh! And have you?” Penelope’s interest was diverted.

“Yes. I got a letter from Alexandra this morning. They are still in Italy on their honeymoon—Venice now, it seems. She waxed quite ecstatic over the beauty of it, but she did say that they planned to come home shortly.”

“Good. I shall like to see her again.”

“Yes. I say, that will be bang-up,” Lord Buckminster agreed, abandoning his glumness. “Thorpe’s a good chap.” He paused. “Lady Thorpe, too, of course—well, what I meant was, not a chap, of course, but still—though I don’t know her all that well—I mean—”

“Yes, Bucky,” Lady Ursula stuck in blightingly. “I feel sure we all know what you meant to say.”

“Er—yes. Quite.” Buckminster subsided.

“I feel sure you will be very glad to have Lady Thorpe back, Lady Castlereigh,” Lord Lambeth said blandly to Ursula, observing her through half-closed lids.

The Countess smiled faintly and carefully avoided looking at her daughter. Lady Ursula colored. Most people in the ton knew how little she had believed that Alexandra Ward was her long-lost niece when the American heiress had arrived in London a few months ago, and how vigorously she had fought against the Countess’s accepting her as such. When finally it had been proved, she had given in with ill grace.

“Of course I will,” she told Lord Lambeth, reproof tinting her voice. “Now that I am sure that Alexandra is really Chilton’s child, I am fond of her, as I am of everyone in my family.”

“Naturally.” Given the fact that he had never seen any evidence of true fondness from Lady Ursula toward her daughter or son, Lambeth supposed that perhaps she was as fond of Alexandra as she was of others in her family.

He did not know all the facts of the case, not being close friends with the family or Lord Thorpe. However, ample gossip had passed around the ton this Season for him to know that the Countess’s son, Lord Chilton, and his French-born wife had been visiting in France at the outbreak of the revolution twenty-two years earlier. They and their three children had been reported dead, killed by the mob. This spring, at the beginning of the Season, an American woman had shown up in London and had somehow proved that she was in reality Lord Chilton’s youngest child. It had ended with the long-lost heiress marrying Lord Thorpe. The whole story, in Lambeth’s opinion, sounded like something out of a lurid novel of the sort Penelope professed to enjoy.

Lambeth’s purpose in persuading Buckminster to call on Penelope and her family had been accomplished. He had not found out the secretive Mrs. Cotterwood’s location, but he had discovered all that was to be gotten out of Penelope. It would be enough, he reasoned. A book lover—not what he had expected of that redheaded temptress—would return to the same lending library. A servant set to watch the place would soon find out where she lived.

Accordingly, Lambeth took his leave, having no wish to endure Lady Ursula’s presence any longer than was absolutely necessary. As soon as the front door closed behind him and Lord Buckminster, Lady Ursula turned on her daughter, scowling.