by M C Beaton
Marysburgh. He racked his brains. There was something there, just on the edge of his memory. He was dancing with Angela and looking across the ballroom floor to where MacGregor and Lucy were peering into the ballroom. Damn! And wait, here was another. Angela’s lady’s maid. Quiet little thing. But he’d remembered thinking he had met her before and thinking what beautiful green eyes she had.
So the little lady’s maid and the butler had decided to take society by storm. And to take Andrew Harvey to the altar!
And where had they got the money? There was only one answer. Theft. They must have stolen jewelry or something immensely valuable from the Marysburghs in order to live in such a style. He felt sick. He would rather have put down an Indian mutiny single-handed than go back to the house and face that pair. If his heart did not break, then most of his other internal organs certainly did. His lungs could not seem to take in enough air and he had a sick, twisting pain in his stomach.
He led his horse through the woods and back over the lawns toward the house, feeling amazed that the sun was still shining.
He rifled through the mail on the hall table, trying to delay the inevitable confrontation. There was a bill from his tailor, and then one long white envelope addressed in an unfamiliar hand.
He opened it up and turned it over, looking for the signature. It was signed “a friend.” God! A poison pen letter. That was all he needed. But despite himself he began to read.
“Dear Viscount,” he read. Familiar bastard! “It may interest you to know that your bride-to-be amassed her considerable fortune in the casinos of Europe by playing baccarat at which she has almost magical skill and luck. She plays under the guise of her “sister,” disguising her figure by stuffing pillows down her dress and making her face—by some means—swell to twice its size.
“You are a lucky man indeed to be marrying such a gold mine. Ask Mr. Balfour-MacGregor what happened to his mysterious daughter Harriet. It is annoying to know that you are so rich already, my lord, that you will never need to use your wife’s tremendous money-making skills. But does the great and old name of your family wish to ally itself to a pair of liars, adventurers, and professional gamblers?”
Andrew stood clutching the letter as if it were a talisman. What a beautiful day it was! What glorious sunshine! What splendid roses! And God, he was hungry!
Lucy and MacGregor could be anything they damn well cared. But they had not wanted his money. They had not stolen money to gain their place in society. Poor Lucy! How she must have suffered! But what a splendid pair. The maid and the butler setting social London by the ears and the little lady’s maid making a king laugh!
She would have to tell him the truth before they were married. And somehow, he had a happy feeling that she would.
And Jeremy Brent, who had planned to wreck the marriage with his spiteful letter, would never know that he had been instrumental in saving it.
With a mocking gleam in his blue eyes, Andrew breezed in to the breakfast room.
“Morning, Mother! Morning, Lucy! Morning, sir! Gosh, I’m hungry. I never thought to tell you, sir, but some fellow in the club saw you last winter at a casino with your other daughter. What was her name? Harriet! That’s it. Said she had phenomenal luck at cards. I noticed you haven’t suggested inviting her to the wedding.”
He could feel the stillness of shock in the room behind him.
“Poor Harriet went into a convent in Belgium.”
“Oh, dear. Still that needn’t stop her coming to the wedding,” said Andrew blithely. “I’ll get Mater to write to the mother superior.”
“It wouldn’t do any good,” said MacGregor. “Harriet’s determined never to set foot outside the convent again.”
I bet she is, thought Andrew cynically.
Andrew turned around to bait MacGregor further but the sight of Lucy’s white face stopped him. He settled himself down quietly at the table instead and applied himself wholeheartedly to his breakfast.
MacGregor had recovered his poise and was chatting amiably to the countess. He looked every inch the aristocrat, reflected Andrew with wry admiration. And his voice was perfect too.
That evening he suggested a friendly game of cards. MacGregor and Lucy vehemently refused and Lucy rose immediately, saying that she would retire for the night.
He followed her across the great hall and stood at the foot of the great staircase. She kissed him lightly on the cheek, mounted a few steps, and looked around. He was still standing there looking up at her.
“Andrew.” The voice was like a sigh.
“What is it, my love?”
“N—nothing,” she whispered and ran away up the stairs and vanished in the darkness of the upper landing.
She nearly told me, thought Andrew happily. I know she’ll tell me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lucy’s engagement ball was to be held at the Balfour-MacGregor home in Regents Park. Caterers, footmen, and florists had been bustling backward and forward all day. With the exception of the Marysburghs, everyone who was anyone had been invited and had accepted. The Balfour-MacGregors were all the rage. Mr. Balfour-MacGregor was the wittiest man in London and his daughter, the most beautiful.
Lucy lay resting in her room before the great event. Her mind roamed restlessly around and around, tortured by guilt. She felt guilty about her neglected parents, guilty about her false name and position, and guilty at tricking her fiancé. Sometimes she thought of Didi’s white face lying below the surface of the lake, and shuddered. That would be one way out, indeed.
Andrew never seemed to notice her silences or any of the times when her eyes had filled with tears. He had chattered on in his usual blithe way. Lucy began to wonder if her beloved were perhaps unnaturally insensitive.
The fact is that Andrew Harvey had indeed noticed her distress but had not taken it seriously. Like most young men of his age and class, he had been brought up to consider women as frail and beautiful ornaments who were always troubling their pretty little heads over trifles and bursting into tears at the slightest provocation. It never dawned on him that his beautiful bride-to-be was suffering the tortures of the damned. He was still highly amused by Lucy’s deception and thought that she was acting out some little feminine comedy of sighs and tears before getting around to telling him the truth.
Andrew had learned to stifle sensitive thoughts when he was in the army. There was no place in a soldier’s mind for pity, compassion, or fear. And at times, when the fighting had been at its worst and the long battle was over, he and his other friends would think of women. Women to relax with after the long day … with their silly little voices, pretty little laughs; heads delicately bent under the weight of frill and feather; bosoms encased in priceless lace; tiny waists firmly lashed into long corsets; and dimpled legs concealed beneath long flowing skirts. And all to be removed one glorious night, one by one, like unwrapping some delicious present.
The fact that one of these delightful creatures could burn with the same emotions as a man never once crossed his mind.
Lucy did not understand any of this. Her love for Andrew was being overshadowed by a longing to make a clean breast of everything.
Her new lady’s maid, Brothers, entered the room and began to move about quietly, collecting the necessary garments for the great evening ahead. She was a middle-aged woman with impeccable references. She worked long, hard hours and had been shocked to the core when Lucy had suggested that she take some extra time off from her duties. The excellent Brothers was born to serve and Lucy had to admit guiltily to herself that it was all very comforting.
Lucy had firmly refused to join her future in-laws for dinner before the ball. The evening would be an ordeal enough on its own.
The smell of perfumed bath water floated into the bedroom from the bathroom next door and Brothers’s discreet cough sounded in her ear. It was time to go on stage.
When she finally dressed in an ornate gown of white satin embroidered with gold thread and seed pear
ls, MacGregor called to see her.
He looked very grand in his black-and-white evening dress.
“It’s going to be the most lavish event of the Season,” he crowed. “No expense spared!”
“It looks as if I’ll have to pay a visit to the casinos again,” said Lucy wearily. “We must have spent about three fortunes already.”
“We have that,” said the ex-butler cheerfully, “and made ten.”
He laughed at Lucy’s startled face. “There’s more than one gambler in this family, you know. I made a tremendous killing on the stock exchange. You brought a lot of money out of the casinos, Lucy, but, if I hadn’t invested it properly, it would have run out a long time ago.”
“Hancroft Engineering,” said Lucy dryly.
“Aye, that and a few other tips I picked up. Cheer up, Lucy. Your days at the casinos are over. I know how much you hated it.”
“I hate all this,” said Lucy quietly. “I wish we had never started this pretense.”
“It’s just nerves,” soothed MacGregor. “Take my arm, now, and let’s go and meet our guests.”
It was a glittering event. All the titles and notables of English society mounted the red carpeted stairs to the ballroom to make their bows and curtsies before the ex-butler and the ex-lady’s maid.
Andrew led Lucy onto the floor for the opening dance. How beautiful she looked, he thought. And what a tremendous joke it all was! All of London society raving about Lucy’s aristocratic beauty! And how especially attractive and feminine she seemed when she looked up at him with that lost, pleading look in her great green eyes.
He delivered her into the arms of her next partner with a careless bow and went off to do his duty by dancing with the other ladies present, in strict order of precedence, of course. The women were jealous of Lucy, the men teased Andrew about catching such a beauty. He had never felt in better form.
There was a roll of the drums. That was the signal for the formal announcement of his engagement. He sought out Lucy again and, drawing her arm through his, led her to the rostrum in front of the band while everyone else clustered around.
But before the announcement could be made, there was a scuffle at the doorway and heads began to turn. MacGregor, standing beside Lucy on the rostrum, drew in his breath in a sharp hiss.
The crowd parted as Lady Angela marched across the ballroom. In front of her she pushed the bewildered and embarrassed figures of Miss Jones, Miss Johnstone, Lucy’s former teacher, and Mrs. Balfour, Lucy’s mother.
Lady Angela’s high arrogant voice carried to every corner of the ballroom. Pointing straight at Lucy, she said; “That girl is an imposter … and so is that man. You know them as Mr. Balfour-MacGregor and his daughter, Lucy. Allow me to introduce you. The man is Hamish MacGregor, my former butler. The girl—Lucy Balfour, my former lady’s maid.”
There was an electric silence and all eyes turned from Lady Angela to the rostrum where Lucy stood, white and trembling, beside Andrew Harvey.
Lady Angela had worked hard. She had managed to catch a glimpse of Lucy when the girl had returned home from her visit to Andrew’s parents. With eyes abnormally sharpened by jealously, Angela had not only recognized Lucy but MacGregor as well.
“I have complete proof,” she went on. “Mrs. Balfour"—here she pulled Lucy’s mother forward—"identify your daughter.”
The small, wiry figure of Mrs. Balfour stood directly beneath Lucy in front of the rostrum. She looked at Lucy for a long minute. She said clearly and distinctly, “I have never seen that young lady before.”
A great rushing wave of whispering broke from the crowd.
“Silence!” screamed Angela. “Here is her former schoolteacher. Miss Johnstone! Step forward!”
Miss Johnstone gave Lucy a brief indifferent look.
“She’s a very bonny lassie and a grand lady. Lucy Balfour was a scared wee bit of a thing. With all due respect, my lady, I think you’re daft.”
A delighted ripple of laughter ran around the watching crowd. This was tremendous! Who would have believed that the statuelike Lady Angela could burn with such jealousy!
“It’s a plot!” yelled Angela. “They’re all in it together! Miss Jones, I command you to identify Lucy Balfour. And remember, your job depends on your honesty.”
Miss Jones took her place below the rostrum. She peered mistily up at Lucy, her face twitching with all its old familiar nervousness.
Finally she dropped a curtsy. “Forgive Lady Angela, miss,” she said at last. “She does not know what she is doing.”
Angela took the lady’s maid’s arm in a painful grip. “Do you mean to tell me that you refuse to say that that is Lucy Balfour standing up there?”
Miss Jones gently disengaged her arm. “But I don’t refuse, Lady Angela,” she said mildly. “I knew Lucy Balfour very well. That very distinguished young lady is not she.”
Lady Vivian sprang forward and began to hustle Angela from the room. But Angela shook her off and marched out with her head held high.
But the sensations of the evening were not yet over, however, for Miss Lucy Balfour-MacGregor had fainted dead away.
* * *
The engagement ball over, MacGregor said good-bye to the last of the guests, including Andrew, and hurried up the stairs to Lucy’s private sitting room. He found her lying on a chaise longue. On chairs drawn up beside her were her mother, Miss Johnstone, and Miss Jones.
MacGregor grinned cheekily. “Well, this calls for champagne all ‘round. You did a splendid job, ladies.”
“We didn’t do it for you, ye auld scunner,” said Miss Johnstone. “You’re the one that talked Lucy into this charade.”
Mrs. Balfour also looked at him with cold disfavor. “I’ve just been saying good-bye to Lucy. Do you think I could have stood in front of all those great folk and said my ain daughter had been living all those months with a man she wasnae even related to? You’re a disgrace, Mr. MacGregor.”
“I’m going back on the night train with Mrs. Balfour,” said Miss Johnstone. “I tried to write to Lucy. I knew from the names in the paper that it was probably yourselves. Balfour-MacGregor, indeed! I’ll tell you now, Lucy, what it was I wanted to say in my letter.
“You’re not going to have a very happy marriage, my dear, unless you tell your young man the truth.”
“He would never marry me if he knew the truth,” said Lucy flatly.
“Then you would be better off not married at all,” said Miss Johnstone roundly. “Now, we must be off for our train. Neither Mrs. Balfour nor myself have quite got over the shock of being hustled down here by Lady Angela. Oh, she didn’t tell us the ploy until she’d got us safely in London. Just said something dreadful was happening to Lucy and we could stop it if we went to London with her.
“No, Hamish MacGregor. I will not say goodbye to you. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. You’re an auld devil.”
She moved to the door and waited for Mrs. Balfour. For one minute Mrs. Balfour looked as if she might change the habits of a lifetime and hug her daughter, but then she stiffened her spine. “Goodbye, Lucy,” she said grimly and inevitably. “You have made your bed, you must lie on it. And may God have mercy on your wicked soul.”
Lucy watched her small, spare figure leave the room. She had not expected anything more from her mother. She leaned back on the chaise longue and wearily closed her eyes. Then she remembered Miss Jones.
The spinster was sitting timidly on the edge of the most uncomfortable chair in the room.
MacGregor rang the bell. “I’m sure Miss Jones would be glad of a bottle of champagne and I could certainly do with a whole bottle to myself.”
Miss Jones made faint ladylike noises of protest. "I must be going, Mr. Balfour-MacGregor. So kind … must go.”
“Now, just sit down,” said MacGregor. “You won’t have any job to go to after tonight.”
“Oh, but I shall!” said Miss Jones with surprise. “The Countess of Marysburgh is a very indulge
nt mother but she has no reason to believe her daughter’s terrible lies.”
“Lies?” asked MacGregor, cocking a cynical eyebrow.
Lucy caught the faint glimmerings of a rusty expression, not used for a long time, flit across the face of the lady’s maid. Miss Jones was smiling.
“Of course it was all lies,” she said. “Who could possibly think the esteemed Balfour-MacGregors were once servants?”
“Your mistress for one,” said MacGregor heavily. “She’s going to come to have a look-see, if I know her.”
“I never thought of that,” said Miss Jones faintly.
“I’m going to tell Andrew the truth,” said Lucy suddenly sitting up.
“What!” gasped MacGregor. “After all our work?”
“I tell you,” said Lucy firmly, “I cannot go on pretending to him.
“I shall write him a letter and then leave for France for an indefinite stay. I shall visit Mr. Jones in Dinard. He invited me after he had finished reorganizing the plumbing. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.”
There was a frantic silence while Jobbons entered with the champagne. “Leave it on the table, man,” said MacGregor curtly. “We’ll serve ourselves.”
He loosened the wires and twisted the cork neatly out of the bottle. “Years of practice,” he remarked when Jobbons had closed the door behind him.
“Now, Lucy,” he said, turning to the girl. “I don’t mind where I live so long as I live in comfort, which I can now do thanks to you and the advice of a few financial wizards. Tell Harvey, but ask him not to tell anyone else. And he won’t. Think of the people you’ll be hurting apart from yourself if the truth gets out. There’s me, your parents, Miss Johnstone … and there’s Miss Jones. Which brings me to you, Miss Jones.
“Why don’t you come with us to Dinard as Miss Lucy’s companion? Think about it. No more bullying. No more stitching and sewing till your eyes drop out.”
Miss Jones’s face became suffused with a faint pink. “I accept,” she said very hurriedly. “Oh, what fun we will have!”
