Fortune's Mistress Read online

  How calm and comfortable this dream seemed, compared to those she had conjured as a young girl. If only she had known then what comprised happiness. Perhaps one never knew, not until its prospect had been rudely snatched away.

  She sighed heavily. A half-finished gown for the baby beckoned from the sewing basket, and she picked it up and began to stitch in a desultory sort of way. It was difficult to keep her mind on her work, however; time after time, she was forced to reset a row of stitches. At last, she pricked her finger painfully and threw the garment aside, anxious not to stain its snowy folds.

  She glanced about the room: a book lay abandoned on the table before her, but it did not beckon to her now, for she felt altogether too dull to make any sense of what she read. The fire burned brightly and did not need stoking. A tray with her tea sat untouched before her. Truthfully, she had no idea what would strike her fancy.

  As if in answer to her ennui, she heard the soft rise and fall of voices in the entry. It was Jane and Becky. Surely it was not wise, she thought as she regarded the gray sky beyond the window, to allow them about on so stormy a day. When Annie ushered them in, their cheeks and noses rosy with the cold, she exclaimed, “Great heavens! Go at once and stand before the fire and warm yourselves.”

  She shooed them forward, relieved them of their wraps, and handed them to the maid. “Indeed,” she said, “I do not know what Mrs. Maiden is about, letting you out into the cold.”

  “Pooh!” Jane cried. “ ‘Tis nothing! For you see we have warm clothes and even boots.” She displayed these for Marianne with evident pride. “Besides,” she went on, “ ‘twas not Mrs. Maiden, but the doctor himself who sent us here to see how you got on. It was very kind in him, d’you not think?”

  “Indeed it was,” Marianne said. “But I think it wisest if I send you back to him, as soon as you are warm again. I do not like the look of the sky.”

  “Only look how big these kittens have got,” Jane exclaimed as she knelt by their basket. “Why they are almost cats! What a fine and kind gift they were, d’you not think?”

  “Indeed,” Marianne laughed, looking down at the well-rounded kittens. “This house was suffering from a desperate overabundance of cream, from which the dear creatures have contrived to save us!”

  As Jane stroked the kittens and scratched them under their chins, they purred loudly and stretched. Then she caught Marianne’s eye again. “The doctor is very kind, d’you not think?”

  “Of course,” Marianne returned. “There can be no denying that.”

  Jane glanced at Becky, then took Marianne by the hand and looked up at her with big eyes. “The doctor is handsome, too, d’you not think?”

  Marianne was rather taken aback by this question, which had been asked in tones of the utmost seriousness. “I do,” she answered with equal gravity.

  “What I think is,” Jane went on implacably, “is that the doctor is the kindest, most handsomest man there ever was.” She waited for a response from Marianne, but, receiving none, she added with a hopeful expression, “D’you not think?”

  Marianne laughed and shook her head, touched at the child’s transparent machinations. She wondered briefly if it were at all possible that such an inquisition was prompted in some way by Venables’s own curiosity; the notion was dismissed almost at once, however, as being unconscionably whimsical.

  “And how,” she asked lightly, “am I to answer that, I would like to know? I have no means of judging him against all the men that ever were!”

  Jane knit her brow. “ ‘Tis true enough,” she allowed. Then Becky whispered in her ear, and Jane’s bright eyes lit with an expression which could only be described as calculating. “But of all the men you’ve ever known,” she said triumphantly, “how fares the doctor there?”

  Marianne hid her smile. “Very well, if you must know. Very well indeed.”

  “That is not, “Jane told her sternly, “how you would say it in a tale, now is it?”

  Marianne shook her head. “But this is not a tale,” she reminded them. “But come, the two of you, and sit by me, and I shall tell you a brief fairy story. When I have done, however, I must send you back home.”

  She poured them each a cup of tea and added plenty of cream and sugar, just as they liked it, and gathered them on either side of her. “There was once a princess,” she began, “who lived under a cruel enchantment. She was full of things she wished to say, but alas, an unkind fairy had stolen her voice. She could neither speak nor sing, and all the thoughts of her heart and mind must be expressed in her eyes or gestures.”

  “Like Becky does?” Jane whispered.

  Marianne gave them each a little hug. “But Becky can speak when she’s a mind to,” she amended. “She simply does not drop her pearls of wisdom harum-scarum.”

  “ ‘Tis so,” Jane agreed.

  Becky gave a little sigh and snuggled closer. Marianne looked down at their auburn curls and felt her heart begin to fill. This was exactly how she needed to spend her day. “The princess,” she went on, “wanted nothing more than to tell what was in her heart, but all her lovely thoughts were kept prisoner inside of her, like little caged birds who had forgotten how to sing— “

  “Someone’s coming,” Jane interrupted her, tugging at her sleeve.

  Marianne looked up to see a figure enter her garden and approach the French doors. It was not the doctor, she knew at once. Something about him looked familiar, however, something that sent a chill to her very core, like the return of a childhood nightmare.

  A moment later, Sir Frederick Stratford stepped into the room.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sir Frederick Stratford! Marianne’s head whirled in a storm of disbelief. This could not, could not be. All of her precious security, all of her joy, the very notion of who she was, evaporated about her as soon as she recognized him.

  Stratford smiled slowly, triumph in his eyes. “Hello, Marianne. You will pardon me, I am sure, for disturbing this pretty little domestic scene,” he said as he calmly drew off his greatcoat and flung it over a chair. “I had an odd notion, however, that, were I announced, you might try to evade me. Under normal circumstances, I might even enjoy the chase, but unfortunately time does not permit me the luxury of such a tantalizing pursuit.”

  As if sensing her alarm, Jane and Becky clutched at Marianne’s arms, and their small gesture of vulnerability helped her to gather herself and marshal her senses.

  “Go, children,” she whispered to them in an urgent undertone. “You must go at once.”

  “What? No introductions? Tut, my dear. It is not like you to be so discourteous.” Stratford came toward them and studied the children for a moment, a look of cold calculation lighting his eyes. “So, Marianne, it seems you have been holding out on us all. And whose pretty little by-blows are these, pray tell?”

  The sound of the clock on the mantelpiece was deafening in the grim silence that followed. With growing alarm, Marianne could feel the little girls stiffen next to her at his scrutiny; she tried surreptitiously to prod them forward, to make them leave, but they clung to her all the tighter.

  “Not Cheswick’s, of course,” he mused, “but who came before him? Can they be Clivedon’s, I wonder?”

  She regarded him with stony silence, her sensibilities barely registering this insult, but her mind raced. What was she to do? Could it possibly matter now?

  When she spoke at last, the calmness of her own voice surprised her. “Pray, Stratford, allow me to send the children away. We cannot converse thus.”

  He laughed. “Ever the expedient one, my Marianne. By all means, you may send the brats to Hades for aught I care. They do not concern me.”

  Gently, she pushed them away from her. “Do as I say,” she told them. The pair regarded her rebelliously, their eyes flashing dangerously at the intruder. “Do not worry,” she said, attempting lightness. “I am sure it is almost time for your dinner in any case.”

  Reluctantly, the girls slid from the sofa, and,
casting many a backward look, at last left the room. When the door had closed behind them, Stratford came and sat beside Marianne. “How exceedingly inconvenient it is,” he said, curling his lip in disgust, “to discover you are still so exceedingly enceinte, Marianne. My calculations were in error, I am afraid.”

  “I do not know how you found me,” she cried, her composure deserting her, “nor what your design is in coming here, but I beg you will go away at once.”

  “Little Marianne.” He shook his head. “You do not know what my design is, eh? I assure you, dissembling will do you no good, my dear. I mean, you must know, to take you away and make some use of you. Your fine charade is done here. We shall set out at first light tomorrow, if the weather clears.”

  In such a hurry, she thought quickly. Stratford must be truly under the hatches, or worse, to take to flight. She might, perhaps, use his distress to her benefit. If only he could be got rid of quickly, before he was able to do real harm.

  “I assure you,” she said smoothly, “even had I the desire to go with you—which you must know I have not— I am in no condition to travel. The child will arrive any day now— “

  “Women have borne children on the road before this,” he interrupted coldly, “and my need cannot be easily fulfilled without you.”

  “I care nothing for your needs!” she spat at him.

  “You made that quite clear to me in London,” he returned with a chilling smile. “Nevertheless, you will come with me. I have a notion that your reappearance in London will prompt an indispensable infusion of capital to my poor purse.”

  Marianne gasped. “You cannot mean blackmail!”

  “What an ugly word,” he said. “Let us say instead that, for a small price, I will find it convenient to spare our poor friend Cheswick an embarrassment which might prove deleterious to his marriage. And such a thing is so much easier to achieve when incontrovertible evidence is present in the flesh, shall we say? No,” he concluded, “I am afraid there is nothing for it but for you to return to the city with me. You have already inconvenienced me sufficiently.”

  Marianne felt her fingers curl into fists as rage as the realization of his perfidy overcame her. “I will not be a party to this wickedness,” she whispered. “You cannot force me.”

  His smile of satisfaction grew wider. “Ah, but I can. I do not at all like to be unpleasant,” he went on, “but you do not seem to collect the difficulties that will undoubtedly accompany your refusal.” He paused a moment, watching her. “Your sister, for instance. It would very likely discomfit her mightily were tales of your adventures— not to mention all these children— to reach the ears of certain parties. She is seen everywhere, and her lord as well. What might her feelings be, were society reminded who and what her sister is?”

  Hatred unlike any she had before experienced seethed through her. How could anyone be so wicked? It was as if he had no soul.

  “And then there is the matter of this amusing masquerade you have perpetrated here,” he continued silkily. “I think I could not depart this neighborhood without first informing the good parson of your true character—yes, I took the trouble to make his acquaintance and that of his wife today. I am afraid you have little choice, my dear. You may refuse to come with me, but by all counts, you cannot remain here.”

  Marianne looked at Stratford narrowly. There was more to this business than he was telling. If blackmail came so easily to him, she was certain he must have hoarded many secrets over the years. It was well known, too, that Cheswick’s fortune was controlled by his wife’s family. Could it be that his real aim was to ruin two lives?

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Such hatred on your pretty face is unbecoming, Marianne. It is, of course, your fault we have come to this. I believe I told you some time ago that I wanted you. I have a deplorable penchant, you know, for getting my way— by foul means or fair. Or, if I cannot, to make my displeasure felt. You should have obliged me before, in London, and we could have avoided all this regrettable unpleasantness.”

  Marianne felt her heart go numb with increased anger and deadening shock. She knew in that moment that she was capable of murder, had she a weapon or the strength. But she had neither at the moment. She must think. She must take deep breaths and concentrate. Slowly, a stiletto of pain worked its way up her back. Gritting her teeth against it, she schooled her countenance and forced herself to smile.

  “As for the manner in which you have chosen to work your will,” she began, “I will say nothing. I scarcely think you can be shamed by my reading you a scold.”

  “Not in the least,” he returned with a bow. He took out his snuffbox and applied a pinch with insufferable composure.

  “It seems you leave me little choice, but to go with you,” she said quietly, “as I am sure you must know.”

  He sneezed delicately into a handkerchief, and smiled again. “You are very wise, my dear.”

  “Perhaps,” she allowed. “But you may yourself be very foolish.” She allowed him a moment to take this in. The pain raced up her back again, more intensely this time. She felt the perspiration break out on her forehead, but willed herself to go on. “It is unwise,” she continued raggedly, “to make an enemy of someone who has nothing to lose.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you may choose to destroy the life I have built here. But all actions have their consequences.”

  She smiled inwardly to see his eyes grow wary. “I shall warn you but once: when you least expect it, I shall find the means to kill you. You will never again be safe to eat or sleep or turn your back on me. I will be avenged eventually, and you will be very, very sorry.”

  She had not known herself what she meant to say until the words formed on her tongue. Having said them, she felt the shock doubly, both by hearing them in her heart and seeing her adversary pale in response to them. Stratford’s countenance was washed with loathing. Suddenly, it was clear to her: he truly hated her. She could think of no reason, but there was no escaping the conclusion that it had never been her body he truly wished, but dominion over her. He did not so much want her, as he wanted to see her broken to his will.

  He rose from his seat slowly, like a snake uncoiling, and loomed over her. Violence shone in his eyes. She shrank before his rage, clasping her arms protectively about her.

  * * * *

  Venables strode along the winding path, the boys trailing behind him. He gathered his greatcoat tightly around him. The storm that had been threatening all afternoon was beginning to bear down, and now it was discovered that Jane and Becky were missing. They were not in the house or the barn; it stood to reason they were at their usual haunt, Rosewood Cottage.

  He had been hoping to pay a call there all day, but two emergencies had arisen in the afternoon, keeping him occupied until he judged it too late for such an endeavor. Even though he suspected that the girls’ disappearance was linked to their attempts at matchmaking, he was not in the least loath to go in search of them— only the threat of the storm gave him any misgiving at their action. In any case, he would have the pleasure of looking in on Marianne, even if it meant coming home sodden and cold.

  Against the horizon, a flash of lightning lit the sky. The thunder followed almost immediately, prompting him to quicken his step.

  “Charlie! George!” he called over his shoulder. “Try to keep pace with me, or I shall be sorry I brought you along!”

  Hurriedly, they came up beside him. As they rounded a bend, they came almost immediately upon the huddled forms of Jane and Becky, looking back over their shoulders in the direction of Rosewood Cottage.

  “Here you are!” Venables called. When they turned to him, he could see that Jane’s face was pale and wide-eyed, while tears coursed down Becky’s cheeks.

  “What is this?” he asked, kneeling beside them.

  “Please, we didna like to go from her, doctor,” Jane said, her small voice wavering. “Only she commanded us to and, oh, we are so
feared for her.”

  Venables felt his heart grow still. “Why? What do you mean?”

  “It is a man,” Jane cried.

  Becky tugged at his sleeve. “A man who is wicked,” she whispered.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Venables broke into a run, leaving the children to trail behind him. As he raced toward the cottage, the sky suddenly opened, and thick slanting sheets of rain began to pour down on him. He did not know what he might find, but his heart had frozen at the recognition of fear in Jane’s and Becky’s faces. This was no mere machination to place him at the widow’s door.

  The wind tore at him furiously as he reached the door. He flung it open and all but threw himself in. Annie greeted him with shocked surprise.

  “Why, Doctor Venables! What? Out in this storm? Whatever are you about?”

  “Where is Mrs. Glencoe?” he gasped.

  “Why, she is in the drawing room, I suppose— “

  “Take your shawl,” he interrupted. “The children are just down the lane. Take them to Mrs. Maiden as fast as you may.”

  He did not wait for an answer, but made his way quickly to the drawing room. From inside, he now heard the sound of furniture falling and Marianne’s low cry. Near blind with apprehension, he jerked the door open with such force it nearly left its hinges. Before him he saw Marianne, trying desperately to protect herself from an assailant.

  Her face already bore the mark of a cuff, and the man was raising his hand yet again. Venables catapulted through the door, took the cur by the shoulders, and threw him bodily to the floor.

  Marianne stared in horror at the scene before her. Stunned, Stratford moaned as he attempted to recover from Venables’s sudden assault. When he looked up, his face registered a look of astonished incredulity as he took in the sight of the doctor looming over him.