Page 92 of Souvenir of Love

“You call what happened, what I put you through,fine?”

Was he disgusted by her? When they reached the coast, she knew he would send her away.

She deserved it, she supposed. She’d forced her way into his life, tried to force him to love her. How ironic it all was—she’d thought, by accompanying him to France, she’d have a chance to start over with him, to show him how much she’d changed. But what had she changed into?A killer, a terrible voice inside her whispered.

Except…she’d done it to save him. Elizabeth’s eyes drifted from his profile, the high forehead, the proud nose, to the savage scar her brother’s sword had left on his cheek. She’d do anything to save James—to convince him he was worth saving. Because, Lord knew, James Dinsmore seemed hell-bent on destroying himself.

The creamand yellow sitting room had always been Anne Dinsmore’s favorite room in the house. She loved the way the light from the long windows illuminated the delicate giltplasterwork that edged the ceiling. It made her think of a jewelry box and, normally, when she did her needlework in the room, she felt like a jewel. A rare, yellow diamond, perhaps.

But not today. Today she felt more like a fly trapped in amber.

It was Elizabeth Harcrest, of course. Since she’d run into Madeleine de La Brou, or rather since the woman’s ridiculous little dog had run into her, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the comtesse’s claim that Elizabeth was visiting with the Norcrofts. It was possible Elizabeth had arrived at Hartsdale after her departure. And it was possible that the Norcrofts hadn’t mentioned the visit to her, knowing that relations between the Dinsmores and the Harcrests were strained.

But it wasalsopossible Madeleine was seeking to play some sort of trick.

Anne picked up a needle and thrust it sharply through the linen stretched tautly across her embroidery frame. As if Elizabeth would ever be welcome in polite society again—the girl was soiled goods! No proper mama, especially one as particular as Mrs. Norcroft, would ever permit such an unsuitable influence near her marriageable daughter. No respectable man would ever consider marrying her.

Indeed, the more she considered the matter, the more convinced she was that Madeleine de La Brou was lying; it was always unwise to trust the French. How delicious it would be to pay a call upon Moreham Hall. For if she found Elizabeth there, she would expose the lie. And if she did not, she might still raise questions as to the girl’s whereabouts… She drew her needle through the linen, thinking. The only problem was how to inveigle an invitation to call at Moreham Hall?

Her eyes fell upon the form of her cousin, Agatha, crouched in a chair near the window, knitting. Her chaperone.A poor substitute for her brother’s company, she thought sourly, andnot for the first time. The woman had done little since she’d arrived but read her Bible and knit stockings for the sick. As she was doing now, knitting tiny baby stockings in the round.

Sensing Anne’s eyes upon her, Agatha looked up and smiled.

Anne smiled politely back, wondering what village urchin would be getting knit stockings this time. “Who is the lucky mother?” she inquired in a voice she hoped was loud enough for her cousin to hear.

“Of course I’m knitting another!” Agatha shook her head with amusement. “Babies have two feet, you know.”

“MOTHER,” Anne said more loudly. “I said MOTHER, Agatha, not ANOTHER.”

Agatha nodded. “Mother, yes, yes, the baby has a mother.”

“WHO IS THE MOTHER?”

“Why, Lady Moreham.” She resumed knitting, eyes focused on her stitches.

Anne drew her cream and yellow armchair up next to her cousin’s straight-backed Sheraton. She had never gone into the details of why James was traveling wherever it was he was traveling, or the true nature of her falling out with the Harcrests. She felt it wasn’t any of Agatha’s concern. However, perhaps it was time to say something. She leaned close to Agatha’s wrinkled ear. “Agatha,” she said, “I don’t really think we should impose…”

“Repose? Of course her ladyship is in repose, what else would a woman so far along be doing? Everyone knows it’s unhealthy for a woman to strain herself when she is in a delicate condition.”

“Impose, IMPOSE, Agatha. We have not been invited to call on the Harcrests and with the earl’s sister in disgrace…” She let the words trail off.

“His Grace,” Agatha was saying. “Do you think we ought to ask His Grace if we might call?”

Anne had a brief, mortifying vision of both her father and Agatha accompanying her on a visit to Moreham Hall. The old man wandering, mistaking his hosts for Carthaginians, her cousin only able to hear every fourth word of the conversation. If the Harcrests didn’t laugh behind her back, they’d most certainly speak pityingly of her, the old maid left on the shelf with the other relics. Would it be worth it to bring them if she knew the last laugh, the last pitying glance would be hers?

“NO,”she shouted back. “I don’t think we should disturb my father. You know how strange environments unsettle him.”

“Strange,” Agatha agreed. “It is most strange that Moreham and his wife haven’t at least invited us for tea. I have lived a sheltered life, and it is possible that my notions of manners are outdated. Nevertheless, when I finish these stockings I shall send them along with a note asking after Lady Moreham’s health and sending my best wishes upon the safe delivery of the babe.” She clucked and nodded her head. “Most likely we shall receive an invitation then.”

Anne considered it highly unlikely, but if her cousin wished to make the embarrassing gesture, who was she to stop her? “When you are finished with the stockings, I shall have one of the grooms deliver them—though I cannot allow you to include my name on the card.”

“Why ever not?”

“I would not dream of taking credit for your thoughtful gesture.”

Agatha waved her needles in protest. “You are too good, Lady Anne. Far too good.”

Anne smiled modestly and snipped a thread from the wings of a little hummingbird she had been embroidering.