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“He’s a carouser, then?”
Penelope shrugged. “I don’t know whether he lives a wilder life than most men. But he despises boredom. Bucky says he will go to any lengths to avoid it. Last month, he and Sir Charles Pellingham placed bets on how fast a spider would build its web in the corner of a window at White’s.”
Marianne grimaced. “He sounds excessively silly.”
“Sir Charles is,” Penelope admitted frankly. “But Bucky says that Lambeth is a knowing one.”
“Who is Bucky?” Marianne asked.
Penelope colored slightly. “Lord Buckminster. He is a cousin of my good friend Nicola Falcourt.” She went on hurriedly, “He is considered quite a catch.”
“Lord Buckminster or Lord Lambeth?” Marianne asked quizzically.
Penelope’s blush deepened, “Well, both, I suppose, but I was speaking about Lord Lambeth. They say he’s rich as Croesus, and his father is the Duke of Storbridge, so all the matchmaking mamas consider him fair game.”
“I see.” No wonder the man felt no hesitation in staring so rudely. Probably most of the women at the party would be thrilled to have him notice them. Marianne glanced back in his direction, but he had gone. She and Penelope started their perambulation again.
“But I imagine it’s all useless,” Penelope went on. “Mother says that there’s an unspoken understanding between him and Cecilia Winborne that someday they will marry. It would be a perfect match. Her lineage is as good as his, and there has never been a scandal in her family—they’re all terribly priggish,” she added confidentially.
Marianne laughed.
Penelope looked a trifle abashed. “I’m sorry. I should not have said that. You must think me terrible. Mother says I am always letting my tongue run away with me.”
“Nonsense,” Marianne assured her. “I think you are most enjoyable company—and that runaway tongue is one of the main reasons.”
“Really?” Penelope looked pleased. “I am always afraid that I’m going to say the wrong thing—and then, when I’m expected to talk, it seems as if my tongue won’t even work.”
“I have often felt that way myself,” Marianne lied kindly. In truth, she had rarely been afflicted with shyness. The matron at St. Anselm’s had always maintained that boldness was her worst vice—the first in a long list, of course.
Her words cheered Penelope up, however, for she began to talk again. “Bucky likes Lord Lambeth, says he’s a ‘fine chap.’ But he quite frightens me,” Penelope added honestly. “He is so very proud and cold. Everyone says so. His whole family is that way. His mother is even scarier than he is.”
“She must be a terror, then.”
“She is. Personally, I think she and Cecilia Winborne are cut from the same cloth. But since Lord Lambeth quite disdains love, I suppose it won’t matter to him.”
“Mmm. They sound like a delightful pair.”
Penelope giggled.
“I say—Penelope!” A male voice sounded behind them, and the two women turned to see a man strolling toward them. He was tall and sandy-haired, with a pleasant face, and he was smiling as he looked at Penelope. “What good luck, to catch you without Lady Ursula around.”
Color dotted Penelope’s cheeks, and her soft brown eyes lit up. She held out her hand to him. “Bucky! I wasn’t sure if you would be here tonight.”
“Oh, yes. I left the opera early. Nicola’s mother will probably have my head the next time I see her, but I mean, really!” He paused, indignation clear on his face. “There’s only so much of that caterwauling a man can be expected to take!”
Penelope smiled. “I am sure Lady Falcourt will understand.”
“No,” he replied ruefully. “But she won’t say much, for fear I won’t escort her next time.” He turned toward Marianne, saying, “Sorry, frightfully rude of me—”
His words died as he looked into Marianne’s face, and the color drained from his cheeks, then came back in a rush. “Oh, uh, I—I say.”
It was all Marianne could do to suppress a giggle. Lord Buckminster looked as if someone had hit him on the head.
“Mrs. Cotterwood, please allow me to introduce Lord Buckminster,” Penelope introduced them.
“How do you do?” Marianne held out her hand politely.
“Oh. I say. Great pleasure,” Buckminster managed to get out, stepping forward to take her hand. As he did so, he stumbled, but caught himself. He took Marianne’s hand and bowed over it, then released her and stood grinning down at her foolishly.
Marianne sighed inwardly. It was obvious to her that Penelope had very fond feelings for “Bucky,” but the man seemed oblivious to them. It was just as obvious that he was entranced by Marianne. She had had other men react to her this way. Marianne knew that she had the sort of looks that attracted men, although she was not vain about it—most of her life, her vibrant good looks had been the source of more trouble than good fortune.
Usually an infatuated admirer was no worse than a nuisance; she had learned how to discourage and avoid them. This time, however, she worried that Lord Buckminster’s open admiration would make Penelope dislike her. She glanced at Penelope, who looked a trifle sad, but resigned, then at Lord Buckminster, who was still smiling vapidly.
“It is very nice to meet you,” Marianne said pleasantly to Lord Buckminster, “but I am afraid I cannot stay and chat. I must get back to Mrs. Willoughby, or she will wonder what has become of me.”
“Allow me to escort you,” Buckminster said eagerly, straightening his cuff and in the process somehow dislodging the gold cuff link. It dropped to the floor and rolled away. “Oh, I say…” The man looked with some dismay at the piece of jewelry and bent to retrieve it.
“Oh, no,” Marianne protested quickly. “You must stay here and keep Penelope company. I am sure that you have a lot to talk about.”
She slipped away immediately, while Buckminster’s attention was still concentrated on his cuff link. Her departure was a trifle rude, she knew, but she felt sure that Penelope would not mind.
Weaving her way through the throng of people, Marianne made her way to the door. Snapping open her fan and wafting it as though the heat of the crowd was what had impelled her to leave the ballroom, she strolled along the corridor past a pair of footmen. She glanced about her in a seemingly casual way, noting to herself the locations of doors, windows and stairs. She paused as if to admire a portrait, and as she did so looked out the window, checking its accessibility from the street. Then she wandered to her right until she was out of sight of the footmen.
She made a quick check to be sure that there were no other guests or servants around, then started down the hallway, looking into each room as she passed it. Every one, she saw, was filled with expensive items, from artwork to furniture, but she was concerned only with those things that were easy to transport and just as easy to sell, such as silver vases and ornamental pieces. She was primarily interested in finding the study, for she knew that it was the most likely place for the safe to be located. Finding the safe and the best entrances and exits was always the focus of her job.
She located two drawing rooms and a music room, but no study, so she turned and made her way back down the corridor. As she neared the wide hallway that crossed this one and led back to the ballroom, her steps slowed to a seemingly aimless walk, and she once again began to ply her fan and to look up at the row of portraits as if she were studying them. She crossed the corridor, glancing down it out of the corner of her eye. She could not see that anyone, either the footmen or the two men standing outside the ballroom door conversing, was paying any attention to her.
Once across the hallway and out of sight, she resumed her investigation, opening doors and peering inside. The second door she opened was obviously the masculine retreat of the house, though it appeared to be more a smoking room than a study. There was no desk, nor were there any books, but the chairs were large and comfortable, and there was a cabinet with glasses and several decanters of whiskey and brandy atop it, as well as a narrow table holding two humidors and a rack of pipes. The drawings on the walls were hunting scenes, full of dogs and horses.
With a smile of satisfaction, Marianne reached into the room, picked up the candlestick on the table beside the door and lit it from the wall sconce in the hall. Then she slipped into the room and closed the door after her. This was the most dangerous part of her mission, as well as the most exciting. There was no good reason for her to be in her host’s smoking room, and if someone happened to come in on her, she would be hard pressed to talk her way out of the situation. She could lock the door, of course, but if someone tried to get in, that would seem even more suspicious. The best thing to do was simply to work as quickly as possible and hope that, if she did get caught, a winning smile and a quick tongue would get her out of the situation.
Heart pounding, Marianne set the candle down on the table and began to go around the room, shifting each of the hunting prints aside to examine the wall behind it. The third picture yielded the prize: a safe set into the wall. She leaned forward, examining the lock, which opened with a key rather than a combination.
“I do apologize, but I really cannot allow you to break open my host’s safe,” a masculine voice said behind her.
Marianne jumped and whirled around, her heart in her throat. Leaning negligently against the doorjamb, one eyebrow raised quizzically, was Lord Lambeth.
CHAPTER TWO
FOR A LONG MOMENT MARIANNE COULD DO nothing but stare at him, her mind skittering about wildly. Finally she managed to paste on a shaky smile and say, “My lord! You gave me quite a turn!”
“Did I?” He grinned, showing even, white teeth. Marianne had the sudden strong image of a wolf. “I would have thought that you had stronger nerves…given your profession.”
Marianne drew herself up to her fullest height and put on a haughty face, one she had copied from Lady Quartermaine. “I beg your pardon? My profession? I am afraid I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Well done.” Lambeth moved away from the doorjamb and came inside, closing the door behind him. “I might almost believe you—if I hadn’t just caught you with your hand in the cookie jar.”
Marianne’s stomach tightened with dread. “What are you doing?” She realized that her voice had skidded up, showing fear, and she forced herself to lower it. “I must insist that you open that door. This is highly improper.”
He cocked one eyebrow. “I would have thought that you would prefer we discussed your larceny outside the hearing of the rest of the company. But of course, if you insist on opening the door so that all may hear…”
Lambeth started toward the door, and Marianne stepped forward quickly. “No! No, wait. You are right. Let us clear this up privately.”
He smiled in a smug way that made Marianne long to slap him, and crossed his arms. “You have an explanation? Pray, go on. I should love to hear it.”
“I see no reason why I should give you an explanation,” Marianne retorted hotly.
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.”
