Page 89 of A Scandalous Bargain
“I do indeed.” Jane’s features relaxed. “Poor Rockbourne has suffered too. I can only imagine he must regret listening to a rumor five years ago. He was certainly angry about it at my sister’s aborted wedding.” Jane scoffed. “And I can guess the worst among us will point to that anger as ‘proof’ that he pushed his loathsome wife.”
Blanching, Jane added, “Forgive me, I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”
How Beatrix wished she could affirm that Lady Rockbourne was indeed loathsome, and in ways that would disgust them.
“Yes, let us go,” Phoebe said. “I’ll go find Marcus.”
“And I’ll find Anthony.” Jane looked to Beatrix. “Do you want to come along or wait here?”
“I’ll wait here.” And hope that Sandon didn’t happen along.
Jane and Phoebe took themselves off, and Beatrix did her best to fade into the shrubbery behind her. Apparently, she wasn’t very good at it because a woman approached her.
Tall, with a long face and a sharp chin, she wore a small but rather arrogant smile. She was dressed in an expensive walking costume—Beatrix knew because of the clothes she’d recently had made. Something about her faded blue eyes and the small dent in her chin sparked a memory. And then she spoke.
“Miss Whitford is it?” she asked sweetly. Too sweetly. God, that voice was so familiar…
“Yes.” Every part of Beatrix tensed.
“Why not Miss Linley? That is your name, isn’t it?” She blinked in faux innocence at Beatrix.
Words failed to come even as recognition flooded Beatrix with a horrible, prickly heat. It wasDeborah. Awful, arrogant, malicious Deborah.
“I know that’s who you really are,” the woman said loftily. “What I’d like to know is if you’re still a dirty little thief.”
Beatrix fought to breathe. She and Selina had wondered if they would ever encounter any of the girls they’d met at Mrs. Goodwin’s. They’d hoped they wouldn’t, and if they had, were optimistic that so much time had passed that no one would recognize anyone else. And since Beatrix and Selina used different surnames, no one would have made a connection that way.
They’d clearly underestimated the situation. Or just Deborah.
Beatrix wasn’t even sure she could remember Deborah’s last name.
Somehow, Beatrix collected herself enough to ask, “Have we been introduced?” She looked at Deborah as if she had no idea who she could be. Beatrix prayed her act was convincing.
Deborah pursed her thin lips. “Years ago at Mrs. Goodwin’s. I’m now Lady Burnhope, but back then I was Deborah Mallory.” Her height made it quite easy for her to look down her nose at Beatrix.
Beatrix dipped a curtsey. “I’m pleased to meet you. I am certain we haven’t met. I am not Miss Linley.” Not for a very long time, nor would she ever be again.
“You lie, and I’ll wager you’re still a thief.”
Thankfully, Jane and Phoebe and their husbands were coming straight for them.
“You must excuse me. I must meet my friends.” She couldn’t resist adding, “Lady Ripley and Lady Colton and their husbands—the marquess and the viscount.” Flashing a bright smile, Beatrix walked right past the horrid Deborah. She felt as if she were moving through paste.
They were soon ensconced in the Ripleys’ coach and on their way to Cavendish Square. Beatrix clasped her hands together and hoped no one noticed her shaking.
“I’m so pleased your sister and Mr. Sheffield are living in my house,” Phoebe said. “I hope they’ll be very happy there.”
Beatrix answered, but honestly couldn’t remember what she said. Her brain was teeming with alarm and fear about what Deborah might do.
Because yes, Beatrix was still a thief. As recently as three days ago, when she’d stolen her mother’s jewels from the duke’s house. But that was to be the last theft.
Now, however, having the jewels made her uncomfortable. They were a reminder of all she’d been and what she wanted to leave behind. Not just stealing, but the hope that she would regain her father. The demi-parure didn’t remind her of her mother. It made her think of loss and rejection. And having them made her a thief.
Didn’t it?
She would return the emeralds. Her mind began to strategize as the coach drove into Cavendish Square. She departed and thanked them for their company.
Then she rushed into the house and threw her hat and gloves on a small table in the entry. The footman who was at the door didn’t say a word.
