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CHAPTER ONE
Marguerite closed the door gently and studied the room before her with little enthusiasm. She didn’t want to be in what appeared to be the Carmichael’s study but had even less desire to be in the main music room with the rest of the guests. She was bored, tired, fed up, and desperately wanted to go home but there was little choice in the matter, she had to wait until her father was ready to leave.
“I hate it,” she whispered as she leaned back against the door and allowed the peace to ease her disquiet. “I hate it here, and I hate those guests.”
She did. Those she had met were arrogant, snide, and had little interest in anything but themselves and whatever connections they could forge whilst in attendance, much like the hosts really. She had little interest in them either, and vice versa. She hated the house as well. It was far too big for just three people to inhabit. It was old, draughty, and stuffed full of expensive ornaments and furniture that left little doubt as to the owner’s wealth but said little about their characters other than they liked to show off. As far as Marguerite was concerned the décor was pretentious and completely barren of the vibrancy of life’s knick-knacks.
“Gold and marble, I ask you. It’s too cold,” she whispered with a shiver. “It says a lot about the hosts, though.”
She wandered over to the fireplace, but the meagre warmth emanating from the glowing embers did little to ease the chill that had settled over her shoulders throughout the evening. Her goose bumps had nothing to do with the fact that the music room was barely heated. They were the result of the unwanted attention she had received from the guest everyone at tonight’s recital was gossiping about, Count Vladimir Valentin.
“A Russian Count. Well, Russia can have him back,” she grumbled.
She didn’t care if he was Russian, Egyptian, or Scottish. He might be the most sought after guest ever to inhabit London in recent times. As far as she was concerned, he was a social pariah. He was rude, arrogant, and had spent most of the evening staring so intently at her that he had drawn the attention of the gossips. As a result of the man’s bad manners, the gossips had taken to whispering behind their hands while studying her, undoubtedly trying to work out what it was about her that drew the Count’s attention. She had little doubt it would be all over London by tomorrow and shuddered to think what that might mean to her reputation.
“I can only hope they don’t assume there is a connection between us,” she whispered with another shudder.
When silence fell around her again, she realised what she was doing and was glad that nobody was around to hear her muttering to herself.
“Oh no,” she whispered when the sound of distant clapping filtered into the room. She looked at the door to the hallway in horror. The random notes being played on the harpsichord signalled that the second half of the hideous cacophony the hostess called a musical extravaganza was about to begin.
“I am not going back in there to listen to that,” she decided, her thoughts turning at once to her father. “I will tell him I have a headache. Yes, that’s it. Even he cannot object to that.”
She had no idea what had possessed him to accept the invitation in the first place. The Carmichaels were not of their social class. They were ton, whereas the Smisbys, Marguerite and her father, Eustace, were middle-class. Eustace was the proud owner of a clock making business, albeit one which had earned a reputation for being one of the best clock makers in the country, but he was still a middle-class businessman. It was highly unusual for him to even receive an invitation to any of the Carmichael’s social functions, but he had. To her dismay, he had insisted that they both attend.
Marguerite sighed when she thought back to the fateful evening three nights ago when he had told her where they were going.
“I didn’t realise you knew the Carmichaels,” she said when he had informed her of his plans.
“I am acquainted with them,” her father replied carefully.
Marguerite squinted at him. She didn’t believe him but, given the stubborn expression on his face, she knew he wasn’t going to take her into his confidence.
“Oh?” A pregnant silence descended while she waited for him to explain.
“We are going and that is final,” Eustace declared eventually.
“I don’t have anything to wear,” she protested. “Why don’t you go alone? The invitation was sent to you.”
She pointed to his name on the embossed card that lay on the table between them.
“The invitation is for me and a guest. Because you are my daughter you are coming too, and that is the end of it, Marguerite.” He glared at her, almost daring her to defy him.
Marguerite opened her mouth to speak only to watch her father throw a pouch of coins onto the table between them.
“Go and buy yourself an outfit befitting the Carmichaels. I don’t want them to think we are poor.”
They weren’t. She knew they weren’t. Her father had only recently been moaning that there wasn’t enough time in the day and that more clocks were going out of the shop than he could make. As a result, he was earning a veritable fortune. There was only the two of them living in the house, and they lived a relatively mediocre life that certainly couldn’t be called frivolous. They had enough money to live a far more affluent lifestyle, they just didn’t want to.
Marguerite studied the coins in her hand warily.
“But we don’t have a carriage,” she protested weakly.
Indeed they didn’t. Given they lived in London, Eustace had always insisted that it was an unnecessary expense. They could hire a carriage whenever they wanted one, which they did. But to travel to the Carmichael’s in a hired carriage was surely going against the appearance her father wanted to make, wasn’t it?
“Does it matter?” her father snapped impatiently.
“There is something you are not telling me,” she murmured.
This time, when their gazes met she saw the shadows and secrets in her father’s eyes and knew there was something more, much more. He almost seemed afraid to tell her what was bothering him.
“This Count everyone is talking about, Valentine, or Valentin, something like that; the man who is in the papers all the damned time and is the guest of
the season-” he began.
“What of him?” Although she rarely socialised and certainly wasn’t worthy of moving amongst the ton, she read the society pages in the broadsheets.
“He has asked the Carmichaels to send you, me, us, an invitation.”
“Why?” She scowled at him. “Does he want a clock?”
“No, he wants to meet you,” her father announced bluntly. He looked less than pleased at the notion and merely studied her over the top of his glasses while he waited for her response.
“Me? B-but why me? I-I mean, I don’t know the man,” she blabbered. “I mean, how does he know who I am? I don’t move amongst the ton. I have never met him before in my life, or the Carmichaels for that matter.”
Eustace sighed and pushed away from the table. “Well, he knows you, or of you, and wants to make your acquaintance.”
“But-”
“We are going, Marguerite, and that is the end of it,” Eustace interrupted, and with that, he left the room.
Well, I have attended, and he is awful. Marguerite sighed, and then winced when a particularly loud screeching noise shattered the silence.
She felt the heavy weight of guilt settle over her and studied the door with renewed determination. If she hid in the room any longer her father would come and look for her and then he would be angry. Before she could move to the door, though, it suddenly opened.
“Oh, there you are my dear.”
