Free Lady Anne's Deception by Marion Chesney Page B

love these marital discussions,” he murmured. “They do clear the air. Are we going to the ballet tonight? I seem to recollect that I have tickets somewhere.”
    Annie blushed. “I-I h-have promised to go with Mr. Shaw-Bufford,” she said miserably.
    “Don’t worry,” he said from behind his newspaper. “I’m sure I can find someone else.”
    “I’m sure you can,” Annie flashed back bitterly.
    The door opened. “Lady Marigold Sinclair,” announced Perkins.
    “We are not at home, Perkins,” said the marquess, without even bothering to look up.
    “Very good, my lord.”
    Annie looked at her husband in awe and admiration. “Is it as easy as that?”

    He put down his newspaper. “Oh, yes. You don’t have to bother about people you don’t like, particularly at this time of the day. Anyway, she’s probably come to tell you about her engagement.”
    “Engagement!”
    “I heard at the club that young Bellamy was about to pop the question.”
    “But Harry Bellamy is only an Honorable!”
    “And since you always compete, you are surprised she settled for less than a duke? Ah, but there’s the question of an heir, you see. Since she has already gone out of her way to hire a private detective to find out about my . . . er . . . pleasures, she is probably convinced that she will be got with child first.”
    “Hired a . . . Oh, even Marigold . . .”
    “Surely you did not think that Marigold was in the habit of reading the French newspapers, did you?”
    “I’ll sue her, I’ll murder her, I’ll . . .”
    “Well, before you do all that, perhaps you might allow me to read my newspaper? I have been reading this same line over and over again.”
    Annie sat and watched him in smoldering silence. How dare he make her feel so guilty! How dare he sit there calmly after that horrible revelation!
    Gradually, she began to plan her day. She would collect her new gown from the dressmaker herself and wear it that very evening. And she would not sit around waiting for her husband to notice her. She would take herself for a drive in the park and show the fashionable world that the Marchioness of Torrance did not care in the slightest that her husband had come home!
    The day was gray and mournful. The leaves in the city never seemed to blaze with the red and gold of autumn but simply to crinkle up to a dreary brown.
    Still, she felt very mondaine as she sat in the marquess’s open carriage with the splendid coachman in front and the two enormous footmen at the back.
    And then, all at once, she recognized Aunt Agatha’s coachman seated on the box of a carriage approaching down Ladies Mile from the other direction.
    She called to her coachman to stop and the Winter carriage promptly stopped alongside, so she and Marigold were eyeball to eyeball, so to speak, each dressed to the nines and sitting in their open landaus.
    Marigold was seated beside a willowy young man who had a thick, fair moustache. Annie recognized the Honorable Harry Bellamy.
    “Congratulate us, sis,” cooed Marigold, all feminine flutterings. “Our engagement will be in the newspapers tomorrow.”
    “I should kill you,” said Annie, “for having the cheek to set a detective on my husband.”
    “But how did you . . . ?” began Marigold, and then blushed a guilty red.

    Annie’s temper snapped. She was carrying a frivolous little parasol, closed and held beside her because of the absence of sun. “I hate you!” hissed Annie, getting to her feet and standing up in the perilously swaying landau.
    Carriages halted beside them, lorgnettes were raised, rouged lips whispered behind fans. “Yes, I hate you,” repeated Annie, deaf and blind to the watching crowd.
    Marigold shrank back artistically against Harry Bellamy. “You always were jealous of me,” she said.
    “Oh, I say. I say, ” bleated Harry Bellamy.
    “And what’s more,” said Marigold, rising to her feet, her eyes glittering, “everyone knows you married Torrance out of