Free The Constant Companion by M. C. Beaton

eagle eyes had caught the veiled look of anger mixed with fear that Constance had cast on Amelia, or the way the girl moved her shoulders stiffly as if she were in pain.
    Mrs. Besant hurried after them. A pale, watery sunlight was filtering through a gray veil of cloud and the day had turned warm and humid. Roses bloomed in every corner of the garden, glittering with rain, their heavy heads hanging down under the weight of the rainwater. As Mrs. Besant hurried up behind her, a thorn caught in Constance’s shawl and pulled it down, away from her back and neck.
    And Mrs. Besant drew in her breath with a sharp hiss of satisfaction. A long, savage red weal was cut across the girl’s white shoulders. Constance quickly untangled her shawl and huddled it around her shoulders.
    Mrs. Besant stopped her pursuit and turned instead to go in search of Lord Philip.
    Lord Philip was often considered too proud and toplofty by many of society but Mrs. Besant, watching the charming smile that lit up his lordship’s rather austere features as he bent his black head to listen to something that grubby little secretary was saying, thought that, on the contrary, there were times when Lord Philip Cautry was
too
democratic.
    Ignoring the secretary completely, she rudely broke into their conversation with, “Cautry! A word in your ear.”
    “I am talking to Mr. Evans, Mrs. Besant,” said Lord Philip in arctic tones, “or perhaps you hadn’t noticed.”
    Mrs. Besant gave the secretary a smile. Mr. Evans reflected that although he had been told the human mouth usually holds thirty-two teeth, God had seen fit to give Mrs. Besant fifty. They seemed to snap at him awfully as if they had a separate life of their own, and with an incoherent mumble he took his leave.
    “What is it?” said Lord Philip, staring down at Mrs. Besant with distaste. She was only a vicar’s daughter after all, and it was time someone put her in her place.
    But her opening word’s caught his full attention.
    “I am really surprised to see a fine and brave gentleman like yourself stand by while Miss Constance Lamberton—who is, after all, the daughter of an old friend of yours—is whipped.”
    “Come now,” snapped Philip, angry at the sudden feeling of foreboding that had assailed him. “You have been reading too many gothic novels, Mrs. Besant.” But he did not walk away.
    “Then ask her,” breathed Mrs. Besant, moving close to him and speaking in a murmur, “ask her where she got that cruel whiplash on her back!” She smiled, giving him the full benefit of her array of yellow teeth, gave a jerky little nod of her head, and then began to speak in a high voice about something completely different as she saw a little knot of guests approaching.
    Lord Philip walked quickly in the direction that Amelia and Constance had taken. He was tired of all this gossip, these rumors. He suddenly remembered holding Constance in his arms, and looking down on the intriguing vista of white and flawless back revealed by her low evening gown.
    The dance had not yet begun and Amelia and Constance were seated at a small table where more refreshments were being served. Amelia gave him a dazzling smile and waved him over to join them. A stray sunbeam shining through a small tear in the canvas lit up the pure, pale, white gold of her hair and Philip caught his breath. No one so beautiful could be so guilty of such cruelties.
    Amelia launched into the latest
on-dit
and Lord Philip listened appreciatively since the story concerned a couple he did not like in the least. When Amelia had finished, Lord Philip turned his attention to Constance.
    “Are you cold, Miss Lamberton?” he asked, looking at Constance who sat with a Norfolk shawl huddled around her shoulders. Amelia had forgotten the whiplash, and only wanted Lord Philip to see what a drab Constance looked in that frumpy gown.
    Before Constance could reply, Amelia said, “Yes, Constance dear. It is so hot in here, but the way you