Free The Constant Companion by M. C. Beaton Page A

are huddled up one would think we were at the North Pole.” And before Constance could stop her, Amelia had leaned forward and twitched the shawl from her shoulders and it fell to the ground. Constance bent quickly to retrieve it, and Lord Philip saw the ugly weal that marred the white skin of her back.
    “Miss Lamberton,” he said in a flat, emotionless voice. “That is a very ugly scar on your back. One would think someone had been taking a whip to you.”
    Amelia gave a shrill laugh, “It is a birth mark, isn’t it, Constance dear?”
    Constance looked straight at Amelia, her large, hazel eyes totally expressionless.
    “No,” she said, baldly.
    “Then how came you by it?” persisted Lord Philip.
    Amelia became aware of her friend, Mrs. Besant, standing behind the chair listening avidly, and her pale blue eyes flashed a warning at Constance.
    Constance rose gracefully to her feet. “I am feeling a trifle unwell,” she said in a thin voice. “If you will excuse me, Lady Amelia. I must go into the house.”
    “By all means, Coz,” trilled Amelia, all mock solicitation. “Lord Philip will chaperone me until your return.”
    “Perhaps it would be better if I escorted Miss Lamberton home,” said Lord Philip, his green eyes fastened on Constance’s pale face.
    “Come, now!” laughed Amelia, laying a possessive hand on his arm. “Such a fuss over a young girl’s megrims. You gentlemen of the world must be aware that us ladies are plagued with the vapors at a
certain time of the month.
”
    Constance blushed scarlet and fled. Lord Philip wondered for one awful moment if he, too, were blushing. Amelia couldn’t possibly have meant… wouldn’t have dared… no woman
ever
.…
    He was grateful for the presence of Mrs. Besant, who plumped herself down in Constance’s chair and leaned her knobby elbows on the table.
    But Lord Philip’s embarrassment was not over, for Mrs. Besant was hell-bent on mischief.
    “Tell me, dearest,” said Mrs. Besant, leaning towards Amelia and flashing a look at Philip to make sure he was listening, “Do, but do,
do
tell how little Constance got that simply terrible mark on her back. It looks just as if it had been made by someone striking her with a whip.…”
    Constance walked quickly into the Riders’ large sprawling villa and began to breathe more easily as the noise of the party receded behind her. She simply wanted to be alone to sort out her anguished and very muddled thoughts. The cool quiet rooms seemed deserted, since both servants and masters were with the guests in the garden.
    She pushed open a door at random and found herself in a large music room. Pale sunlight filtering through the trees outside the long windows dappled the polished oak floor. There was very little furniture apart from a large gilt harp, a prettily painted spinet, a few comb-and-splat Windsor chairs, and a Pembroke table holding a luster bowl full of red and white roses.
    Constance sat down on one of the chairs, bent her head and tried to marshal her thoughts. Despite Amelia’s vicious attack on her, Constance felt disloyal to her mistress for harboring such angry thoughts about her. For although Constance came from an ancient and respected English family, Amelia topped her in rank, and Constance had always been taught to respect her betters—betters, of course, meaning anyone higher up on the social scale. Then there was that stern matter of duty. She was employed by Amelia, therefore it was her duty to obey Amelia.
    And under all these noble thoughts ran the fear of being turned out into the London streets. Constance had lived a grim but isolated life with her aunt, and had therefore been spared many of the horrible sights of the day.
    In the less favored areas of London, however, she expected to see the grim and scab-faced rabble with their wild eyes and filthy clothes. But it was the behavior of her peers that shocked her. The cruelty of the young bucks and bloods who roamed the streets