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

and squares of the West End, harassing the old and crippled and weak. She had once walked from the house escorted by Eliot, the lady’s maid, to do some shopping in Bond Street and had been appalled at the behavior of an extremely smart and elegant group of young men. As soon as Constance and the maid had come abreast of them, they had proceeded to make water against the railings of the square, sniggering and loudly calling her attention to their behavior.
    The darker pits of sexual behavior which Amelia had tried to din into her unwilling ears had left her surprisingly untouched. There is, after all, no greater protection than a truly virginal mind.
    She found her thoughts returning—as they did with increasing frequency these days—to Lord Philip. More and more had she begun to think him a fitting mate for her mistress, but more because Lord Philip seemed almost as wrapped up in the rank and honor of his name as Amelia was in her beauty. And yet… he had seemed so kind that splendid night he had held her in his arms. Just what a brother might do, thought Constance, severely pushing down more pleasurable feelings.
    Was it so bad to be whipped by one’s mistress? her busy brain rattled on. Servants were whipped, of course, and younger brothers and sisters. She was sure it was odd for a lady to take the whip to her companion, but then, she knew so little of the world. There was only one salvation for a girl like herself, she concluded sadly, and that was marriage. I would marry the first man who asked me, she thought. A home of my own and children of my own would make up for an absence of love.
    Constance was so immersed in her thoughts that she had not heard the sound of someone entering the hall outside and approaching the door of the music room. She jerked her head up only as a strangely familiar voice said urgently, “In here!”
    Constance saw the doorknob beginning to turn and ran for the open windows. She stood on a small terrace outside, looking for a way down. But the terrace ran round the corner of the house and presumably there would be steps there. She was reluctant to walk past the window and expose herself in case the person in the room behind turned out to be the acid Mrs. Besant, the haughty Lady Eleanor or even Amelia herself. She decided to stay quietly on the terrace, between the windows, until whoever it was should leave.
    The conversation in the room behind her was in French and, although Constance recognized one of the speakers as the Comte Duval, she could not make out a word. Unlike many of her contemporaries, she did not know one word of French. She therefore had a comfortable feeling that she was not eavesdropping but amused herself by trying to recognize some of the words that sounded familiar. She heard the name, “Fanny Braintree” and then “Bonaparte,” then “l’Empereur”—“that must be Emperor,” thought Constance—then the word “espion” repeated several times and then the word “trahison.” The murmur of voices went on and Constance began to become anxious. Surely Lady Amelia would be looking for her by this time!
    She decided she could not wait any longer. She ran nimbly to the end of the terrace, her little leather slippers making no sound, fled round the corner of the terrace and saw, with relief, a double flight of steps leading down into the garden.
    But before she could reach them, the thorns of a rose bush growing in an urn on the terrace caught at the weak, worn leather strap of her fan and tore it from her wrist. She hesitated, wondering whether to wait and extricate her fan from the bush, but she heard the rapid, pursuing sound of footsteps coming from the direction of the music room, and fled into the garden.
    The Comte Duval rounded the terrace and stood staring, his face quite pale under the paint. No one. He thought he saw the flicker of a skirt disappearing through the bushes but he could not be sure.
    “Someone heard us?” said his companion, coming up