Free Anne Barbour by A Pressing Engagement Page B

have been kept aired, but we must get the dust covers removed—and, of course, flowers ...” were the last words Diana heard as Aunt Amabelle bustled out of sight.
    Diana turned to the stairs, declaring her intention of retiring to her bedchamber for a rest before dinner. She was not fatigued, but felt the urgent need for a period of reflection. The day was barely half over, but Diana felt as though she had lived through a lifetime of misadventure in a few short hours.
    Declining an escort, she reached her chambers after only a few wrong turnings. There she found resting upon the satinwood dressing table a fat little packet, upon which her name (or, rather, that of the nonexistent Diana Bavister) had been written in a bold scrawl. It contained a roll of notes, which she counted with care. Yes, it was all there. Five hundred guineas. She sank into one of the pretty little chairs set by the fireplace, and gave herself up to thought.
    She had the money with which to make her way to Aylesford and, after she met with Marcus, back to Paris. When her bargain with the odious Lord Burnleigh had been fulfilled, she could look forward to a comfortable journey, provided with all the accoutrements of genteel travel.
    She meditated on the earl, and became prey to wildly mixed emotions. On one hand, she was filled with indignation at his ruthless treatment of her. On the other, she wished that she had met him under different circumstances. But again, in what other circumstances would she be likely to encounter someone of his elevated standing?
    “And—” a small voice made itself heard—”even if you were to meet under different circumstances, what possible interest could the Earl of Burnleigh be expected to take in a virtual nonentity from a ladies’ seminary?”
    Diana had no difficulty in recognizing the voice. It belonged to the Schoolmistress, of course, that prim and radical personage who emerged from the recesses of her mind every now and then to deliver instructive lectures when Diana’s thoughts were in danger of taking a frivolous turn.
    “None at all,” was her instant retort. “Nor have I any interest in him beyond a desire to leave his influence at the earliest opportunity. After all, I am not an empty-headed widgeon, falling into a swoon over deep-set eyes and a pair of broad shoulders.”
    “Quite,” sniffed the Schoolmistress repressively.
    * * * *
    In a distant wing of the Court, in Simon’s chambers, Jared was deep in conversation with his brother. The two had just come from the marquess’s chambers, and were in a somber mood. Jared briefly scrutinized the younger man. At their first meeting, in the hall below, Simon had appeared relatively unchanged from the hey-go-mad youth who had ridden off some three years ago to go adventuring in the Army. Brown hair waved just as luxuriantly over a broad brow, above eyes that were still clear and laughter-lit. But war had marked him in subtle ways—a slight harshening of regular, almost classic features, and the hardening of an already determined jaw-line.
    “I can’t believe how he has changed,” Simon was saying. “He seems to have aged ten years since I’ve been gone. And he is so thin! God, Jared, he’s really dying, isn’t he?”
    “So say his doctors,” agreed his brother with a grimace. “I’m glad you were able to be here for him.”
    “I’ll only be able to stay for a few days,” said Simon. “The news that Boney has slipped his leash didn’t get out until I was already on my way home, or I might not have been granted leave at all. But what’s this about your betrothal? Grandfather was very full of your news. Are you actually about to become leg-shackled? To a nobody from the depths of Wales? Not your style, I would have thought, though she is a rare beauty. That, of course, is very much your style.”
    Jared uttered a long drawn-out sound, half sigh and half groan.
    “Sit down, Simon. It’s a long story, and at the end of it, you may be