Free The Dreadful Debutante by M. C. Beaton Page B

London.
     
    The marquess took Lady Jansen out for a drive that afternoon. The fact that he found her company unexciting and undemanding soothed his guilty soul. Damn Mira and her wild, unconventional ways. He realized his companion was asking him whether he meant to attend the ball in Kensington that night. Damn Mira again! She would be there, and how on earth was he going to approach her? He had, he admitted to himself ruefully, enjoyed her easygoing friendship, and now he had shattered that.
     
    “You have not replied?” admonished Lady Jansen, tapping his arm playfully with her fan.
     
    “I am sorry. I was daydreaming. Yes, I will be there.”
     
    “And Miss Mira?”
     
    He gave her a sharp glance. “I believe so. Why do you ask?”
     
    “I wondered whether I ought to beg her forgiveness.”
     
    His face cleared. He found himself liking her very much.
     
    “I do not think that at all necessary. It is better the matter be forgotten.”
     
    She gave a little laugh. “Nonetheless I should never have repeated such a story. You may trust me now. I could not bear such shame again.”
     
    “As I said, it is forgotten. Miss Mira will no doubt soon be engaged to a fellow of her own age and pursuits.”
     
    Lady Jansen tried to feel comforted by that remark, but she kept seeing Mira’s bright face turned up to his under the parish light in Drury Lane. If only she could find some hard proof of the marquess’s liaison with this girl, then Mira would soon be sent out of London in disgrace, never to be heard of again.
     
    When the marquess escorted her home, she rested for an hour on her bed without sleeping, thinking all the time of how to obtain the necessary proof. And then she remembered her friend, Mrs. Jackson, a jealous woman who became convinced her husband was having an affair. Most married society women suspected their husbands kept mistresses but would not dream of raising the subject or doing anything about it. But Mrs. Jackson loved her husband, a rare state of affairs. She had employed a retired Bow Street Runner by the name of Diggs. That was it, Diggs. Lady Jansen rang the bell, rose, and went to the writing desk next door in her boudoir. She scribbled a note to Mrs. Jackson, folded it, sanded it, and sent the footman, who answered the summons of the bell, to go directly to Mrs. Jackson’s with it and wait for a reply.
     
    By the time she set out for the ball, she had secured the address of the retired Runner.
     
    At the ball, when the marquess approached her first and led her onto the floor, the better side of her nature decided to forget about the ex-Runner. If she just went on the way she was going and remained uncomplicated and friendly, she was sure the marquess would propose marriage to her.
     
    But she was becoming rapidly obsessed with the marquess, with his splendid figure, his golden hair, his strong face, and the way those gray eyes could look down into her own so intently when she said something to catch his attention. So her feelings when Mira Markham walked into the ballroom were of rage and sick, poisonous jealousy. Some might say that Mira was not a beauty, that her cheekbones were too high, her hair too frizzy, but she had youth and a gracefulness of movement.
     
    Mr. Danby, asking Mira to dance, was charmed to receive her full attention this time. As they walked after the dance, she talked easily of horses and dogs and country pursuits so dear to his own heart. He did not feel awkward with her or feel he had to pay her extravagant compliments. He was fascinated by those green eyes of hers and loved to see them sparkle with laughter. He had discussed his interest in Mira with his mother, who had said doubtfully that although the girl had initially disgraced herself, she had behaved prettily ever since. The Markhams were very wealthy, and Mrs. Danby was certainly not going to steer her only son away from a rich dowry.
     
    Mr. Danby was an engaging-looking young man with curly