Anne Barbour Read Online Free Page B

with little besides the title and Canby Park—and this house, of course. A not insignificant portion, but—
    The marquess waved an impatient hand. “My nephew will do well enough. In any case, I am not concerned with him. It is of Felicity I wish to talk. I am anxious to see her.”
    “I plan to give her an early dinner at the hotel, and then I shall bring her here.”
    “Excellent. How do you find the hotel, by the by? Is it acceptable? I would much rather you had put her up at Grillon’s or the Pulteney, but—” He interrupted himself hastily. “Yes, very well. I can see the wisdom of keeping her in a more out of the way spot until we verify her bona fides.”
    “The hotel is all one could wish, sir. It positively reeks of tonnish excess, and the clientele seem entirely unexceptionable.”
    “Good-bye, then,” said Lord Canby, walking with Branford to the door of the study. “I shall see you later this evening.”
    As Bran made his way back to his lodgings in Duke Street, his thoughts were full of the enigmatic Mrs. Finch. He wished she were not so compelling, with her earnest air of candor and her extraordinarily expressive eyes. Yes, their color did resemble the velvety heart of a pansy, he reflected, and it had seemed to him he had observed in them flashes of pain when she talked of her past. He wished that irritating sense of connection with her would go away. She was not what he would call diffident, for her demeanor was composed. Yet she did not push herself forward. Was this merely a masterpiece of strategy, or was she truly only interested in discovering her true background?
    The vision of the vibrant, golden-haired child flashed before him once more.
    “When you are grown, you will not marry anyone but me! Now you must kiss me good night, for Nurse will be coming for me soon.”
    Her lips had been warm, her arms around him were soft, and she smelled of warm milk and daisies.
    Bran sighed. He might find Mrs. Finch’s motives highly suspect, but he was somewhat unnerved at the desire she had created in him to believe her.
     

5
     
    Martha sat stiffly on the edge of her chair in the dining room of the Grand Hotel, feeling very much like a frowsty brown sparrow in a room full of peacocks. As thickly carpeted and as elegantly furnished as the rest of the hotel, the chamber provided an appropriate setting for birds of luxurious plumage. She told herself that no one was taking any notice of her, but she expected at any moment that some person in authority would sweep down to order her immediate removal from the sanctified precincts of this haunt of the ton.
    Not that such an outrage would likely be visited upon a guest of the Marquess of Canby. Or his surrogate, the Earl of Branford. She would be allowed to remain unmolested, but made to feel the veriest interloper under stares of contemptuous indifference from the other patrons. Chief among these, of course, was the earl himself.
    For the first several minutes after she was served a portion of tasty, tender cutlets, smothered in an indescribably delicious sauce, she addressed herself solely to its consumption. When she looked up, she found the earl gazing on her in startled bemusement. She flushed, realizing the picture she must present of a starving street urchin. It had been a long time since she had eaten to her fill.
    ‘‘It’s very good,” she remarked brightly, gesturing with her fork.
    “Yes, though the hotel is quite new, the chef here has already made a reputation for himself as a premier artist with spatula and spoon. French, of course, and, I hear, wildly temperamental. And now,” he continued, “do tell me about your life in the fisherman’s cottage.”
    Martha provided him with details of that brief, idyllic time in her life. “My days were busy,” she concluded. “In addition, Margaret, who could read and write, taught me my letters.”
    Bran watched her narrowly. She certainly appeared to be telling the truth. In any case, her