Annabelle by MC Beaton Page B

of officers seemed to treat their military service as if it was some sport akin to fox hunting and, during peacetime, hardly ever appeared in uniform except during the long ceremonial parades for the Czar’s visit.
    How she wished she did not have to bear the antics of the embarrassing Captain! Her cheeks were hot with shame, and it was with some relief that she finally realised no one at all was bothering to look in her direction.
    Annabelle had not, however, noticed that Lady Emmeline had been watching her closely. I have thrust her at the Captain too much, thought that wily old lady. Perhaps if I tell her she’s free and can do as she pleases and make sure little Annabelle and her Captain are thrown together … why then … who knows what may happen?
    From the darkness of his box Lord Varleigh studied Annabelle through his quizzing glass, finding the appearance she made more appealing than the sights onstage. Lady Jane Cherle followed his gaze and her heart sank. Whenever Lord Varleigh saw the Quennell female, his attention seemed to be immediately rivetted on her. Annabelle was everything that Lady Jane feared and despised—a beautiful and missish idiot who had never suffered from the cold breath of scandal. Well, perhaps that could be arranged. She had no intention of losing Sylvester Varleigh—even if she had to intrigue, or kill, to keep him.
    As Annabelle and Lady Emmeline alighted from their carriage in Berkeley Square later that evening, Lady Emmeline paused on the pavement, her whole face looking very serious and intent in the flickering light of the flambeaux blazing outside her house. She dismissed the carriage and then clasped Annabelle’s arm. “I am
enjoying
myself,” said the old lady, the wind from the square blowing her flimsy dress against the bones of her corset, “and it’s all thanks to you. Youth keeps you young,” she went on, her eyes fastening almost greedily on Annabelle’s fresh features. “You can marry who you like and when you like, my dear. You’ll be a daughter to me. Yes, a daughter!”
    Leaning heavily on the young girl, she moved into the house.
    Unseen by either, a dark shadow detached itself from the railings a little way off down the street and slipped silently away to merge with the blacker shadows of the night.

Chapter Seven
    Lady Emmeline’s newfound delight in her goddaughter had not abated on the following morning, and she started to plan a ball to be held in Annabelle’s honor.
    The long ballroom which was at the back of the four-story house had not been used in years, and an army of servants was sent to dust and polish and scrub and take the Holland covers from the crystal chandeliers.
    Madame Croke was sent for in order that a stupendous ball gown could be planned for Annabelle, who awaited the arrival of the dressmaker with some trepidation.
    Annabelle conjured up a picture of Madame Croke as a hard-faced woman with snapping black eyes and the mannerisms of a demimondaine.
    To her amazement Madame Croke was a small, faded, spinsterish woman with a small, faded voice. She was soberly dressed in a gray tweed pelisse worn over a gray Kerseymere wool dress. The severity of her bonnet would have graced the head of the sternest governess. It was hard to believe that this quiet mouse of a woman was capable of dreaming up some of the most outrageous toilettes in London. She had brought with her a folio of sketches for Annabelle to shudder over. Each gown looked more daring and scanty than the next.
    When Annabelle at last arrived at a drawing of a simpering lady wearing little else other than jewel-bedecked gauze, she closed the folder firmly and said:“These will not do, Madame Croke. They are more suitable for a member of the demimonde than for a debutante.”
    Lady Emmeline was busy entertaining the Countess Honeyford, and after giving the Dowager Marchioness a quick look, Madame Croke dropped her voice to a whisper. “Then perhaps, Miss Quennell,” she murmured,