Molly by M.C. Beaton

on it and sleep, and hear that gentle American voice cooing in his ears.
    On the road home Molly sat very close to him in the carriage. Little black curls escaped from under her frivolous hat. Her mouth was soft and her eyes wide. Lord David was conscious of a heady, exciting sensation. He could feel the response of her body to his, and although they did not even hold hands, he knew that they were making love.
    When they reached the Holden home, Lord David sprang out of the carriage, despite Molly’s protests, and helped her down. He bent his head and kissed her gloved hand and then looked deep into her beautiful blue eyes. For a long moment, a strong thread of emotion seemed to join them and Lord David realized with a start that for the first time in his life, his heart was in danger. Reluctantly he released her hand and stood watching her while she walked into the house.
    Jennifer Strange prized herself out of the shrubbery, her little freckled face screwed up in a rather nasty way. Molly Maguire was a beast! What right had this
foreigner
to go out driving with Lord David when she, Jennifer, had already told Molly her heart’s desire. Molly must be punished. Lord David must be punished, and Jennifer Strange would see to that! She tripped demurely home to write a letter to Lord David’s fiancée, Lady Cynthia Whitworth.
    “Well, well, well,” Lord David was saying. “What was all that about?”
    Roddy told him. “Mary told me that she only likes lame ducks so it seemed like a stroke of genius. Did you see how she looked at you when she thought you were a dying man?”
    “Yes,” said Lord David, frowning. “And what is Miss Maguire going to do when she finds out we have tricked her?”
    “Oh, she won’t,” said Roddy blithely. “Well just change the date of your recovery. But what about Cynthia? She knows you’re cured, doesn’t she? She’ll expect you to make the engagement official.”
    “That won’t be for some time,” said Lord David, after some thought. “Cynthia never rushes into anything.”
    “Well, be careful and don’t queer my pitch. I’m getting very fond of Mary. In fact,” said Roddy suddenly, “I think I’m in love with her.”
    Lord David laughed indulgently. “When weren’t you in love, Roddy, my boy? You fall in love the way other people catch colds.”
    “I think I’m serious this time,” said Roddy. “Lady Fanny is giving this ball for the girls. You know what? Think I’ll pop the question.”
    “I’ll believe that when it happens,” said his friend cynically. “Don’t spring any surprises on me. Remember, I’m a dying man!”
    Lady Cynthia Whitworth slowly put down the letter from Jennifer Strange and touched the bell at her side. “Ah, Bland,” she said when her butler answered the summons. “Do we know where to find a detective?”
    The butler thought for a minute. “I think, my lady, that there was a certain person who was called in privately to solve the mystery of the Duchess of Earlston’s diamonds.”
    “Oh, that one. Yes. Turned out her son had pinched them. Well, get on to him and ask him to find out all he can about a couple of American heiresses called Molly and Mary Maguire. And tell him I need the information urgently….”
    Lady Fanny put down her coffee cup so that it rattled in the saucer. “Oh, dear,” she said faintly. “Toby, do listen.”
    Lord Toby looked at her rather wearily, wondering which facet of his life was about to be disciplined.
    “I’ve a letter here from Lady Cynthia Whitworth. Remember there were rumors that she was to marry Lord David, and then it all petered out?”
    “No,” said Toby, picking up the morning paper.
    “Put that rag down,” snapped his wife in her best parade-ground voice. “Pay attention! Lady Cynthia now more or less says that the engagement is still on and that she is coming
here
for the gels’ ball. Oh, dear! And I shall have to invite her to the dinner beforehand. And Molly
has
been making