Molly by M.C. Beaton Page B

strange reluctance he followed Roddy into the house. And there she was. He reflected briefly that Lady Fanny was a genius when it came to choosing clothes for the Maguire sisters. Instead of dressing Molly in debutante white, Lady Fanny had chosen a dress for her in deepest crimson chiffon. It was cut low at the bosom, emphasizing the whiteness of her neck and shoulders. It was swept up at the back into a saucy sort of bustle reminiscent of the 1870s, and her glossy curls were dressed high on her head without any of the fashionable frizzing to spoil them. One deep-scarlet rose was placed behind her ear. Her eyes were like sapphires and just, he noticed with a start, as hard.
    A devastatingly good-looking young man appeared at her elbow and led her away. He was about to follow when a well-remembered voice said, “Darling!”
    One little word and the enchantment fled, leaving him standing in an overfurnished house, wondering how soon he could escape.
    He turned around, and Lady Cynthia Whitworth stood smiling into his eyes. She was nearly as tall as he and built on Junoesque lines. Her blonde hair was worn fashionably low on her brow, her skin was like an enameled rose leaf, and her gown screamed Paris with every stitch. She was all his—and he was suddenly miserable.
    He became aware that she was speaking. He had forgotten how ugly her voice was. She had a high, affected drawl.
    “Glad to see you back from the land of the dead, darling,” she was saying. “I sent the notice of our engagement to the papers. Now, aren’t you thrilled?”
    “Devastated,” he said politely, kissing her porcelain cheek. “There goes the dinner gong.”
    “You must tell me all about the Maguire sisters,” drawled Cynthia as they walked toward the table. “Quite characters, I imagine. Is that them? How very dark, to be sure, but I’ve heard it said that a lot of those American girls have
Negro
blood in them.”
    “Nonsense,” said his lordship with a cutting edge to his voice. “Whitest skins I’ve seen in years. Anyway, the latest rage of Paris has Negro blood in her. Skin like honey. All the fellows are mad about her.”
    “Dear me,” said Lady Cynthia, raising her penciled eyebrows. “How democratic you have become. It must be the American influence.”
    Roddy moved behind Lord David to find his own seat. “Her with her painted nails and Paris gowns,” he murmured in Lord David’s ear. Lord David let out a sudden unmanly giggle and Cynthia looked at him with narrowed eyes and then focussed her attention on Molly, who was seated across the table from her, next to Giles.
    “You won’t object to me speaking across the table, will you, Miss Maguire?” she said sweetly. “My fiancé informs me that you Americans do not believe in our stuffy English conventions.”
    The word “fiancé” pierced Molly’s heart like a knife but no trace of what she felt showed on her face.
    “You make me nervous,” said Molly equally sweetly. “You see, Lady Cynthia, I have learned that in English society, if anyone begins by referring to the free and easy ways of the Americans, it usually means they are about to take some terrible liberty.”
    Lady Cynthia’s mouth curled up in a thin line.
That explains the mystery of the Mona Lisa
, thought Molly suddenly.
Leonardo da Vinci had probably just fallen on his palette knife or tripped over his easel.
    “But I know a lot about you, you see,” said Lady Cynthia. “And I do admire you so—working away like slaves in that little shop in Brooklyn. And to make your family fortunes by inventing a cough syrup with that hilarious name ‘Maguires’ Leprechaun Dew.’” She gave the sort of laugh that is usually described as tinkling.
    From the head of the table Lady Fanny emitted a low groan.
    “I say,” said Giles suddenly. “Did you really? By Jove, I think that’s marvelous. Takes brains and guts. Tell us about it.”
    And to Lady Cynthia’s chagrin that is exactly what Molly did. She