The Constant Companion by M. C. Beaton

behind him, speaking in English.
    “She left this,” said the comte, slowly plucking Constance’s fan from the rose bush. “What shall we do, my little English friend?”
    “We must flee!” babbled his companion. “The game is up!”
    “Quietly,
mon amie
, quietly.
Doucement!
” said the comte, swinging the fan back and forth in his long fingers.
    “If she knows what we were saying, what we were plotting, she will raise a rumpus immediately and we can still escape. If there is no brouhaha in the next few minutes, she has not heard or understood, but nonetheless we dare not let her live. We must start to find out then who the owner of this fan is and when we find her, why, we kill her.”
    “Oh,
no!
” bleated his companion.
    “Oh, yes, my little English coward. You are now in too deep to draw back. We find her, we kill her. Life is very simple if you but take the proper action.…”
    Amelia had been too engrossed in her battle of wits with Mrs. Besant to notice Constance’s long absence. She had also practically forgotten the existence of Lord Philip Cautry who was heartily wishing himself elsewhere.
    “And that
gown!
” Mrs. Besant was saying. “Surely you can do better for Miss Lamberton than
that
. I declare it has a patch on the sleeve.”
    “She
likes
going around like a drab,” snapped Amelia. The sunlight winked on the diamond pendant at her neck, driving Mrs. Besant to further attack.
    “After all, dear Amelia,” murmured Mrs. Besant. “We all know ’twas exceeding kind of you to give the girl a home. But a roof over her head seems to be all she has. And you still have not told me how she came by that scar.”
    “It’s a birthmark!” said Amelia.
    “A
birthmark!
” exclaimed Mrs. Besant, showing all her teeth. “Come, come! There wasn’t a mark on her back at Almack’s. Therefore she got it sometime
after
Almack’s. When she went home, perhaps?”
    Amelia took a deep breath and leaned across the table, pushing her pretty face almost into that of Mrs. Besant and affording Lord Philip an excellent view of two large breasts revealed by her plunging neckline. “I am surprised you had the time to notice,” she said silkily. “The morning post takes up so much of your time.”
    Mrs. Besant reeled back in her chair and raised her hand like a fencer receiving a hit. “Well, well,” she said breathlessly. “I am sure Lord Philip is bored with our women’s chatter.”
    “You must excuse me,” said Philip, taking the opportunity to escape. Amelia bit her lip. In her way, she enjoyed her verbal battles with Mrs. Besant more than the attention of any man, but Lord Philip had the two things she desired most, money and a title. “You are quite right,” she said, rising and slipping her arm through Philip’s, “and I shall promenade with you.”
    Philip looked down at her enchanting face, and wondered why he had ever found her attractive. She was vulgar beyond belief and, if Mrs. Besant’s hints could be believed, she was also making life hell for that poor little Lamberton girl. His green eyes raked over the grounds for a way to get rid of her, and with relief, he espied the elegant, if foppish, figure of the Comte Duval.
    “Monsieur le Comte,” he cried, before Amelia realized what he was about. “I must beg you to escort Lady Amelia for me. I have business to attend to.”
    “Indeed, I am delighted to relieve you of your beautiful charge,” said the comte, bowing low while Lord Philip wrinkled his nose fastidiously at the strong smell of musk emanating from that gentleman’s clothes.
    Philip bowed and left them. He found he was becoming increasingly worried about Constance’s welfare. He suddenly saw her walking under the trees with Peter Potter. She was laughing at something Peter had just said, her face alight with humor and mischief. “Why, she is really pretty,” he thought in surprise. “Almost beautiful. Now, were she married to someone suitable, it would solve all the