Mistress - Amanda Quick [30]
Zoe let it be known far and wide that the only benefit she had ever received from marriage was her lovely daughter, Maryanne. She was thrilled with Maryanne’s recent betrothal to the handsome and, as Zoe had taken care to ascertain, wealthy Sheffield.
During the long years of her unhappy marriage to the obnoxious Guthrie, Zoe had taken comfort in her liaises with Lord Otis. Otis had been devoted to her from the moment they had been introduced. He had never married. The fact that he was Maryanne’s real father, however, had been a deep, dark secret until the blackmailer had somehow discovered it.
Maryanne, a charming, warmhearted young lady, was exceedingly fond of Otis. She treated him as though he were a favored uncle. Otis doted on her.
After the death of her husband, Zoe had, in the manner of so many of Society’s widows, finally come into her own.
The first thing she had done was gather together what remained of her inheritance. She had invested the whole of it in Iphiginia’s first property speculation venture, Morning Rose Square.
When the initial income from that investment had been realized last year, Zoe had promptly settled a handsome portion on Maryanne. She and her daughter had both set about replacing all the drab, unstylish gowns in their wardrobes with new clothes fashioned by elegant modistes who possessed French accents. When all was in readiness, Maryanne was launched on Society. The offer from Sheffield had come shortly after Maryanne’s first ball.
Zoe’s mouth tightened as she studied the illustration of the combined library and statuary hall. “Otis says there very likely will be more demands, and soon. He claims blackmailers are like leeches. They usually return time and again until they have succeeded in bleeding their victims dry.”
Iphiginia shuddered. “What a ghastly analogy. From what I have heard, he is right.” She frowned over the illustration in the pattern book, her mind on her aunt’s problem. “It is unfortunate that Masters thinks the entire matter is merely an amusing jest.”
“Are you certain that he did not believe you?” Zoe asked.
“He made it quite clear that he thinks I invented the tale in order to explain my masquerade to him.”
Zoe groaned. “What a disastrous affair this is. I still cannot credit that he has actually agreed to allow you to continue posing as his paramour.”
“Well, he has agreed to it and we must be grateful. It will allow me to continue searching the studies and libraries of the suspects.”
“I’m beginning to think that it is all a waste of time,” Zoe said. “Thus far you have learned nothing.”
Iphiginia tapped one gloved finger lightly against the illustration. “I wouldn’t say that. I have eliminated both Darrow and Judson from the list of those who might be the blackmailers.”
Zoe sighed. “I don’t know. It all sounds so vague.”
“We have nothing better to go on at the moment.” Iphiginia broke off when she caught a flash of purple out of the corner of her eye. “Oh, hello, Mr. Hornby. We are still studying this illustration, as you can see.”
“Of course.” Hornby, unable to resist the temptation to encourage potential clients, sidled closer. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance?” He gave Iphiginia, Zoe, and Amelia an unctuous smile.
Iphiginia thought quickly. “This is a most unusual decoration above the fireplace in this design, Mr. Hornby.”
Hornby beamed. “It is an exact copy of an ancient sepulchral ruin, madam. It gives the library a serious, weighty sort of atmosphere, quite suited to the characteristic use of such a chamber.”
“I see,” Iphiginia said.
“Very interesting.” Zoe peered more closely at the illustration. “What on earth are those odd creatures that support the lamps?”
“Sphinxes, madam. All the rage at the moment, you know. They go rather well with the Egyptian hieroglyphic wallpaper.”
“Yes, of course.”
Amelia frowned. “What is all this drapery hanging from the ceiling, Mr. Hornby?”
“Turkish tent hangings, madam. They provide an exotic air that will astound visitors.