Chapter 11 #2
Lily spent two days tossing about for a solution to her problem, with no results.
Confiding in Aunt Marianne, her father’s ineffective spinster sister would be no help.
She needed a distraction badly. Three evenings after the miserable visit from Glenaire, Lily judged herself well enough to go out.
The Mallet’s literary evening, she believed, would do nicely.
Lady Georgiana Mallet hosted a literary salon, noted for the quality of its speakers, who were as interesting as they were brief, and for the delectable refreshments prepared by the best French chef in England, on the second Thursday of every month.
Her brother Richard never came. Lily felt safe attending.
She walked a few short blocks to the Mallets’ townhouse, a discreet footman in tow, and skirted the British Museum.
Living close to that institution gave Lily joy; it often provided hours of engrossed fascination when she could forget about her father, about Volkov, about the fear of impending motherhood.
Any approach to unmarried motherhood she considered so far required that she leave London. She felt that loss keenly.
I will miss the museum and its library, she thought. I will miss the squares of Bloomsbury. She crossed into Bedford Square; the small patches of green surrounded by neat townhouses suited her.
She preferred the formal gardens of St. Petersburg or Vienna to wilder places, even the English countryside. I will hate languishing in some obscure cottage in the wilds of Yorkshire or wherever I find refuge.
The little fountain in the center of the square gurgled cheerfully as she passed.
If I married Glenaire, I could have London.
The thought floated in unbidden, and she quickly pushed that temptation away.
Duty made a poor foundation for a happy union.
Marriage to a controlling and arrogant marquess, especially one who looked down his nose on her origins, meant a long life of purgatory. There has to be another way.
For now Lily had Bedford Square and its carefully tended flowerbeds. She would have it until her father arrived. She crossed onto Bedford Street west of the square.
Should I confide in Georgiana or in Catherine?
She quickly dismissed that idea also. However much they may care for me, Glenaire is one of them.
He commands their first loyalty. Involvement with her problems would put them in an awkward position at best. It would empower the marquess to bully her at worst.
A few short steps and she stood under the great curved door to the Mallet townhouse. Evening closed in and the windows above lit up with candlelight. The sound of happy conversation drifted down when the footman knocked. Lily smiled in anticipation.
Georgiana’s salon never fails to distract me.
“Miss Lily Thornton,” her servant told the butler. He stepped aside. The man would wait to accompany her home.
Weariness threatened her when she followed the butler upstairs to the drawing room. She gripped the railing and hesitated before stepping into the first floor hall.
She smiled wanly at the butler when he looked ready to catch her if she slipped.
Perhaps I should not have come.
She needed the distraction of friends. The door to the expansive drawing room lay open. The butler gestured her toward it. Andrew and Georgiana Mallet stood on little ceremony and required no announcement.
Lily fixed her smile in place and paused just inside. Georgiana, on a settee by the windows and already deep in conversation with one of the curators of antiquities from the museum, glanced up at Lily with a swift grin but didn’t rush to her side.
Georgiana’s husband Andrew approached unimpeded by his slight limp; his scarred face lit in welcome. War had left his body damaged, but his brilliant mind and kind heart intact.
I envy the Mallets their marriage, she thought. Her heart sank. That door may be closed to me forever.
“Don’t look so sad,” her host greeted her. “Come, help Winston defend his contention that the Russians are not so backward as some in this country maintain.”
Lily looked toward Henry Winston, one of Cambridge’s leading scholars on the Slavic nations who spoke to someone with his back to her.
Andrew led her in that direction.
“Andrew, come set this fusty man straight,” Georgiana called across the room. He shrugged at Lily, gestured her forward, and turned to answer his wife’s summons.
Lily took a step toward Winston. The man’s companion turned, and she looked up into the penetrating black eyes of Konstantin Volkov. His lip curled in a cynical mockery of a smile.
“Miss Thornton,” he said, “It has been far too long since we spoke.”
Lily froze in place.
“You know our Miss Thornton?” Winston asked.
“I know her very well,” Volkov said, his tone implying all the intimacy Lily hated. “We met in St. Petersburg. Miss Thornton loves Russia and all things there. Don’t you, Miss Thornton?” the swine went on.
“All things there.” Does he know Papa left? The pulse in her throat pounded.
“When last we met, we discussed your”—Volkov hesitated—“health. I trust you are well?” He looked at her as if she were a very tasty rabbit cowering before his vulpine jaws.
Lily opened her mouth to speak, closed it, and then opened again to say, “You will excuse me please, gentlemen.”
She walked swiftly to the hallway, leaned against one wall, and gasped for breath.
Oh God. He has gotten to me.
The lights faded into darkness, and Lily slipped to the floor in a dead faint.