she replied, deciding to postpone the truth while she could.
Chloe smiled at her. 'Have you been in Brighton long, Miss er…?'
'I only arrived yesterday.' Megan affected not to have noticed that her name was sought. She knew that the chances of Oliver remaining in ignorance for long were rather slender, for he was sure to hear Evangeline's new companion referred to by name at the ball. When that happened, Megan did not doubt that his memory would be jogged rather sharply.
Chloe smiled again. 'Yesterday?' Ah, that explains why I have never seen you before. Are you here for Christmas?'
'No, I have taken a new position here.'
'A new position?'
'I am companion to Lady Evangeline Radcliffe.' That admission at least had to be made.
Chloe's eyes cleared. 'I saw you looking out of the window of Radcliffe House last night!'
'Yes.'
'I confess I was all nosiness, because as far as I was aware Radcliffe House was closed until New Year's Eve. I also confess I was puzzled when I saw an unknown hooded lady peeping out of the dining room window. I had no idea Lady Evangeline was taking a companion.' Chloe's expression became a little self-conscious. 'Oh, what a rattlebrain you must think me, for I haven't introduced myself. I am Miss Holcroft, daughter of Lady Evangeline's old friend, Admiral Sir Jocelyn Holcroft. This is Mr. March.'
Megan managed a smile. 'I am honored to meet you, Miss Holcroft. Mr. March.'
'I vow you are most fortunate in your mistress,' Chloe went on, 'for Lady Evangeline is without a doubt the most delightful lady of my acquaintance.'
'I am fortunate indeed,' Megan replied, warming to the other by the moment. No wonder Evangeline was so fond of her-and so regretful that Rupert had apparently bungled his chances. Chloe Holcroft did not seem to have an unpleasant side. There had been no change in her attitude on discovering she was addressing a companion; she remained warm and friendly. Oliver's manner, on the other hand, had changed perceptibly.
Chloe spoke to Megan again. 'I believe you and I will see each other again later today, for Lady Evangeline sent a footman over last night inviting Father and me to Radcliffe House this evening to discuss the Christmas play.'
Oliver took out his fob watch. 'We should be leaving now, Chloe,' he said pointedly.
'Oh, yes, of course. Decorating the church
'Yes, they have.'
'Please convey my best wishes, and to Lady Evangeline as well, of course.'
'I will be sure to pass on your message, Miss Holcroft.'
Chloe smiled again, and Oliver showed grudging politeness to a nobody of a companion by touching the brim of his hat, then they walked past Megan, and around the church toward Church Street.
Megan couldn't help slipping to the corner to watch. She saw Oliver hand Chloe into the waiting curricle, but then suddenly he whipped around to look back, and by the expression on his pale face, Megan knew he had realized to whom he had just been speaking. Her heart sank like a stone, for even at a distance she could see the veil descend over his eyes, and the way his lips set into a thin line of unease and displeasure as he perceived what a very unwanted pigeon had come to roost in Brighton. For a moment he stood stock-still, then he climbed swiftly up beside Chloe, the whip cracked, and the curricle sprang away down the hill.
Megan felt so uneasy she had to dig her fingernails sternly into her palms to try to keep calm. She knew of old that Oliver March was a very unpleasant foe, and that as far as he was concerned, water was thicker than blood. But what could he do to her now? After a moment or so the almost panicky feeling subsided, and she took a long breath. She was about to walk on to the porch, when she noticed some wooden steps leading up to a door on the side of the church, beneath a dormer window. Curiosity got the better of her, and she went up to open the door. Inside, she found galleries that had been installed to accommodate the much larger congregations now that Brighton was so fashionable.
It was cold and quiet, with that odd musty smell of ancient stone, and the sunlight slanting through the windows lay brightly across the altar and aisle. The sound of women's quiet voices made her lean over to look down, and she saw two ladies putting the finishing touches to a garland of holly, ivy, and myrtle they were fixing to one of the pews at the edge of the aisle. No mistletoe, Megan noticed, for it was considered unsuitable for a church. The women finished what they were doing, then left, and silence descended. Megan remained where she was, just savoring the peaceful atmosphere, when suddenly the door of the porch was flung open, and loud masculine steps entered the church.
For a split second Megan thought it was Rollo, but then she saw they belonged to someone only too real: Greville. She drew back out of sight as he walked down the aisle, then over to an ornate tomb against the wall opposite. Carved from white marble, and topped by cupids and angels ascending toward heaven, it was the most splendid resting place in the church. He halted on a brass memorial that was set into the floor in front of it. Dressed in a pine-green coat and pale gray riding breeches, he was bareheaded and had his top hat and riding crop clasped behind him. There was so sign of Rupert, and Megan presumed they must have elected to go their separate ways for the ride on the Downs.
Greville turned toward the altar, paused to glance back toward the porch, then took a little jeweled snuffbox from his pocket. He removed something from it, and slipped whatever it was into a hiding place in the wall behind the altar. Then he left the church.
Megan had to investigate, so she descended the steps from the gallery into the nave, and hurried first to the tomb, being careful to step around the memorial set into the floor. The inscription in the costly white marble read:
IN LOVING MEMORY OF ARABELLA, LADY SETON, PATIENT WIFE OF SIR HENRY SETON, ADORED MOTHER OF GREVILLE. BOTH 14lh JULY 1753 DIED 29lh APRIL 1788.
When she then went to look in the wall behind the altar, she found a loose stone behind which there was a space containing sprigs of mistletoe. Some were clearly years old, but one very fresh indeed.
Chapter 12
After crossing the Steine to Donaldson's Circulating Library, outside which there was a considerable gaggle of carriages, curricles, phaetons, and gigs, to say nothing of the ladies and gentlemen who had walked there, it was only a few doors around the corner into St. James's Street to Mrs. Fiske's premises. The fact that the fashion repository was very select indeed, with clientele from only the superior levels of society, was the second reason Megan felt so daunted; the first was Greville's presence at her side.
The walk from Radcliffe House had been accomplished with the minimum conversation, for which Megan did not really know whether to be relieved or not. His public conduct toward her could not exactly have been faulted, but then neither could it have been praised; the simple fact was that Sir Greville Seton was not an easy man, and she was fast concluding that his unmarried state was no accident. To begin with, she could not help noticing how he kept the brim of his top hat low, and averted his head if he saw anyone who might recognize him. He clearly had the unbelievable vanity to think that every unmarried lady in creation had designs upon his person and his fortune.
It was a shame he was so difficult, for he really was exceedingly handsome, and no fault could be found in his appearance, which was all that a gentleman of style and fashion should be. Today he wore a gray Polish greatcoat with an astrakhan collar, a top hat that was utter perfection, tasseled Hessian boots with gold spurs, and he carried an ivory-handled cane in a tightly gloved hand.
Beside such a paragon, she felt very inferior and insignificant indeed, so much so that she almost felt tempted
