Elizabeth Thornton Read Free Page B

told me about Miss Munro? Besides, females are not blind and deaf, you know. We know about mistresses. And Abbie is no schoolgirl. She’s lived in the world. She knows the score. And if she doesn’t, it’s time she did.”
    Daniel appealed to his mother. “Mother, have you no control over your daughter?”
    Her ladyship ignored this moot question. “I want to hear what Abbie has to say.”
    Abbie’s brain was reeling. Hugh had a mistress? And not just any mistress. Barbara Munro was the leading light of Drury Lane Theater. On her way home from Paris, when she stopped off in London, Abbie had seen Miss Munro in performance and had been enthralled. Hugh had accompanied her and he’d been bored.
Philistine
, she’d laughingly called him.
Barbara Munro is divine
, she said, and Hugh had stifled a yawn.
    She didn’t know where her family was getting its information, but obviously they’d made a mistake. Barbara Munro was an exciting, vibrant woman, and her legion of lovers were equally exciting. Hugh and Barbara Munro? It couldn’t be true.
    Abbie took a deep breath. “You misconstrued the situation—that’s what I have to say. Hugh did not go with me to Paris. I already told you that George was ourescort. Hugh arrived later, and the only reason he escorted Miss Fairbairn and me home was because George wanted to stay on.”
    “What was Templar doing in Paris?” asked Daniel.
    “He was …,” Abbie had to think before she answered. “Hugh is a diplomat. He spent a good deal of time at the embassy.”
    “Strange,” said Daniel. “I understood Templar had resigned from the foreign office, and that’s why he came to reside in Bath.”
    “Well, he did,” said Abbie, trying to remember what Hugh had told her, “but there are loose ends that only he can tie up.” Those were Hugh’s exact words. “And from time to time, he is invited to Whitehall to consult with the minister on matters of policy.”
    Harriet made a rude sound. “To consult with his ladybird more like! Abbie, I despair of you. You’re so naive about men.”
    Abbie’s eyes flashed with uncharacteristic fire. “A moment ago, you said that I knew the score. Now you’re calling me naive. You can’t have it both ways, you know, Harriet.”
    “Not with most people, perhaps. But with you, anything is possible. It was the same with our father. One couldn’t help loving him, of course, but …”
    Lady Clivendon cut in impatiently, “None of that is to the point. What I wish to know is, can Mr. Templar be brought up to scratch with a little encouragement from Abbie?”
    “Let me disabuse you of that notion at once,” declared Abbie. “Hugh is a confirmed bachelor. He’s far more interested in Roman antiquities and his books than he is in females.”
    “I thought it was too good to be true,” said Lady
    Clivendon, sighing. “Templar and our Abbie? I just couldn’t see it.”
    Neither could Abbie. In the first place, Hugh was a confirmed bachelor, and in the second place, she valued Hugh’s friendship too much to jeopardize it by playing the flirt, a role she’d never had much success with anyway. Beaux, she’d learned from sad experience, came and went. No, she didn’t want to do anything that might jeopardize her friendship with Hugh. If she lost him, it would make a hole in her life that no one else could fill.
    It was astonishing how much they had in common. They were never at a loss for words. They were both members of the Antiquarians’ Society, which met every month in members’ homes; they were both avid readers, though the scope of Hugh’s education was far superior to hers. Their minds were in tune—but that was as far as it went. They did not share their feelings at a deeper level, nor did she want to. She was no longer the starry-eyed girl who wore her heart on her sleeve. It had taken her a long time, but she’d finally found her niche. She fitted in. She had friends who were comfortable to be with and who were