Three Little Secrets Read Free Page B

who have been attending to the events unfolding in Vienna and Paris,” said her hostess. “Forays are being made into the field of mental diseases—psychology, they call it. They are not all uninformed nitwits, Lady Bessett.”
    “Mental diseases!” Lady Bessett shuddered. “I cannot bear even to think of it!”
    “I rather doubt you shall have to,” said Lady Treyhern.
    “Now I shall ring for coffee, and you must tell me all about this new house of yours. Where is it, pray?”
    “Near Chelsea,” said Lady Bessett quietly. “In a village called Walham Green. I have taken a cottage there until the house is complete, but that will be some weeks yet.”
    “Well, then, you are but a short drive from town,” said Lady Treyhern as she rose and rang the bell. “I confess, I do not know a great many people in London myself. Nonetheless, you must allow me to help you with introductions.”
    Again, Lady Bessett felt her face heat. “I fear I have been very little in society,” she admitted. “I know almost no one.”
    “Well, my dear, now you know me,” said her hostess. “So, what of this new house? I daresay it has all the modern conveniences. And of course you will be buying a great many new furnishings, I am sure. How very exciting that will be!”

Chapter Two
    Better half-hanged than ill-married.
    T he bell-ringers at St. George’s Hanover Square were already milling about on the portico when MacLachlan’s carriage arrived in the early-morning haze. With a curt bark, he ordered his driver to wait for him in Three Kings Yard, then stepped down onto the pavement. In another hour, the corner would be choked with traffic, and he’d no wish to become ensnared in it.
    On the church portico, one of the ringers shot him a faintly curious look. A second was rubbing at a callus on his hand as if contemplating the task before him, whilst another complained none too quietly about the late-spring damp. Just then, an arm draped in flowing vestments pushed one of the doors open. One by one, the bell-ringers vanished into the church. Soon he could hear them treading one after the other up the twisting steps into to the bell tower.
    MacLachlan was grateful. He saw no point in striking up idle chitchat with people he did not know. Certainly he had no wish to go inside the church until it was unavoidable. With restless energy, he paced up and down the street, admiring St. George’s fine Flemish glass and classical columns, but in a vague, almost clinical sort of way. He was never comfortable anywhere near this bastion of the English upper crust. Certainly he had never thought to come here for a wedding—well, not in more years than he could count, at any rate.
    But today was to be his elder brother’s wedding day. Today, MacLachlan had no choice. He turned and paced the length of the pavement again. Phipps had tied his cravat too tight, blast it. MacLachlan ran his finger around his collar and forced it to loosen.
    Traffic along St. George Street was picking up now. Damn. He had no wish to keep pacing back and forth like some caged creature. But neither could he bring himself to actually go inside the place. Abruptly, he turned and paced down the shadowy little passageway adjacent to the old edifice. It was not the first time he had slipped away into the shadows of St. George’s. Here, the air was thick with the smell of mossy stone and damp earth. The smell of crypts and catacombs and cold, dead things. The sepulchre, perhaps, of a man’s hopes and dreams.
    It had been a mistake to come here. To this church. To this passageway. He looked up to see the sun dappling through some greenery beyond, the movement somehow disorienting. He shut his eyes. The clamor and rattle of street traffic quieted, then faded away.
    “Kiss me, Maddie.” His voice was rough in the gloom.
    “Merrick, my aunt!” She flashed a coy look, and set the heel of one hand against his shoulder. “She’ll scold if we linger behind the