Lady Anne's Deception by Marion Chesney

time, but I’m such a heavy sleeper.”
    “Fetch her ladyship and bring us something warm to drink in the study. Tell the servants to clean this room and light a fire to dry the place out.”
    The marquess retreated into his rooms, changed into a black polo jumper and an old pair of flannel bags, and made his way to the study.
    Annie was warming her toes at a newly lit tire. She was leaning forward so that the curtain of her red hair hid her face from him.
    He sat down opposite, and she gave him a scared, guilty look and dropped her eyes again.
    “Don’t say a word until I have had a good stiff drink,” he said. “Ah, Perkins! There you are. Well, as you see, there was no fire, but it shows that you can do splendidly in an emergency. How much would you like me to give you?”
    “Since there was no fire, my lord, I would say that ten pounds would be very generous.”
    “So would I, Perkins. So would I. But I can only assume that there is something you wish to buy that you have your heart set on. You will find the money in the desk over there. Help yourself. And then bring me something to make some punch.”
    “Thank you, my lord. Very good, my lord.”

    When the butler had left, Annie said, “Do you always ask your servants how much money they want as a tip?”
    “Oh, always,” he said. “They never ask for too much. People like to be trusted.”
    “I like to trust people,” said Annie, in a low voice.
    Perkins arrived with a tray bearing a bottle of whiskey, lemons, brown sugar, a jug of hot water, and a punch bowl, which he set on a small table and then placed it in front of his master. Then he bowed and withdrew.
    Annie watched her husband nervously as he mixed the punch. Then she found she could keep silent no longer.
    “Well, it was only a false alarm,” she said brightly. “I wonder what caused that smoke? I’m afraid I panicked. I was sure you would be burned to death.”
    “Really?” he said, seeming to concentrate his whole attention on the punch. “Annie, why did you set a towel alight and push it under my door?”
    “I didn’t,” lied Annie, feeling a telltale blush creeping up her neck and face.
    “You did, you know. I’m sorry if my lovemaking upset you so much that you felt compelled to set fire to me.”
    Annie looked at him miserably. He gave her a charming smile and handed her a steaming glass.
    “Do I have to tell you?” asked Annie.
    “No,” he said gently. “I am sure you have some perfectly reasonable explanation. Perhaps it’s a well-known Scotch custom, like setting the heather on fire.”
    “Oh, I’ll tell you,” said Annie, cradling her glass in her hands. “I tried your door and I thought it was locked, and therefore I thought you had the infernal cheek to bring that dark-haired woman home to bed with you.”
    “What? Polly? My first cousin? Never. Come to think of it, I’ve never brought any of my lady friends here.”
    “Your cousin?”
    “Yes. Mrs. Jimmy Waite-Hansen—Polly. You met her at our wedding reception.”
    “I didn’t remember . . .”
    “Anyway, why the fire?”
    “I was trying to smoke you out.”
    He laughed and laughed. Finally he mopped his streaming eyes. “Jealousy is a wonderful thing,” he said.

    “I? Jealous?” said Annie, feeling hurt and humiliated. “You have to be in love with someone to be jealous. I was merely incensed at the thought that you had brought one of your many mistresses back here.”
    “Of course,” he agreed amiably. “I had forgotten. Yes, do you know that for one little space of time, I had forgotten that you did not marry me for love.”
    She looked at him, searching for the courage to tell him that she had not meant that remark about marrying him merely to get revenge on Marigold. But it had been true. Was true. Or was it? Oh, she didn’t know what she felt, she thought wretchedly, and somehow the moment to say anything had passed and he was saying mildly, “You look exhausted. You had better go to