The Gamble by Joan Wolf Page A

before, Catherine? I haven’t.”
    Lady Winterdale answered, “Of course Catherine has been shopping in London, Miss Newbury. She is not a little nobody from the provinces. Her father was the Earl of Winterdale, and until the tragic accident that took his and her brother’s life, she lived in London. In this house!” She glared in loathing at the present Lord Winterdale.
    He looked back, and what I saw on his face frightened me. It must have frightened Lady Winterdale, too, because she looked away from him quickly and turned her pointy nose in my direction.
    She said, “I do not believe I have ever learned how you came to be my nephew’s ward, Miss Newbury. Surely it seems odd that a man as young and as . . . ah, shall we say, notorious . . . as my nephew should be made the guardian of two young women.”
    I remembered what I had heard Lord Winterdale tell her when I was hiding behind the drapery in the library and said glibly, “My father was a good friend of Lord Winterdale’s father, you see. That is how it came about.”
    Lady Winterdale looked incredulous. It came to me that this was a reaction I was going to have to deal with all Season long. Perhaps Lord Winterdale and I could come up with a better tale.
    I tried again with Catherine. “What is your favorite color, Catherine? Mine is pink.”
    “Catherine looks well in blue,” said Lady Winterdale. “It matches her eyes.”
    I said evenly, “I believe I asked Catherine what her favorite color was, Lady Winterdale, not you.”
    Lady Winterdale’s nose and chin became pointier than usual, and she looked so surprised by my impertinence that she did not reply.
    Catherine said in a small thin voice, “Mama is right, Georgie. Blue is my favorite color.”
    “Then perhaps we can get a come-out dress in blue for you and one in pink for me,” I said cheerfully.
    “Miss Newbury, obviously you are unaware of the fact that young girls at their first ball always wear white,” Lady Winterdale said, clearly pleased that she could once again score over the “little nobody from the provinces.”
    Lord Winterdale stood up. “This has been such a delightful family dinner, but I fear that I must tear myself away. Have a pleasant evening, ladies, discussing the ways in which you are going to spend my money tomorrow.”
    The three of us watched in silence as he walked toward the door. His hair was as black as his evening coat, and as I observed his lithe dark figure, the image of a panther came irresistibly into my mind.
    For the first time I fully understood Sir Charles’s comment that he would not want any daughter of his residing under Philip Mansfield’s roof.
    After dinner was over, the three of us ladies retired to the green drawing room, which was one of the less formal drawing rooms on the second floor. It was lined with portraits of family and friends and the paneling on the wall was painted a pale green with white trim. There were half a dozen gilt armchairs with green-tapestry embroidery scattered around the room, a pianoforte in one corner, and a harp in the other. There was a rosewood writing desk between the tall, green-silk-hung windows and a rosewood sofa table in front of the green-silk sofa.
    “Catherine will play the pianoforte for us,” her mother announced as she ensconced herself in one of the tapestry chairs. “She is very good on the pianoforte.”
    I waited for Catherine to creep timidly toward the pianoforte, but she surprised me by approaching it with more authority than I had ever seen her display. She sat down on the bench, arranged her skirt, turned to me, and asked, “Is there anything in particular that you would like to hear, Georgie?”
    “No,” I answered. “Play whatever you like, Catherine.”
    She flexed her fingers, placed them on the keys, tilted her head for a moment as if she were listening to an unheard note, and began to play.
    I sat as one transported. This was not the kind of playing every young miss learns in