The Other Daughter by Lauren Willig Page B

Montfort nodded to her drink. “Are you going to drink it or merely admire it?”
    Rachel looked doubtfully at the murky liquid, the cherry bobbing in the midst. “What is it?”
    Mr. Montfort raised his brows, his expression a dare. “A Montfort Original, of course.”
    Was this a test? The glass was slippery in Rachel’s hands. Or maybe it was her hands that were slippery. She played for time. “Original sin?”
    Mr. Montfort downed half his drink, his expression abstracted. “No sin is original, no matter what the Bright Young Things may hope. We’re all merely playing to a theme.”
    Rachel narrowed her eyes at him. “How unambitious of you.”
    His attention recalled to her, Mr. Montfort’s lips lifted in an unexpected smile. He saluted her with his cocktail glass. “You have put me in my place.”
    Rachel sat gingerly on the white sofa. “It’s my training as a nursery governess. You are nothing compared to Albertine, Amelie, and Anne-Marie.”
    â€œI am reduced to my proper place, among the infantry.” The cushions creaked as Mr. Montfort joined her, his long legs seeming to take up half the space in the room. “It’s not a bad analogy, though. You won’t go wrong if you think of the set to which I am about to introduce you as members of a nursery party. They enjoy making mud pies and can generally be soothed by sucking on a bottle. They are also,” he added, “impossibly young. You’ll be on the geriatric side, but I imagine we can smooth that over.”
    â€œI shall endeavor to keep my old bones from creaking too audibly,” said Rachel.
    â€œYou seem to keep the gray at bay.” Mr. Montfort leaned forward, curling a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
    The gesture was entirely natural, unstudied, but Rachel froze all the same.
    Mr. Montfort looked down at her, close to her, but not touching. “We’re cousins, remember?”
    She could feel the deep murmur of his voice straight through to her bones.
    Nervously, Rachel moved back, tucking the same strand of hair back behind her ear. “I’d thought we were distant cousins.”
    â€œAs in opposite ends of the couch?” The mocking note was back. Mr. Montfort leaned back, against the far cushion. “Is that distant enough to suit you?”
    Rachel felt, obscurely, annoyed at both herself and him. At herself, for the loss of a closeness she knew was only illusory, and at him for putting her in this position in the first place.
    â€œYes, thank you,” she said primly.
    In his most obnoxious society drawl, Mr. Montfort said, “You have been in France all this time, after all. The last time I saw you … you were a mere ankle biter with skinny legs and big bows on your braids. Just think of my astonishment at seeing you all grown up!”
    â€œAnd think of my astonishment,” retorted Rachel, “at seeing you so sadly reduced to writing sensational pieces for the papers!”
    Mr. Montfort grinned at her. “Now, now, play nicely. You ought to be grateful for my miserable column; it’s the reason you’re here.”
    Rachel crossed her legs at the ankle. “A business venture.”
    â€œPrecisely.” He watched her from beneath lowered lids. “If we’re to pull this off, you ought to call me Simon. If you can do so without doing violence to your principles.”
    â€œI believe I can manage.” What a fool she was. It was all playacting. That touch on her cheek had been nothing more, just part of the game. Cousinly closeness. “I’m hardly so Victorian as that.”
    Mr. Montfort—Simon—retrieved a torn piece of newspaper from beneath his jacket and set it down in front of Rachel. He had folded it so that the caption was hidden. “Do you recognize him?”
    The man in the picture wore riding kit, his face blurry beneath the overhang of his helmet, the