Sins. PENNY JORDAN

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       Chapter Four

       Paris

      ‘Well, your father might have been a duke, Emerald, but you certainly aren’t a duchess.’

      Emerald only just managed to stop herself from glaring at Gwendolyn.

      The three of them, Emerald herself, the Hon Lydia Munroe, and Lady Gwendolyn, her godmother’s niece, were all going to be coming out together.

      Gwendolyn might be as plain as her dull-looking and boring mother, whose sharp gaze had already warned Emerald that she had not found favour with her, but Emerald knew how highly her godmother thought of her. Gwendolyn’s father was Lady Beth’s brother, the Earl of Levington, and she thought the world of him and his family. If Emerald gave in to her longing to put ‘Glum Gwennie’, as she had privately nicknamed her, in her place, she’d risk her going telling tales to her mother and her aunt, and that would mean that Emerald could lose a valuable ally. No, sadly Gwendolyn’s comeuppance would have to wait for a more propitious occasion. So instead Emerald smiled falsely at the other girl.

      Obviously thinking that she got the better of the exchange Gwendolyn seized on her moment of triumph and, determined to prolong it, continued recklessly, ‘And it isn’t as though your mother has any family either. No one knows how she managed to marry your father.’

      Since it was no secret that her parents’ first child had been born eight months after their hastily arranged marriage, Emerald had a pretty good idea herself. But at least her mother had been clever enough to hold out for marriage.

      As much as she resented her mother, Emerald was thankful that she had held out for the status of marriage and not remained merely a mistress. She would have hated being illegitimate, people knowing, laughing at her behind her back, looking down on her.

      Emerald, Lydia and Gwendolyn were seated on their beds, in the bedroom they shared in their finishing school, which was in fact a villa, close to the Bois de Boulogne, owned by the Comtesse de la Calle. The comtesse’s finishing school had the reputation for being the smartest of such schools. Being finished in Paris had a cachet to it that was not given to those girls who were finished at one of the two ‘acceptable’ London schools, so naturally Emerald had insisted on coming to the Bois de Boulogne villa.

      Buoyed up by her triumph Gwendolyn continued happily, ‘Mummy and Auntie Beth both think that your mother was awfully lucky to marry as well as she did and neither of them thinks that you’ll be able to do the same.’

      Emerald tensed. Gwendolyn’s words were like a match to the dry tinder of her pride. Springing up off her bed, she stood over the younger girl, her hands on her hips, the full skirts of her silk dress emphasising the narrowness of her waist,

      ‘Well, that’s all you know.’

      ‘What? Do you mean that you think that you’ll get to marry a duke like your mother did?’ Lydia demanded excitedly, joining the conversation. Lydia was two years younger than Emerald and inclined to hero-worship her, something that Emerald fostered.

      Gwendolyn, though, wasn’t looking anything like as impressed.

      ‘A duke, yes, but like my mother, no. I shall do better than she did,’ Emerald confirmed fiercely.

      There was a small sharp sound–the sucking in of air from Gwendolyn as though it tasted as sour as any lemon, followed by a thrilled gasp from Lydia.

      ‘Oh, Emerald, you mean the Duke of Kent, don’t you?’

      ‘He has to marry someone, doesn’t he, and since he can have his pick of the débutantes, he’s bound to want one of the prettiest…’ was all Emerald permitted herself to say.

      She didn’t finish her sentence, but then she didn’t need to. Its meaning was plain to both of the girls sitting looking at her. Emerald was a beauty, and quite clearly destined to be the beauty of the season. Whilst Lydia had a certain fresh healthy country-girl charm about her, Gwendolyn was very close to the ugly edge of plain.

      That was Gwendolyn dealt with, Emerald decided with satisfaction. Emerald wasn’t in any way fond of her own sex. She had had friends at school, of course–one had to if one wished to be the most popular girl in school–but those friends had been impressionable naïve girls rather like Lydia, easy to manipulate. There was no way that a plain, overweight girl like Gwendolyn could be admitted to that circle; she was the kind of girl that Emerald despised and treated with contempt. By rights Gwendolyn ought to have tried to seek her approval, but instead, to Emerald’s irritation, she was forever making unwanted, even critical comments in that toneless voice of hers. What a joke Glum Gwennie was, daring to think that she could criticise her, looking at her with those small sharp eyes of hers as she asked her equally sharp questions. But she would get her revenge once she was married to the Duke of Kent.

      Emerald threw down the copy of the Queen magazine she had been reading and got up, pacing the room impatiently. She was bored with Paris now. She’d expected being here to be far more exciting than it was. Thank heavens they and school would soon be ‘finished’ and the fun could start in earnest.

      The magazine she had discarded caught her eye. Although the season hadn’t officially started yet, already the Queen was carrying studio portraits of some of the débutantes due to come out. Her own photograph had been taken by Cecil Beaton and she had been pleased with it, but now that she had seen the photograph of another deb, taken by Lewis Coulter, an ex-Etonian with no title but excellent connections, and who had recently become the society photographer, Emerald had decided that she had to have a fresh photograph done. Never backward in coming forward when she wanted something, she had already written to him to this effect, giving him the date of her return to London and announcing that she would call on him then. It might say in the magazine that he was in such demand that he was turning away commissions but he was a photographer taking people’s photographs for money. And money was a commodity that Emerald’s mother possessed in great abundance. As did Emerald herself. Or rather as she would have when she reached the age of twenty-five, and she didn’t have to bother coaxing Mr Melrose into agreeing to pay for things she wanted from her trust fund.

      Of course, her mother hated it that she was going to be so very rich…

      And as for Rose…Emerald’s mouth hardened. How could her mother even acknowledge her, never mind make such a fuss over her? Didn’t her mother realise how badly having a cousin like Rose could reflect on Emerald? Emerald’s great-grandmother had been right: Rose should have been sent back to Hong Kong to live in the slums where Uncle Greg had found her mother.

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