Minx

by Julia Quinn

  The carriage drew to a halt in front of the Blydon mansion, and a footman immediately came out to help the two ladies down. As they entered the front hall, Caroline wearily pulled off her gloves and said, “I’m going directly to bed, Henry. I don’t know why, but I am exhausted. Would you please be so kind as to ask the staff not to disturb me?”

  Henry nodded. “I think I shall browse the library for something to read. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Caroline yawned. “If I wake up by then.”

  Henry watched her climb the stairs and then wandered down the hall to the library. She picked a candelabra up off of a side table and entered the room, nosing the flames closer to the books so she could read the titles. No, she mused, she didn’t much feel like another Shakespeare. Richardson’s Pamela was much too long. The tome looked to be over a thousand pages.

  She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. Moonlight spilled through the windows onto its face, making it very easy for Henry to see the time. Half past eleven. She gritted her teeth. There was no way she was going to be able to sleep that night.

  The minute hand moved lazily to the left. Henry stared at the clock until it was thirty-three minutes past the hour. This was insane. She couldn’t just sit there and watch the clock all night. She had to do something.

  She raced upstairs to her room, not quite certain what she was planning to do until she threw open her closet and saw her men’s breeches and jacket folded up in a corner. It looked as if the maid had been trying to hide them. Henry picked up the garments and fingered them thoughtfully. The jacket was dark blue and the breeches, charcoal gray. Both would blend well into the night.

  Her decision made, she hastily shrugged off her evening gown and pulled on the masculine attire, slipping a key to the house into the pocket of her breeches. She pulled her hair back like a pony’s tail and then tucked the end into the collar of the jacket. No one who got a good look at her would mistake her for a boy, but she wouldn’t attract attention from afar.

  She put her hand on the doorknob, then remembered how she had been mesmerized by the ticking of the clock in the library. She dashed back across the room, picked up the very small clock that sat on her dressing table, and ran back to the door. Poking her head out into the hallway, she ascertained that it was empty and hurried out. She made it downstairs and out the door without being noticed. She took off at a brisk pace, making sure she walked as if she knew where she was going. Mayfair was the safest part of town, but a woman still couldn’t be too careful. There was a spot where hacks queued up only a few blocks away. She’d get one to take her to Bloomsbury, wait with her while she spied on Christine Fowler’s house, and then return her to Mayfair.

  She reached her destination quickly, her hand still clutching the clock. Glancing down, she saw it was 11:44. She’d have to get across town quickly.

  There were several hacks queued up, and Henry hopped into the first one, giving the driver Christine Fowler’s address. “And step lively about it,” she said crisply, trying to imitate Dunford’s tones when he wanted to get something done immediately.

  The driver turned onto Oxford Street, then headed along that road for several minutes until he made a series of twists and turns that led them to Russell Square.

  “Here you are,” he said, obviously expecting her to step down.

  Henry glanced at the clock. 11:56. Dunford wouldn’t have arrived yet. He was extremely punctual but not the sort who inconvenienced hosts by arriving early. “Er, I’ll just wait a moment,” she called out. “I’m meeting someone, and he’s not here yet.”

  “It’ll cost you extra.”

  “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  The driver took a good look at her, decided that only someone with money to burn would be dressed in such an outrageous getup, and sat back, figuring that sitting still in Bloomsbury was a hell of a lot easier than looking around for another fare.

  Henry stared at her little clock, watching the minute hand slowly sweep toward the twelve. Finally she heard the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, and looking up, she recognized the carriage coming down the street as Dunford’s.

  She held her breath. He stepped down, looking very elegant and, as always, extremely handsome. She exhaled with an irritated sigh. His mistress wasn’t going to want to let him go when he looked like that.

  “Is that the person yer waitin’ for?” the driver asked.

  “Not really,” she hedged. “I’m going to have to wait a bit longer.”

  He shrugged. “It’s yer money.”

  Dunford ascended the steps and rapped on the door. The sound of the heavy brass knocker echoed down the street, straining Henry’s already jangled nerves. She pressed her face to the window. Christine Fowler would probably have a manservant to answer the door, but Henry wanted to get a good look just in case.

  The door opened to reveal a startlingly lovely woman with thick, black hair that cascaded down her back in rippling curls. She obviously wasn’t dressed to receive ordinary visitors. Henry looked down, taking in her own decidedly unfeminine attire, and tried to ignore the sick feeling in her stomach.

  Just before the door shut, Christine placed her hand at the back of Dunford’s head, pulling his lips down to hers. Henry’s fists clenched. The door shut before she could see just how deeply they kissed.

  She looked down at her hands. Her fingernails had drawn blood on her palms.

  “It wasn’t his fault,” she muttered under her breath. “He didn’t initiate the kiss. It wasn’t his fault.”

  “Did you say something?” the driver called.

  “No!”

  He sat back, obviously deciding all his theories about the general dim-wittedness of women had been confirmed.

  Henry tapped her hand nervously against her seat. How long would it take him to tell Christine she had to find a new protector? Fifteen minutes? A half hour? Surely not longer than that. Forty-five minutes, perhaps, just to be generous, in case he had to make monetary arrangements with her. Henry didn’t particularly care how much gold he gave her, just as long as he got rid of her. For good.

  Taking deep breaths to try to control the tension racing through her, Henry perched the clock on her lap. She stared at it until she saw double, until her eyes watered. She watched the minute hand sweep down to the three and then told herself sternly that she had been far too optimistic; he couldn’t possibly conduct his business in only fifteen minutes.

  She watched as the minute hand fell ever lower, resting at the six. She swallowed uncomfortably, telling herself that since her fiancé was such a nice man, he’d want to break the news to his mistress gent-ly. That must be what was taking so long.

  Another fifteen minutes passed, and she choked back a sob. Even the kindest of men could have gotten rid of a mistress in forty-five minutes.

  Somewhere in the distance a clock struck one.

  Then it struck two.

  And then, unbelievably, three chimes were heard.

  Henry finally gave in to her despair, poked the sleeping driver in the back, and said, “Grosvenor Square, please.”

  He nodded, and they were off.

  She stared straight ahead the entire way home, her eyes glazing over with utter emptiness. There could be only one reason why a man spent so long with his mistress. He hadn’t emerged even after three hours. She thought back to their few stolen moments in her bedroom at Westonbirt. He certainly hadn’t been with her for three hours.

  After all this, all these lessons in how to behave with poise and propriety and feminine grace, she still wasn’t woman enough to keep his interest. She could never be more than what she was. She’d been insane to think she could even try.

  At Henry’s instruction, the hack pulled up a few houses away from the Blydon mansion. She gave the driver more coins than was necessary and walked blindly home. She slipped noiselessly inside and up to her room,
where she peeled off her clothes, kicked them under the bed, and pulled on a nightgown. The first one she grabbed was the one she’d worn when she and Dunford had . . . No, she couldn’t wear that again. It seemed sullied somehow. She balled it up and threw it into the fireplace, grabbing another.

  Her room was warm, but she was shivering as she crawled beneath the sheets.

  Dunford finally staggered down Christine’s front steps at half past four in the morning. He had always thought of her as a reasonable woman; he supposed that was why he’d been with her for so long. But tonight he’d almost had to revise his opinion. First she’d cried, and he’d never been the sort of man who could walk out on a woman when she was crying.

  Then she’d offered him a drink, and when he’d finished that, she’d offered him several more. He’d refused, smiling mockingly at her and saying that although she was an exceptionally lovely woman, alcohol didn’t tend to seduce him when he didn’t want to be seduced.

  Then she’d started to express her worries. She had tucked away some money, but what if she couldn’t find another protector? Dunford had told her about the Earl of Billington and then spent the next hour assuring her he would forward some funds and that she could remain in the house until the lease expired.

  Finally she’d just sighed, accepting her fate. He’d prepared to leave, but she had put her hand on his arm and asked him if he’d like a cup of tea. They had been friends as well as lovers, she had said. She didn’t have many friends, her line of work didn’t encourage it. Tea and conversation were all she wanted. Just someone to talk to.

  Dunford had looked into her black eyes. She had been telling the truth. If there was one thing you could say for Christine, she was honest. And so, since he’d always liked her, he stayed and talked. They gossiped; they talked politics. She told him about her brother in the army, and he told her about Henry. She didn’t seem the least bit bitter about his betrothed; in fact, she’d smiled when he told her about the pigpen incident and told him she was happy for him.

  Finally he’d dropped a light, brotherly kiss on her lips. “You’ll be happy with Billington,” he’d told her. “He’s a good man.”

  Her lips curved into a small, sad smile. “If you say so, then it must be true.”

  He looked at his pocket watch when he reached his carriage and swore. He hadn’t meant to stay so late. He was going to be tired the next day. Ah well, he supposed he could sleep in past noon if he was so inclined. He didn’t have any plans before his daily afternoon jaunt with Henry.

  Henry.

  Just the thought of her made him smile.

  When Henry woke the next morning, her pillowcase was soaked through with tears. She stared at it uncomprehendingly. She hadn’t cried herself to sleep the night before; in fact, she’d felt strangely hollow and dry. She had never heard of sorrow so great that one actually cried while asleep.

  Still, she couldn’t imagine a sorrow greater than hers.

  She couldn’t marry him. That was the only clear thought in her head. She knew most marriages were not based upon love, but how could she commit herself to a man who was so dishonest he could profess his love for her and then make love to his mistress only two weeks before their wedding?

  He must have proposed out of pity, that and his blasted sense of responsibility. Why else would he shackle himself to a tomboyish freak who hadn’t even known the difference between a day dress and an evening gown?

  He had said he loved her. She had believed him. What an utter fool she was. Unless . . .

  Henry choked on a sob.

  Maybe he did love her. Maybe she hadn’t misread him. Maybe she simply wasn’t womanly enough to satisfy him. Maybe he needed more than she could ever be.

  Or maybe he had simply lied. She didn’t know which she preferred to believe.

  The astounding part was that she didn’t hate him. He had done too much for her, showed her too much kindness for her ever to hate him. She didn’t think he had slept with Christine out of any sense of malice toward her. And she didn’t think he’d done it for some perverse thrill.

  No, he’d probably slept with her just because he’d thought it his right. He was a man, and men did things like that.

  It wouldn’t have hurt so much if he hadn’t told her he loved her. She even might have been able to go through with the marriage.

  But how was she to break it off? All of London was abuzz about their engagement; to cry off now would be the height of embarrassment. She didn’t particularly mind the thought of the gossip for herself. She’d head back to the country—although not to Stannage Park, she thought painfully. He probably wouldn’t allow her to return. But she could go somewhere where the ton couldn’t reach her.

  He, however, couldn’t. His life was here in London.

  “Oh, God!” she burst out. “Why can’t you just hurt him?”

  She loved him still. Somewhere someone had to be laughing about this.

  He was going to have to be the one to call off the engagement. That way he wouldn’t suffer the embarrassment of being jilted. But how to make him do it? How?

  She laid on her bed for over an hour, her eyes focusing on a tiny crack in the ceiling. What could she do to make him hate her so much he’d break off the engagement? None of her schemes seemed plausible, until . . . Yes, that was it. That was exactly it.

  With a heavy heart she walked over to her desk and pulled open the drawer Caroline had thoughtfully stocked with writing paper, ink, and a quill. Out of nowhere she remembered the imaginary friend she’d had as a child. Rosalind. That name would do as well as any.

  Blydon House

  London

  2 May 1817

  My dear Rosalind,

  I am sorry that I have not written in such a long time. My only excuse is that my life has changed so dramatically in the last few months that I have barely had time to think.

  I am to be married! I can imagine you are surprised. Carlyle passed away not so very long ago, and a new Lord Stannage came to Stannage Park. He was a very distant cousin of Carlyle’s. They didn’t even know each other. I haven’t the time to expound upon the details, but we have become engaged to be married. I am very excited, as I’m sure you can imagine, as this means I may stay at Stannage Park for the rest of my life. You know how much I love it there.

  His name is Dunford. That is his family name, but no one calls him by his given name. He is very nice and treats me kindly. He has told me he loves me. Naturally, I answered similarly. I thought it only polite. Of course I am marrying him for my dear, dear Stannage Park, but I do like him well enough and didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I think we shall deal well together.

  I haven’t time to write more. I am staying in London with some of Dunford’s friends and shall be here for another two weeks. After that you may send correspondence to Stannage Park; I am certain I can convince him to retire there immediately following the marriage. We shall honeymoon for a bit, I suppose, and then he will probably want to return to London. I don’t particularly mind if he stays; he is, as I mentioned, a nice enough fellow. But I imagine he’ll soon grow bored of country life. That will suit me well. I will be able to go back to my old life without fear of ending up someone’s governess or companion. I remain

  Your dear friend,

  Henrietta Barrett

  With quivering hands, Henry folded the letter and slid it into an envelope addressed “Lord Stannage.” Before she had a chance to rethink her actions, she dashed down the stairs and placed it in the hands of a footman with instructions to see it delivered immediately.

  Then she turned around and made her way back up the stairs, each step requiring a staggering amount of energy to ascend. She made her way to her room, shut and locked her door, and laid upon her bed.

  She curled up into a tight ball and stayed that way for hours.

  Dunford smiled when his butler handed him the white envelope. As he picked
it up off the silver tray, he recognized Henry’s handwriting. It was rather like her, he thought, neat and direct with no flowery decoration.

  He slit the envelope open and unfolded the note.

  My dear Rosalind . . .

  The silly girl had gone and mixed up her letters and envelopes. Dunford hoped he was the reason for her uncharacteristic absentmindedness. He started to refold the letter, but then he caught sight of his name. Curiosity won out over scruples, and he smoothed out the sheet of paper.

  A few moments later it slipped from his numb fingers and drifted to the ground.

  Of course I am marrying him for Stannage Park . . .

  Of course I am marrying him for Stannage Park . . .

  Of course I am marrying him for Stannage Park . . .

  Dear God, what had he done? She didn’t love him. She had never loved him. She probably never would.

  How she must have laughed. He sank back into a chair. No, she wouldn’t have laughed. Despite her calculating behavior, she wasn’t cruel. She simply loved Stannage Park more than she could ever love anything—or anyone—else.

  His was a love that could never be returned.

  God, it was ironic. He still loved her. Even after this, he still loved her. He was so furious with her he damn near hated her, but still he loved her. What the hell was he going to do?

  He staggered to his feet and poured himself a drink, oblivious to the fact that the hour had not yet slipped from morning to afternoon. His fingers clutched the glass so tightly it was a wonder it didn’t break. He downed the drink, and when it did nothing to ease his pain, he drank another.

  He pictured her face, his mind drawing the delicately winged eyebrows that hung over those spectacular silver eyes. He could see her hair, could detect each one of the myriad colors that made up that mane which was rather insufficiently called light brown. And then her mouth—it was always in motion, smiling, laughing, pouting.