"I daresay she has the headache,” suggested Mannerly, watching her through narrowed eyes.
"I—I believe she does."
"And Miss Darby? Is she, too, ill?"
Georgina looked visibly relieved. “I believe she is merely fatigued from last night's visit to Vauxhall Gardens."
"Quite likely. I understand she had a very busy evening."
It seemed to Georgina as if Lord Mannerly were speaking in riddles, but to what purpose, she could not begin to guess. “I am sure we all had a busy evening, my lord. There is so much to see and do at Vauxhall."
"While I have seen the gardens too many times to find them a novelty, I must confess that I, for one, was certainly never bored,” agreed the marquess.
Nor was he so utterly lost to propriety as Georgina supposed, for he was fully aware of the awkwardness attending a young lady entertaining a gentleman without a chaperone present. He therefore took his leave without further ado, promising to give himself the pleasure of calling again at a later date, at which time he hoped he would find Lady Hawthorne and Miss Darby in better health. Having received his still-damp outer garments from Coombes, he waved the butler away, professing himself capable of showing himself out. But his capability in this regard was perhaps overstated, for as he drew the door closed, it met the frame with a slam that seemed to shake the entire house. Immediately it flew open again to reveal the marquess, all repentance.
"I beg your pardon,” he said, casting upon Georgina a look of wide-eyed innocence which sat ill upon his saturnine countenance. “It must have been the wind."
Then he shut the door once again, more gently this time, and hailed a passing hackney, smiling to himself as he pictured Sir Harry somewhere upstairs, clutching his throbbing head.
* * * *
While Georgina perused the Good Book, Olivia remained cloistered in her bedchamber. Sitting in the window seat, she relived in vivid detail the disastrous events of the previous weeks as she stared morosely at the leaden skies. When she recalled her naïveté in thinking she could win Harry's affections by encouraging Lord Mannerly's attentions, she knew not whether to laugh or cry. She pressed her knuckles to her bruised lips, recalling Harry's kiss. She had waited all her life for Harry to take her into his arms, and when the long-awaited event had finally come to pass, it had been all wrong. Certainly it was not love that had inspired his actions, but fury. Then she had committed her crowning folly in slapping his face, which surely must have killed forever any affection he might once have felt for her. She should have been content to make a loveless match, and trust to Time to earn her a place in Harry's heart.
Upon hearing the sharp rap of the knocker on the front door below, she leaped up to peer at the front stoop, her heart pounding at the prospect of seeing Harry there. But alas, the great-coated figure standing in the rain was clearly too tall to be Sir Harry, and this assessment was confirmed a moment later, when the door was opened and Lord Mannerly's well-modulated tones reached her ears.
She sank back down to the window seat, unwilling to face the marquess's mocking eyes and knowing smile. For this part was harder to bear than all the rest. She had slapped poor Harry, only to discover not five minutes later that he had been right all along in his estimation of Lord Mannerly's character. When she thought of the liberties he had taken with her—no, that she had allowed him to take!—her face burned hot with shame. Surely Harry would despise her if he knew! How ironic it would be if, by conspiring to win him, she only succeeded in giving him a disgust of her instead! As she idly traced a raindrop's progress down her window pane, she thought longingly of her fiancé and wondered where he was and what he was doing, little supposing that at that moment Sir Harry was ensconced in the bedchamber two doors down, nursing a very sore head.
* * * *
It was a haggard-looking “Lady Hawthorne” who, thanks to numerous pots of strong coffee and more than a few dunkings of his head into a bowl of cold water, made his way downstairs that evening dressed in full ball regalia of puce satin evening gown, long kid gloves, and an elaborately coifed wig topped by a crimson turban with a single purple ostrich plume curving artistically over his left temple. His aching head notwithstanding, it was Wednesday night, and to fail to appear at Almack's Assembly Rooms would be to invite unwelcome speculation. Olivia was still in her room, but Georgina was already waiting below, demurely attired in a gown of pale green which complemented her copper curls to perfection. When Olivia finally appeared, not even Sir Harry could say with honesty that his love was enjoying her customary good looks. To be sure, her coiffure was flawless and her gown unexceptionable, but the pink satin which should have brought out the roses in her cheeks only called attention to their absence, and the rouge with which her maid had attempted to correct this deficiency merely served to emphasize the pallor beneath.
"You are looking well, Olivia,” said Georgina perhaps a bit too brightly.
"Thank you, Georgina,” Olivia said without conviction, then turned to address the older woman. “Good evening, Lady Hawthorne. I trust you are quite recovered."
"Yes, quite.” Sir Harry stepped forward to take her hands in his, wincing only slightly as the hall clock loudly chimed the hour. “And you, Miss Darby?"
"Very well, thank you."
There seemed very little to say after that, and it was a subdued trio indeed that ascended into the carriage and set out for King Street.
The rain had ceased by early evening, and all of those fortunate enough to have vouchers seemed to have leaped at the opportunity to get out after a day spent indoors. The Assembly Rooms were even more crowded than usual, and the lemonade was even weaker, as if watered down to accommodate the greater numbers. The closeness of the rooms, combined with the stifling humidity, produced an oppressive heat; the Hawthorne party found seats along the wall and quickly sought recourse to their fans.
Georgina, with the natural ebullience of youth, seemed the least affected by the heat. Since her waltz with Lord Mannerly at Vauxhall Gardens, word had quickly spread among the young bucks of the ton that Miss Hawthorne did waltz, and that divinely. She found herself sought after with an enthusiasm that recalled her days as the belle of Leicestershire, and discovered that her innocent enjoyment of her popularity was, perhaps, not so sinful after all, when compared to her more dangerous fascination with the marquess of Mannerly.
When the clock chimed the dreaded hour of eleven with no sign of Sir Harry, Olivia found that the oppressive heat matched the oppression of her spirits. She did stand up when solicited, although with such a lack of interest that her would-be partners soon sought the company of more willing ladies. Far from being offended, Olivia was content to sit beside her chaperone, searching the crush in the forlorn hope that Sir Harry had somehow slipped in without her having seen him, and might at any moment separate himself from the crowd and come in search of her.
When it became increasingly obvious that this joyous event would not take place, she sank even deeper into the dismals. Why should Harry beg to dance with the fiancée who had struck him in anger only twenty-four hours earlier? Or did he still consider her his fiancée at all? Perhaps he would wish to cry off. At this point, logic overcame melancholy. Sir Harry was too much the gentleman to do anything so shabby but, perhaps worse, he might wish he could. Olivia knew she should set him free rather than trap him in a marriage he no longer wanted, but doubted she possessed the strength to follow a course of action so opposed to her own desires.
As the night progressed, the ladies’ faces grew shinier and the gentlemen's cravats wilted. Georgina's latest partner, a ruddy-faced young gentleman whose once-magnificent shirtpoints now sagged against his neck, mopped his face with his handkerchief while Georgina, her red hair curling riotously from the heat, excused herself to the powder room for the same purpose. Olivia plied her fan with renewed vigor, then, turning to make some idle remark to her chaperone, noticed Lady Hawthorne's hands trembling.
"Are you much bothered by the heat, my
lady?” she asked. “Shall I fetch you some lemonade?"
Sir Harry, who under normal circumstances would have spurned such an insipid drink, was in no condition to refuse. “If you please,” he rasped.
Olivia did not hesitate. She made her way to the refreshment room as quickly as possible, given the crowds, and at last returned bearing a glass of the pale liquid, sans ice.
"It is not very cool, I'm afraid,” she said by way of apology, offering this dubious refreshment to the dowager.
"Quite all right,” said the faux Lady Hawthorne, accepting the offering and raising it gratefully to her lips. As her head tilted upwards, Olivia noticed that the jaunty ostrich plume which had curled over Lady Hawthorne's left temple now drooped against her ear. The heavy powder and rouge favored by so many of Lady Hawthorne's generation had long since melted away, revealing the dowager's bare cheek—which bore the unmistakable imprint of a lady's hand.
If Olivia had still been holding the glass of lemonade, it surely would have slipped from her nerveless fingers and crashed to the floor. Her chaperone, Lady Hawthorne, and her fiancé, Sir Harry Hawthorne, whom she had slapped at Vauxhall Gardens a scant twenty-four hours earlier, were one and the same.
Olivia stared at the beloved, familiar features beneath the curled and powdered wig. How could she not have seen it? Of course, she had never actually met the real Lady Hawthorne, although a very fine Romney portrait over the fireplace in the drawing room at Hawthorne Grange revealed a tall, mannish woman with a marked resemblance to Harry, who did look quite different without his sidewhiskers. Still, she of all people, who had loved him from her earliest childhood, should have recognized him through any disguise.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Darby,” Lord Mannerly's voice, smooth as satin, cut through her thoughts, “but I believe the next dance is mine."
She blinked at the marquess like one awakening from a particularly vivid dream. At that moment she could have cheerfully wished him to the devil, along with all the swirling, sweating dancers and the musicians whose strident fiddles grated painfully on her taut nerves. But one dared not make a scene at Almack's, so there was nothing Olivia could do but place her hand on his proffered arm and, with one last helpless glance at Sir Harry, allow the marquess to lead her into the set.
The movements of the dance prevented conversation, for which Olivia was profoundly thankful. Still, the intricate figures were not sufficient to occupy her mind. What had possessed Harry to attempt such a masquerade, and had he any notion of the risk he was running? Did he not realize that if he were discovered, the ensuing scandal would mean ruin? Powerless to demand answers of Sir Harry, she could only watch him helplessly as the questions spun around and around in her brain, faster and faster, turning in upon one another in a dance more convoluted than the cotillion ever was.
Her frequent, furtive glances at her duenna were not lost on her partner. “Something has happened to distress you, Miss Darby,” Lord Mannerly observed, when the figures of the dance brought them back together. “What is it, if I may be so bold?"
Olivia shook her head. “'Tis nothing, my lord, I assure you."
"Are you quite certain? You look a bit pale."
"How very ungentlemanly of you to say so,” replied Olivia, forcing a smile. “Since you will have it, I confess I feel a bit faint, but I daresay it is only the heat. It will soon pass, I am sure."
"Perhaps, but you will no doubt feel better for a bit of privacy."
Brooking no argument, he took her elbow and led her from the floor. Their departure in the middle of a dance, which would have raised eyebrows under normal circumstances, was on this occasion scarcely remarked at all, several other ladies of delicate constitution having already succumbed to the heat and made similar exits. Having reached a small antechamber along the wall, Lord Mannerly drew back the heavy curtain and ushered Olivia within. After seating her on a chair, he took the fan which hung from a satin cord about her wrist and began to waft it gently to and fro.
"Thank you, my lord,” she said with a grateful sigh. “I feel better already. If you will bring Lady Hawthorne to me, I would be much obliged."
"I am, of course, yours to command, but I am reluctant to leave you alone, my dear,” said the marquess smoothly, regarding Olivia through narrowed eyes. “I am sure it must be most distressing to learn that one's affianced husband has been capering about London in the guise of a woman."
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Chapter Eleven
The devil is a gentleman.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY,
Peter Bell the Third
Olivia's abrupt departure with Lord Mannerly had not gone unnoticed by Sir Harry. Indeed, as he watched the marquess sweep Olivia into the secluded alcove, his eyebrows drew together in a frown, and his mouth assumed a hard, taut line. Claiming his prerogative as both her chaperone and her affianced bridegroom, he rose from his chair and made his way toward the antechamber as quickly as was possible in the evening slippers which pinched his toes quite painfully.
He was perhaps halfway to his goal when he heard himself (or rather, his grandmother) hailed with some urgency. Turning, he beheld a breathless Colonel Gubbins bearing down upon him, his corsets creaking with every step.
"My dear Lady Hawthorne,” panted this worthy, mopping his brow with a large and decidedly damp handkerchief. “How delightful to see you here!"
"Likewise, I'm sure,” replied his object, retreating before the gallant's advance. “Now, if you will please excuse me—"
"Oh, cruel!” cried the Colonel, drawing the dowager's gloved hand through the crook of his arm. “Can you not spare one moment for an old friend?"
Sir Harry would have hastened his retreat, but found it prevented by the colonel's grip on his hand. “I am very busy, Colonel. My charges, you know—"
"Are they such hurly-burly females that you must watch them every minute? I'll not believe such a thing, not with you, my lady, for their example!"
"You are too kind—"
"And you, alas, are unkindness itself! But mere maidenly modesty will not—cannot!—deter me. My feelings are too powerful. I must persevere!"
In a tactical maneuver which Lord Mannerly might have envied, the military man steered the hapless Sir Harry into a nearby antechamber. There, to his dismay, he found his hand released, but only so that the colonel might take his inamorata into his arms.
"But say you will be mine, and I will be a happy man!” declared the colonel.
"Colonel Gubbins, I must insist—!” cried Sir Harry in real alarm, struggling to free himself.
"Don't try to fight it, my dear. This is bigger than the both of us!"
"Colonel, please!"
But his protests fell on deaf ears. Puckering his lips and squeezing his eyes shut, Colonel Gubbins leaned forward with every intention of stealing a kiss from his lady fair. In the nick of time, Sir Harry remembered the heavy brass paperweight he had carried in his reticule ever since his brush with London's criminal element.
"Forgive me, Colonel, for what I am about to do,” said Sir Harry.
And with a strength born of desperation, he wrested free of the larger man's grasp and, swinging his reticule by its silken cords, landed a blow to the colonel's ear.
"There!” pronounced Sir Harry with no small satisfaction, as the stunned colonel staggered back against the wall, clutching his injured auricle. “Perhaps that will teach you not to force unwelcome advances onto a lady!"
And sweeping the curtain aside, he quitted the chamber with great dignity.
* * * *
Olivia's eyes opened wide. Suddenly, in spite of the stifling heat, she felt chilled. “I—I beg your pardon?"
"But I am speaking of Sir Harry, of course. Tell me. Miss Darby, when did you learn his secret? I confess my suspicions were aroused that night at Covent Garden, but I did not discover the whole truth until last night, when I watched your enterprising bridegroom enter his town house through an upper-story window."
Olivia rose with a jerk. “I—I haven't the faintest idea what you are talking about, my lord."
"Oh, but I think you do."
"Nonsense! Why would anyone pull such a preposterous stunt?"
"Perhaps for love of a lady?” suggested the marquess. “A lady whom he was afraid of losing to another?"
In spite of her predicament, something akin to joy pierced the veil of Olivia's fear and misery. If Harry had taken such a foolish risk for her sake, he must love her more than she had ever dreamed possible. If only it were not too late! For his sake, and for the sake of their future, she must keep a cool head.
"I think you are being most unkind to poor Lady Hawthorne,” she informed the marquess with surprising calm. “I will own, she looks somewhat hag-ridden tonight, but she became quite ill last night at Vauxhall."
Lord Mannerly remained unmoved. “Sir Harry is certainly ill, Miss Darby, but I can assure you the damage was done at White's, not Vauxhall—as any number of gentlemen can attest, should you be so indiscreet as to make inquiries."
Having failed to convince the marquess with one argument, Olivia tried another. “Tell me, my lord, if you are so convinced that I am aware of this—this so-called charade, why do you find it necessary to bring it to my attention?"
"All in good time, my dear. Your obvious distress suggests that you are aware of the consequences Sir Harry will face should the ton learn of his folly. He would, of course, be ruined, to say nothing of the damage to your own reputation if it should become known that you are residing under the same roof. Miss Hawthorne, pious though she undoubtedly is, could hardly be considered an adequate chaperone."
In spite of her fears, Olivia's chin rose, and she looked the marquess squarely in the eye. “Am I to understand, sir, that you intend to make Harry's—indiscretions—public?"
The look Mannerly gave her was one of wounded innocence. “You misjudge me, my dear. I only seek to offer you the opportunity to, shall we say, safeguard Sir Harry's interests."
"If blackmail is your intention, my lord, you must know that you already possess more wealth than Harry or I could ever hope to give you!"
Miss Darby's Duenna Page 10
