Dangerous Gentlemen

by Beverley Oakley

  Sir Aubrey was everything Hetty would have thought she’d find repugnant in a man. He was immaculate with an edge of danger that unsettled her. Some might say his confidence verged on arrogance. He could not be more different from poor Edgar.

  And yet for some inexplicable reason he set her pulse racing, made her throat dry and sent the heat to her cheeks every time he even looked in her direction.

  Not that his few glances registered either his chivalry at the start of the evening or his painful disregard partway through. He simply looked right through her.

  She was safely out of the gentleman’s orbit and always would be. Sir Aubrey consorted with bold beauties he never married. Not pale, plump and wilting wallflowers like Hetty.

  Eventually the night was at an end. Hetty had been counting down the hours as increments of torture, but Araminta was positively glowing with success as she climbed into the carriage beside her sister for their return home.

  “It’s a shame you didn’t dance with Sir Aubrey as I did—twice—Hetty dearest, for that might have livened up your spirits. When you look as glum as you do now, I’m reminded of last night’s roly-poly pudding sitting on my plate with two currants staring at me, just like your eyes.” Araminta’s pretty white teeth gleamed in the light of a street lamp above her ivory fan as she went on to reflect on her own success. “Mr. Minchin came to claim me for my second quadrille just as Sir Aubrey arrived to ask me. Well, you won’t believe what happened.”

  Although Hetty evinced no desire to find out, Araminta breezed on. “Sir Aubrey said he’d waive the fifty pounds Mr. Minchin still owed him from a game of faro the night before if Mr. Minchin waived his claim to his dance with me.”

  Araminta’s eyes glittered. “Of course, it wasn’t very chivalrous of Mr. Minchin to agree, was it, though who would you have preferred to partner you, Hetty? Mr. Minchin or Sir Aubrey?”

  It was a rhetorical question, Hetty knew. Araminta did not concern herself with other people’s desires unless they ran counter to her own, in which case she was assiduous in trampling them. Hetty knew that to her cost. Still, like the dutiful sister she was, she murmured, “Sir Aubrey, I’m sure. He must admire you very much.”

  “Indeed he does.” Araminta gazed thoughtfully at the carriage roof, unconsciously licking her lips. “He is a very good catch. Though only a baronet, he is in line for a viscountcy and to inherit large landholdings in Wiltshire. His country seat would be the grandest for a hundred miles, I’m told. And of course, he’s very handsome. I couldn’t consider a husband who wasn’t.”

  Bravely, Hetty said softly, “You didn’t think Edgar was handsome.”

  She was not surprised when Araminta scoffed with no concern for her sister’s feelings. “Edgar was going to be master of The Grange. It didn’t matter what he looked like, for you know my greatest desire has always been to be mistress of my beloved family home.” She sniffed, her expression suddenly tragic, and for a moment Hetty thought she was at least paying lip service to the grief she should feel at poor Edgar’s untimely death. Instead, Araminta’s tone was bitter. “Now Mama’s enceinte and if our new sibling is a boy then he will inherit. If we get a sister and Cousin Stephen inherits, Cousin Stephen’s reluctance to marry me just because I’m his cousin forces me to make my way in the world as best I can.” A satisfied smile banished her grief as she pronounced, “I just can’t make up my mind whether to set my sights on Sir Aubrey or the new Lord Debenham.”

  Gloomily, Hetty reflected that Araminta was just the kind of dazzling beauty who apparently appealed to Sir Aubrey. “Sir Aubrey is not looking for a wife, I’m told.” Hetty looked combative. “He’s said to enjoy dalliances, though.”

  “A handsome gentleman like Sir Aubrey is bound to be regarded with jealousy and to have detractors.”

  “Of whom Lord Debenham is one.”

  Araminta raised her eyebrows. “You know a lot for someone who only danced with our cousin.” She settled herself more comfortably against the squabs and smiled. “If you’re so good at ferreting out such information, perhaps you won’t be entirely useless this season after all.”

  Chapter Two

  The life of a debutante is a busy one, regardless of how successful she is. Araminta was in demand for her walks and shopping expeditions with various “bosom buddies” she’d made during her ten short days in London. Agreeing to all and sundry with enthusiasm, she informed Hetty and Stephen that her popularity with these young ladies was due to their hope Araminta’s loveliness would draw the young men into their general orbit.

  For Hetty, life was no less busy, as their chaperone Mrs. Monks decided Hetty’s lack of success could be ameliorated by assiduous training in the art of deportment and associated graces.

  So while Araminta shopped and promenaded, Hetty paced the drawing room with half a dozen books balanced on her head and a long wooden ruler inserted between her stays and her chemise.

  Dubiously, Mrs. Monks finally declared Hetty as ready as she’d ever be for the grand ball that was being held to mark the debut of the lovely and vivacious Miss Felicity Pangbourne.

  Hetty had, by this stage, lost all interest in the social events that inspired such excitement and confident expectation in her sister. They merely reinforced Hetty’s inadequacy. Even the knowledge that Sir Aubrey’s attendance was assured, since he was currently Mr. Pangbourne’s houseguest, could not jolt her out of her gloom.

  By the time the carriage drew up in front of the fine London townhouse on the night of the ball, Hetty’s spirits were at their lowest ebb.

  “What do you wager that either Sir Aubrey or Lord Debenham will ask me to dance three times this evening?” Araminta asked coquettishly as the girls stepped out of the carriage and mounted the stairs toward the double doors being held open by two footmen.

  “Neither will, for it’s tantamount to making you an offer, which they won’t on such limited acquaintance.”

  Araminta fanned herself languidly as she contemplated this. “Oh, I know Sir Aubrey well enough…” She could barely contain her secret excitement as she added, “But I intend to know him a great deal better before the evening is over.”

  Stephen, who had accompanied his cousins due to Mrs. Monks’ taking ill at the last moment, looked dark as he stepped aside to let the girls pass into the ballroom. “You be sure to convey to your silly sister that Sir Aubrey is one gentleman she must steer clear of,” he murmured in Hetty’s ear.

  “You’d better tell her, for she won’t listen to me,” responded Hetty as the warmth of the crowded room enveloped her, making her shiver with apprehension.

  “I mentioned my concern in the mildest terms, for the last thing I want is to whip up Araminta’s interest. She might take it as a challenge. However, judging by that long face of yours, I’d wager you aren’t averse to a little attention from out-of-bounds quarters either. Well, for once, Hetty, I’m glad you’re not in any danger.”

  “Because I’m plain and frumpy?”

  Ignoring this as he led the girls to a relatively secluded corner, he responded smoothly, “Shy and self-effacing, which is far more appealing. Sir Aubrey prefers young ladies like your sister and I wish I’d spoken earlier to Araminta as she’s hardly likely to heed your warnings.”

  “Not where a handsome gentleman is concerned,” muttered Hetty, fiddling with her fan. She looked up. “I still haven’t heard anyone else speak ill of him with the vigor you do.”

  “That’s because I work for the Foreign Office and they don’t.” His tone gentled. “Please, Hetty, I want you wed to someone worthy of you. You are so like your mother. You need to be nurtured. I know things about Sir Aubrey I cannot tell you.”

  Hetty stared at the points of her dancing slippers peeking from beneath the rose-flounced hem of her cream-and-gold sarcenet, with its tiny gauze sleeves. She truly had felt like a fairy princess as Jane had helped her dress this evening. Pearls were woven into her hair and she’d thought her face more sculpted and her complexion improve
d. Then Araminta had commented that with her high color, Hetty was bound to soon develop fat ankles, so therefore Araminta had made it her mission to match Hetty with a worthy contender “before it was too late”.

  Meanwhile Stephen was warming to his theme. “A traitor risks the gallows. Since our last conversation I’ve heard even more alarming stories.”

  “So Sir Aubrey would slit my throat if he regarded me as a threat?” Hetty knew she sounded combative.

  “Really, Hetty, now you’re being childish.” Cousin Stephen frowned. “Lord Debenham has made these claims and Lord Debenham is a highly regarded politician. Sir Aubrey, by contrast, is a wastrel. He sought public office but no one would sponsor him. The reasons speak for themselves.”

  “Lord Debenham?” Araminta joined the conversation, adding in eager tones, “There he is dancing with Miss Pangbourne. I hope he asks me.”

  “I’m sure he will if that’s what you desire.” Stephen quirked an eyebrow. “And you’d do well to snare him, though I’ve heard tell he has something of a reputation for playing fast and loose with feminine hearts.”

  “Oh yes, he was madly in love with his cousin Lady Margaret, who killed herself last year.” Araminta tapped Hetty on the shoulder with her fan. “Lady Margaret was married to Sir Aubrey but Cousin Stephen warns we must steer clear of Sir Aubrey. Not that it’s a concern for you, Hetty, however I really don’t know what I’ll say to put him off when he asks me to dance.”

  “I dare you to refuse,” Hetty challenged. “Oh look, Lord Debenham is looking at you, Araminta. I think he’s coming over here.”

  Hetty closed her gaping mouth as she stared at the raven-haired gentleman whose severe black dress was alleviated by a snowy-white cravat. He looked the height of sartorial elegance, yet there was something sinister and unnerving about his arrogant bearing and the almost disdainful way he looked down his Roman nose at Araminta, whom he had clearly in his sights.

  As he engaged her sister to dance, Hetty decided that a man who wore shirt points sharp enough to cut one’s throat, and whose shoes, like his hair, were polished to the gleam of a raven’s wing, was not to be trusted.

  “So you’d approve of a match between Araminta and Lord Debenham?” Hetty asked, as Stephen led her onto the dance floor for the following dance.

  “I think there are more amenable partners than Lord Debenham but Araminta would be anyone’s match.”

  Discovering she’d mistaken the sequence of her dance steps, Hetty was relieved when Stephen seized her to polka down the center of the two rows of couples. However, her relief turned to disgust when she saw Sir Aubrey lingering near the entrance to the ballroom, an expression of rapt interest upon his face. For the person who was holding him in such thrall was none other than Araminta, looking more than ever like Sarafina the family cat. As the couple broke apart, Sir Aubrey bowed as he took his leave through the double doors.

  Stephen gripped her elbow and Hetty spun ’round, squealing in dismay as she trod upon the hem of her dress. Clutching at the skirt, which had separated from the bodice, she sent her cousin a stricken look. “Look what I’ve done! And here’s Mr. Woking, the only other person who’s ever asked me to dance, coming to claim me for the quadrille. Oh, do come up with an excuse, Cousin Stephen, for I’ll be tongue-tied with embarrassment at having to explain what I don’t know how to put into words.”

  Stephen smiled. “Poor Hetty, why, I’ll tell him the truth, of course—that you must make a dash to the ladies’ mending room. I hope the damage is not too severe.”

  “I think I’d rather spend the rest of the evening closeted in the antechambers where things are a little less exciting than here, where I’m out of my depth,” she muttered as she took her leave.

  * * * * *

  Hetty had spoken only the truth, she decided when she was safely ensconced in a small room where she was attended to by a hunchbacked seamstress. The only other occupant was a young lady who lay facedown, sobbing on the chaise longue by the window.

  “That’s Miss Hoskings. Bin there all night,” the old crone informed her when Hetty’s concern failed to elicit a response from the distraught young lady. “‘Parently the gennelmun what she thought was goin’ to marry her has been makin’ up to another young lady.”

  The girl gave a choking sob and half rose, before throwing herself back down upon the upholstery, wailing, “He’s still going to make me an offer and it’s not because he cares for me.” She wiped her face with the back of her hand as she sat up and glared at Hetty, adding, “And I’m going to accept him though Mama says I could do better.”

  Hetty took in the girl’s narrow shoulders and bad skin and felt sorry for her. Fortunately Hetty’s skin was a glowing advertisement of her robust good health. Her once over-generous proportions, too, had diminished to the extent that, though still plump, she’d had several gowns taken in during the past several weeks. Darling Mama had said that she’d been just the same when she’d been Hetty’s age and was far comelier after a couple years of marriage than she had been when she was a debutante.

  Bolsteringly, Hetty said, “Maybe you could wait a little. I, too, expect to have an offer before the end of the season, for Papa has been generous with my dowry.” She suspected it was the chief reason for Mr. Woking’s interest and the thought gave her no pleasure. “Though I don’t want to marry a man who’s only interested in my money.”

  “Better that than be an ape-leader. What could be worse than being an old maid for the rest of my life?” Miss Hoskings asked gloomily after several loud sniffs. “This is my second season and I have three sisters. If I don’t marry soon, do you know how I’ll spend the rest of my days? Tending Papa’s gouty foot, dancing attendance upon my irascible grandmother and looking after everyone else’s needs but my own. Well, I won’t do it. I’ve seen the thankless existence my maiden aunts have endured and being an unpaid companion is not for me. Better a loveless marriage, I say!”

  Hetty considered their respective situations and wondered if desperation would one day send her down the aisle with a man who cared only for her money and not a jot for her.

  Miss Hoskings, who declared she was not going to emerge from the mending room until the night was over, bade Hetty a gloomy farewell once Hetty’s skirt was mended but Hetty wasn’t sure she felt like reentering the ballroom either. The only person of any interest had left and she had no wish to endure Araminta’s preening self-satisfaction as she recounted her success with Sir Aubrey who, if he really were such a dangerous man, would consequently be of even greater interest to her sister, she supposed. No, Hetty had no chance.

  “Make sure you turn the right way. The ‘ouse is a fair rabbit warren of rooms and the gennulmen’s quarters that way.” The old crone stabbed a finger up the stairs to the left. “Even that Sir Aubrey what’s staying ‘ere got hisself lost. Put ‘is head in ‘ere just afore you came to inquire as to which way was the lobby so he could order hisself a carriage.”

  Miss Hoskings straightened, her look suddenly interested. “Sir Aubrey is a houseguest, I believe,” she said with a sharp look at Hetty. “Handsome gentleman, don’t you think? And with that unusual hair.”

  Just the mere mention of him made Hetty’s heart leap. So Sir Aubrey’s room was just down the passage and up the stairs? She hesitated as the old seamstress closed the door behind her, plunging her into the gloom of the dimly lit corridor.

  The stairs beckoned a short distance away.

  What would be the harm in a quick look? No one would see her and she could always claim she’d lost her way. She’d be believed and besides, all the chambers would be empty since everyone was at the ball. The night was still young and no one would be returning yet.

  Hetty, curious by nature, found this too tantalizing an opportunity to resist. With a furtive look around her, she hurried left and up the stairs, at which point two corridors at right angles disappeared into darkness. Choosing the one to the right, she found herself face-to-face with a series of closed door
s.

  Foolish, she chided herself. Of course they were closed and she could hardly open them. As she turned back toward the ballroom, a faint light shining from the crack beneath a door that was slightly ajar gleamed beckoningly.

  With a furtive look over her shoulder, she approached it, and when she gave the door a little nudge with her foot, it swung open.

  Excitement rippled through her.

  “Hello?” she asked in a low voice. She took another step into the room. “Is anyone in here?”

  Silence greeted her. A low fire burned in the grate before which was a table, against which were propped several items, including a familiar silver-topped cane. Her breath caught in her throat. The last time she’d seen that cane was when Sir Aubrey had exchanged several words with Araminta in the street as Hetty had been bringing up the rear with Mrs. Monks. Of course Sir Aubrey had not looked twice at her, excusing himself before having to be introduced to the younger sister and the chaperone who’d nearly closed the gap.

  Heart hammering, Hetty closed the door behind her and went to pick up the cane.

  How fortunate to have stumbled into Sir Aubrey’s room, she thought when she observed the fine coat lying upon the bed, apparently discarded in favor of what he was wearing tonight.

  He really was a nonpareil, wearing his clothes as if they were an extension of his athletic physique.

  Yet he was dangerous, she had to remind herself. Meaning she should not be here, which of course she shouldn’t, regardless of whether he was dangerous or not.

  But how such a scion of good breeding and genteel society could be guilty of such a heinous crime as treason, Hetty could not imagine. And surely the story of the runaway wife was a gilded one. It was all the stuff of make-believe and Cousin Stephen was only telling Hetty he was dangerous to curb her schoolroom daydreams.

  Turning, she saw half protruding from beneath the suit of clothes what appeared to be the edge of a silver, filigreed box. It was partly obscured by the overhang of the counterpane, as if it hadn’t properly been returned to its hiding place.