Araminta raised her eyebrows. “If we all got into a fluster when we were five minutes late, I don’t know where we’d be.”
Hetty stamped her foot. “You don’t understand, Araminta. Lord Debenham didn’t know for sure the letter existed until you told him. Now he’ll go after Jem for it, for certain.”
Araminta smiled. “Why should that be? I’m sure you’re all much too concerned over Jem and, really, the letter wasn’t too bad though I can see why Lord Debenham wouldn’t want the world to see it.”
Boldly, Sir Aubrey put his arm about Araminta’s shoulders and walked her to the window embrasure. Hetty could hear his voice, low and intimate as they stood talking. Dull misery churned in the pit of her stomach as she stared, listening, into the fireplace.
“May I exhort you, Miss Partington, to try to recall the contents? You need to understand that what might not seem important to you could perhaps be very important.” Sir Aubrey was speaking to Araminta as if she were a child and she, clearly, was enjoying the attention.
Hetty, slanting her gaze across at the pair, noticed that her sister’s eyes sparkled as if this were the greatest of games. Or perhaps that was only for Hetty’s benefit.
“Did the letter mention the name Spencean in relation to Lord Debenham?” asked Sir Aubrey.
A sly smile creased Araminta’s brow. “Oh yes. I believe that’s the club he belongs to.” Her tone softened. “I know you want the letter made public so that it proves your wife regretted…certain decisions she made, but I’m sure the world won’t judge you on that, Sir Aubrey.”
“Araminta, don’t you realize what you’re saying?” Hetty cried, dashing forward to grip her sister’s wrists, more to pull her away from Sir Aubrey than anything else. “If the letter calls Lord Debenham a Spencean and cites evidence, then of course Lord Debenham will do anything in his power to silence any who have seen or would speak of this letter. To be called a Spencean is to be called a traitor.”
Araminta looked doubtful. “A traitor?”
“Traitors swing, Araminta!” Hetty heard the shrillness in her tone. “From the gallows.”
She was glad this seemed to discompose Araminta.
Sir Aubrey’s voice cut into the shocked silence. “A man who risks going to the gallows will do a great deal to ensure his secret is not divulged.”
Hetty had to stop herself from stamping her foot when he again took her sister’s hands and raised them to his lips.
“Did he ask you to meet him somewhere?”
It was clear that Debenham had by the way Araminta looked warily at him, though she refused to answer.
“I’d be very careful, Araminta. I mean it,” Sir Aubrey said. “At the moment, Jem is missing. The butler is in high dudgeon and ready to boot him out of the front door when he deigns to show his face. I suspect that a young man who has gone to such pains to ensure he keeps his job would not risk being dismissed without a character lightly. I fear something has happened to him. For the moment, however, I want you to go over in your mind everything that was in that letter,” gently he kissed each knuckle on her right hand, “and tell me.”
Chapter Twelve
Lord Partington did most of the talking at dinner that evening, which was unusual. He remarked upon the lackluster looks of his wife and the fact the dazzling Araminta was quieter than usual.
He didn’t comment on Hetty. Probably because she was above notice, she reflected gloomily.
After dinner she went through to Araminta’s bedchamber, where Jane was waiting to attend to her young ladies with tongs and sugar water. Jane looked drawn and her voice was shaky when she told them Jem was still missing.
Hetty noticed that not a flicker crossed Araminta’s face. So her sister was going to pretend she hadn’t been one of the last ones to have seen him.
Hetty plastered on a smile. “I’m sure there’s some explanation,” she reassured Jane though she felt far from hopeful, even with Sir Aubrey now in pursuit of the truth.
He had left them shortly after Araminta recalled what she could, though her sister had been vague about the contents and spoken only in generalities. Araminta had also sworn she’d made no arrangements to meet either Jem or Lord Debenham.
Hetty was alarmed, nevertheless. Araminta spoke in vague terms about Lady Margaret’s shame and remorse over her disloyalty to her husband. And the letter seemed to link Lord Debenham with traitorous activities.
Even though Araminta could not remember in what context the word Spencean arose or how the sentence had been worded, her reconstruction painted Lord Debenham as a villain of the first order—even if Araminta still blithely maintained she was sure Spencean wasn’t a word synonymous with traitor.
When Araminta left the room, Sir Aubrey had unexpectedly gripped Hetty’s hands, pulling her to him in the window embrasure. Under the intense focus of his gaze, all the hopes and dreams Hetty had fostered regarding a future with this man were aroused.
But such hope was bittersweet and she knew she was only fooling herself, even when he’d said, “Keep a close eye on your sister. I will be at Lady Scott’s tonight, where I look forward to partnering you in as many quadrilles and waltzes as are respectable.” For an instant his promising words had thrilled her, accompanied as they were by the flash of promise in his eye. He’d then cupped her face, his expression more tender than she’d ever seen it. “Take care, little one,” he’d whispered. “If I could only turn back the clock, I would.”
Hope evaporated.
So he’d not find himself in such a compromising situation? she wondered dolefully.
Jane had finished dressing Hetty’s hair and was busy with Araminta’s when several taps upon the door had the young maid tossing the brush aside, saying, “Oh please, miss, I hope you’re not cross but I was so out of me mind with fear I told Lizzie to give me a two-tap signal if something important were learned ‘bout Jem’s whereabouts.”
Araminta nodded to her to leave the room and the sisters listened to the exchange of whispers in the passage before Jane burst in.
“They’s found ‘im in an alleyway with his head knocked in!” She began to cry. “Oh, lordy, it were my fault for telling ‘is secret! He told me ill would come to him on account of me loose tongue and it has!”
Dismayed, Hetty asked, “Is he dead?”
“They thought ‘e was ’til ‘e stirred a little.”
“Go to him, Jane,” ordered Hetty.
Araminta was not so accommodating. “And what about my half a head of ringlets? It’s hardly a look that will catch on.”
Hetty couldn’t care less what either of them looked like right then. Jem’s “accident” merely confirmed that finding the whereabouts of that letter was more important than ever. So, perhaps, was protecting Araminta, who had no idea of the danger she had caused others—and might be in herself.
Hetty glared at Araminta. “Take care how you conduct yourself tonight, Araminta,” she warned. “I think it’s hardly a coincidence that Jem is in such a way. Lord Debenham is behind this, mark my words.”
* * * * *
Sir Aubrey’s tender leave-taking was not followed up as Hetty had hoped, since the very first person he asked to dance was her sister.
Disgusted, she watched him lead her into a waltz. The way Araminta responded was enough to make Hetty want the floor to swallow them up. First Araminta, then herself.
Over Araminta’s shoulder she saw a familiar face beam its eagerness. Mr. Woking. Her heart plunged to the soles of her feet as his flabby lips stretched into an even more enormous smile as he hurried toward her.
Araminta and Sir Aubrey danced past her, their conversation making it clear how absorbed they were in one another. Picking up her skirts, Hetty hurried to the supper table to pretend an interest in the plover’s eggs, glad to note Mr. Woking had been waylaid by an apparently garrulous dowager.
As she pierced a piece of ham upon her fork she gave a little sob, causing the young lady on her right to send her an odd look
, which gained warmth as she said, “Why, we have met before, I believe.” At Hetty’s doubtful look, she added, “In the ladies’ mending room.”
Hetty restrained her surprise. The conversationalist barely resembled the tearstained young lady she remembered; although on second glance, her skin was still very bad and her figure not pretty. Only the glowing countenance declared her a different person.
“Miss Hoskings, if I recall your name correctly,” she said.
“That’s right…who was about to make a disastrous match through self-doubt and ignorance.” Miss Hoskings beamed.
“So he has declared himself in the required gentlemanly manner?”
“Oh yes. Quite ardently in fact, and what pleasure it gave me to reject his kind offer.” She giggled at Hetty’s puzzlement. “Fortuitously I’ve come into an unexpected inheritance. The gentleman for whom I’d developed such a tendre approached me directly after my good news to tell me I had quite the wrong end of the stick, if you don’t mind my saying, and that he hadn’t been intending to make an offer to anyone but me.”
“So you’d prefer to keep your money and your single status?” Hetty wasn’t sure she’d be able to if she were madly in love with someone. Well, she was madly in love with Sir Aubrey and she didn’t think if he asked her—outright—to marry him she’d be able to refuse under any circumstances. Even if she knew he wasn’t in love with her. She’d just keep hoping like the foolish girl she was that she could change him. Make him love her.
“Well, I didn’t reject him outright. I said if he could prove his love by waiting for me for a year while I study painting in Florence and take my favorite aunt on a grand tour across the Continent, I would probably reconsider my position.”
Hetty attended to this with a frown while she rearranged the food on her plate. “Won’t you…won’t you miss him? That is, if you love him enough to want him for your husband.”
The girlishness dropped away and Miss Hoskings gave Hetty a considered look. “I value my self-respect more,” she said quietly.
Tossing back a ringlet, she became brisk. “Now you aren’t looking at all the thing, Miss Partington. In fact, you look very much like I was feeling when we last met. If you need a comfortable bed to lie down on, there’s a door behind that tapestry over there. It’s hidden and no one knows about it but if you can’t bring yourself to watch the one you love make eyes at another, I’d suggest you forget about food and take yourself off. The ladies’ mending room is also along that corridor. Tell the chaperone that’s where you’re going but as there’s no chaise longue there, I suggest you slip through the door hidden behind the tapestry and look for the second room along the passage to the right.”
* * * * *
Sir Aubrey smiled into the exquisite face of the young woman in his arms and felt the tug of desire as she responded with a gentle squeeze of his hand. So subtle. So effective. Her endorsement of his interest evoked an unexpected plethora of emotions. Miss Araminta Partington would make the perfect wife. She was a beauty. Her father had a proud place among the top ten thousand and she came with a dowry that was not insubstantial. He foresaw important connections being made on account of his desirable wife when perhaps doors might have remained closed due to his tarnished reputation.
But oh God, if only the letter could be found. The meddling minx in his arms had no idea of the damage she’d caused. Just before Sir Aubrey had left his townhouse, and following extensive investigations this afternoon, he’d received a message that Jem had been found in a bad way and been taken back to his room in Lord Debenham’s townhouse.
And as for desire over expediency, he desired innocent Miss Henrietta, who wasn’t so innocent, and in so straying had damaged her own chances of a good marriage. Images of her soft, luscious curves and her sweet enthusiasm peppered his mind with the promise of future delights much more than the cool, self-possessed beauty before him.
Guilt niggled him. Honor dictated he acknowledge Miss Henrietta’s loss of virtue with an offer of marriage, yet if there were no consequences of their coupling, surely he had every right to accept her dignified granting of his freedom? She understood that forcing him into marriage under duress would make him the antithesis of the husband she desired.
Miss Partington slanted a knowing look at him, the candlelight reflecting the sheen of her glossy dark hair and making her eyes sparkle. “I trust you will be at the Grand Masquerade at Vauxhall tomorrow night, Sir Aubrey?”
“What person of consequence would miss the event of the season?”
She smiled coquettishly. “Who shall you fashion yourself after, sir?”
“Perhaps I would like to surprise you.”
“I would like to be surprised by you.”
The flirtatious banter was similar to many exchanges he’d enjoyed over the years with far less desirable women. The words dropped from his lips with ease and were received with veiled eagerness. He saw the flare of excitement in her eyes quickly shrouded by assumed world-weariness.
Was this what being a person of fashion required? The subsuming of real emotion?
Again, dear Henrietta’s unfettered enthusiasm sprang to mind. Her sheer delight at all the wondrous sensations to which he’d introduced her had been so unlike anything he’d experienced. She was perfectly delightful.
“Shall you appear grand and senatorial or wild and gladiatorial?”
He tilted his head and forced himself to smile back at her. This was a pleasant way to while away a few hours of an evening. She was by far and above the most beautiful woman in the room and he was conscious of the envious glances sent in his direction. They were a refreshing contrast to the covert suspicion he was used to, though he knew it was his exquisite dancing partner who accounted for that. Not that Miss Partington looked so exquisite when she sized up her cousin’s escort, a pretty young redhead in a modish coquelicot gown. Miss Partington clearly didn’t like having competition, judging by her scowl.
But she would make a suitable wife.
It was, however, Stephen Cranbourne’s disapproving glances that finally galvanized Sir Aubrey into making a decision.
He needed to forge ahead. Either his name must be cleared or he must make a marriage that would see him received in all fashionable and political circles. An alliance of expediency with Miss Partington, particularly if she indeed could lay claim to the letter, would open doors.
A marriage to Miss Henrietta underpinned with the hope of mutual love and desire was doomed to make them both unhappy before the ink was dry on the contract.
He lowered his head to whisper in her ear, “Wild and gladiatorial shall be the order of the day, Miss Partington.” Drawing back, he smiled a knowing smile that equaled hers. “Be prepared.”
* * * * *
Miserably, Hetty slipped through the doorway behind the tapestry. It had been easy to find though it was completely secret, shrouded as it was by a copy of the Bayeux Tapestry. When she passed the ladies’ mending room, the chatter of excited debutantes threw her own mood into greater contrast. Never had she felt so wretched.
A few steps along another corridor brought her to the room Miss Hoskings had mentioned, empty and dark save for the small fire in the grate and a lamp turned low upon the mantelpiece. How inviting the bed looked, she thought, as she sank upon it, closing her eyes. She’d like to lie here like Sleeping Beauty and not be disturbed for a hundred years. By then hopefully all her troubles would be over. Sir Aubrey would no longer exist though no doubt she’d be confronted with his many grandchildren, descendants of his marriage to Araminta. She’d been painfully aware of the patent admiration he’d not troubled to hide when he’d gazed at her sister not ten minutes before.
As ever, Hetty was relegated to the sidelines, despite—or because—she’d given so much.
Well, wasn’t that just typical of her? She’d never understood restraint; she’d always acted upon the impulses of her heart, in the here and now, with no thought to the consequences.
At least
those consequences weren’t of the direst. There would be no child and Sir Aubrey had chosen to accept the reprieve she’d given him in return for his silence. Her reputation was assured even if her virtue was no longer intact. She could consider herself in the same position as she was when she’d embarked upon her season with such mixed feelings—a hopeful wallflower.
A tear trickled down her cheek as she drifted into the sleep of dejected exhaustion.
She was awoken by a surprised, “Good Lord, you’re not the sister I expected. Surely you are not standing proxy for Miss Araminta?” The dark, forbidding tone made her jerk into a sitting position before realization had her cowering against the back of the chaise longue, caught in the thunderous glare of Lord Debenham.
Terror swept in prickling waves across her skin as she cast a frantic look at the door. But they were alone and no help would be forthcoming.
“So, my little bird of paradise appears to be awaiting the attentions of her mate.” Calculation had replaced his anger. The effect was even more terrifying. In the flickering light his jet-black locks formed a devilish contrast with his alabaster skin. He pursed his thin lips. “What an unfortunate coincidence, for I was expecting your sister, who declared every intention of being punctual for our little assignation. But you…” His expression soured. “Much as I’d like to sample your wares, I’ll state my case and leave you to ponder the consequences.”
“Consequences?” Hetty managed to utter on a thread of sound. This man had a terrible secret to hide. He’d already proved himself capable of violence. What would he do to Hetty? He could hustle her out a back corridor and into the public arena, claiming she’d agreed to meet him…unless she acquiesced to some ghastly alternative. For he had the power to destroy her reputation.
He advanced a step, his expression no less threatening until he was looming over her, seeming to suck the very air from the room, from her lungs, and it was all she could do to remain sitting upright. “I trust you are anxious not to bring dishonor to your family?”
Dangerous Gentlemen Page 16
