“Why don’t you order him to stop?” he asked, refusing to be deterred. “I’m sure Simon is eager to please his delightful mistress.”
If he hadn’t recognized her, he was flirting shamelessly, and no doubt would do the same with every woman in the room under forty. The French were known to be terrible flirts. She’d preferred his lordship when he believed her to be a man. “Simon is a very capable groom. Surely you would not wish him to be discharged for helping you?”
He held up his hands, palms toward her. “Trust that I will say nothing.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Relieved the matter was now well in hand, she turned and walked back with him to the guests clustered closer to the fire.
“My lord, ladies, and gentleman, dinner is served,” Lady Kemble’s long-faced butler announced in a grave voice. One might suspect a tribunal awaited them instead of a meal.
Lady Kemble tucked her hand through Lord Fortescue’s arm while managing to send a scowl in Hetty’s direction. “Mr. Oakley is to escort you, Miss Cavendish.”
When Frederick Oakley, a rejected suitor of Hetty’s, offered his arm, it caused an embarrassing moment to pass between them. He managed a faint smile that spoke of deep regret, and they proceeded at a stately pace through the doorway. Once seated at the long dining table, Hetty found herself between Mr. Oakley and the vicar, at some distance from the baron who sat at Lady Kemble’s right. Eustace sat on her ladyship’s left with her father across the table next to an attractive widow in a gown of deep violet silk. Mrs. Illingworth had just emerged from her period of mourning.
While Mr. Oakley paused to draw breath during his account of the abundance of vegetables produced by his new hot house, Hetty picked up her glass and sipped the light, fruity wine. Her conversation with Lord Fortescue had not turned out as she hoped. His flippant attitude failed to reassure her. She remained on tenterhooks. She drew her lower lip between her teeth. Well, you wished for excitement and now you’ve got it.
The footman served the soup, which was followed by halibut in cream sauce and a variety of vegetables. Hetty tucked in, finding her appetite unimpaired when the delicate, buttery aromas reminded her of how little she’d eaten all day.
The vicar talked of the weather, the babies christened in the last month, and last Sunday’s sermon, where he’d discussed dealing with disappointments. Then, to Hetty’s relief, having been in attendance last Sunday and suffered through it, he turned his attention to dissecting the fish. From the other end of the table, Lady Kemble begged Lord Fortescue to describe his ordeal once again in more detail.
That the baron didn’t wish to discuss it was clear to Hetty despite everyone leaning forward eagerly to better hear him.
“There’s very little to tell,” he said almost apologetically. “I do not wish to scare the ladies. The worst thing to happen was that I rode into the branch of a tree and lost my seat.” He laughed and put his hand to his forehead. “Then after almost losing my head, I lost my horse.”
Hetty noted he withheld his suspicion that they were not highwaymen. His gaze sought hers, as if to conspire with her, and she almost choked on a mouthful of fish.
“And did you find your horse again?” asked the vicar who preferred all the threads of a story tied up.
“Fortunately, the animal had more sense than me. It turned up at Rosecroft Hall before I did.”
At his words, a concerned murmur went around the table but faded as the third course–a dressed goose, roast beef, and a loin of pork–were brought in. The baron’s gaze sought Hetty’s again, and his eyes twinkled wickedly. We have a secret, he seemed to say. Did he know? She shivered, and her knife slipped from her nerveless fingers.
The conversation turned to other matters. Hetty motioned to the footman to pour her another glass of wine and earned a disapproving glance from the matron across the table. As she sipped her second glass, warmth spread through her limbs along with a much-needed boost of confidence. If he intended to torture her, he was succeeding. She clung to the hope that her imagination had got the better of her. He could not possibly have recognized her. She would emerge from this escapade unscathed.
After everyone rose from the table and returned to the salon, Lady Kemble made an announcement. “In honor of the Prince Regent, who some months ago introduced a new dance into society, the musicians are to play a Viennese waltz. All those who feel brave enough to attempt the dance are invited to participate. But I warn you, those in poor health should watch!”
With a murmur of delight, they filed into the ballroom where the local members of a string quartet tuned their instruments.
Hetty was immediately claimed by twenty-year-old, Henry Farr, whom she considered barely out of short trousers. Lord Fortescue escorted Miss Emma Broadhurst, the vicar’s daughter onto the floor, and they formed part of the set for the country dance. The wine had banished Hetty’s nerves. She met the baron’s eyes over Emily’s head as they moved toward the end of the line, and she flirted with Henry as the dance progressed. At first surprised by this unforeseen event, Henry needed little encouragement. By the time the dance was completed, he had become a clown, turning the wrong way on purpose, and making everyone laugh.
Henry returned Hetty to her chair and seemed inclined to remain by her side. Hetty batted her eyelashes at him as he hovered over her. “Could you see if they’ve found my fan, please, Henry?” She smiled sweetly at him. “It is so dreadfully hot.”
Henry hurried from the room. Almost as soon as he disappeared out the door, a waltz was struck up. Lord Fortescue appeared at her side, beating Frederick Oakley, who approached her with the same intention, by a whisker.
Lord Fortescue bowed. “May I have the pleasure of this dance, Miss Cavendish?”
Hetty baulked at the thought. When news of the waltz had first reached them, lessons had been held at the assembly rooms in St Albans. Despite Henry partnering her and treading heavily on her toes, she’d enjoyed the dance but felt far from confident that she’d mastered it with any degree of grace. Manners dictated she must accept, although she feared it was the baron’s intention to further torment her about Simon. She murmured a polite response and accompanied him onto the floor. There would be no doubt in his mind when he got this closer look at her. She almost welcomed it, for she wished to bring the whole charade to an end.
“This is a dance with which I’m familiar,” he said, drawing her into his arms. “We danced it in Paris long before it came to England.”
She supposed he considered England far behind Paris in most things fashionable. His arms tightened as he swung her into the dance. Her breath caught. “We do not dance this close in England, my lord.”
He eased back in feigned surprise and left a space between them. “Merci. I did not know. You have saved me from making a faux pas.”
She suspected he knew quite well, for the devilry in his eyes betrayed him. “You might learn by observing others, my lord,” she admonished him.
At least now she could breathe. But this was so different to the night they’d spent together in the hut when her disguise had protected her. Did he find her attractive? She had no idea if his charm was merely part of his personality. It shouldn’t matter, for he would choose a bride from the aristocracy, but somehow it did. His hand at her waist, guiding her, made her recall his indecent revelations of lovemaking. Her breath quickened at the thought of such an act perpetrated by him on a woman, or even possibly her. His proximity and the strength and pure maleness of him almost overwhelmed her. She breathed in the familiar woody Bergamot scent, intermingled with starched linens, and closed her eyes, but that made her dizzy. After examining his masterfully tied cravat adorned with a sapphire pin the color of his eyes, she raised her eyes to his. “I have not seen a cravat tied in that way before. Does it have a name?”
He smiled down at her. “The Trone d’Armour.” The style hailed from France most likely. He was different to the English in other ways, too, which made him all the more intriguing.
He reversed her expertly, and as she gained confidence in his arms, she began to enjoy the dance.
She tried not to respond to his charm but when he smiled she had to smile back. She cautioned herself. Was he the real Baron Fortescue or an impostor? His familiarity with the Fortescue family seemed authentic. He’d talked so lovingly about them.
While she counted the steps, he spun her over the floor. Gasping, she fixed her gaze on the cleft in his chin. His full under lip might be a sign of a generous nature. A passionate one? Annoyed, she sought to silence her thoughts. “Is there a chance Napoleon might escape from St Helena?”
His mouth twitched up at one corner. Did he find her naïve? Amusing? He shook his head. “Bonaparte is a beaten man. The world will not see him, or indeed, his like, again.”
Were they his true feelings for the French general? He must care deeply for the country of his birth. Despite his inheritance, could England ever mean as much to him?
“You dance divinely, Miss Cavendish.” His hand at her waist tightened. “I am not making you breathless?”
It was not the exercise that made her gasp. “I’m hardly in my dotage, sir.” She looked down to the swell of her bosom, pale in the candlelight. Her chest gave her feelings away, rising and falling as if she’d run a mile.
“I should never have known.” He chuckled. “Why, you must be well past twenty. If I can be allowed to guess.”
“You are not allowed, my lord. I’m shocked you would mention it.” She wished she could whip the offending bit of net off her hair.
“I do apologize; I seem to have an aptitude for annoying you.”
“Not at all.”
It was his graceful moves that made her dance so well. They spun around and around. Her head, already a trifle woozy from the wine, spun a little. Their bodies were close again, too close for propriety’s sake and her peace of mind. There was nothing she could do about it, so she gave herself up to the sensation. She lifted her gaze to his and found his expression had become earnest.
“If you permit, I shall call on you and your father.” He paused as they reversed. “I desire to see Simon again. To thank him,” he added, sotto voce. “I worry he may get into difficulty on my account.”
Hetty’s heart sank to her dancing slippers. At this precise moment, she had no idea how to deal with such a request. To refuse him would be considered bad mannered, and in his arms, the urge to fight him deserted her. Her wits lost, she scrambled for some excuse. “Simon is a modest fellow. I doubt he would wish you to pursue this further. You will embarrass him.”
“Tiens! That is not my intention.” He sought her gaze and held it. “I promise to take care. I shall call on Monday at two o’clock.”
“Of course,” Hetty said in a high voice, her mind blank with horror.
The dance ended, and he escorted her from the floor. “Would you care for a refreshment?” he asked. “Dancing does make one warm.”
She settled herself into a chair aware her cheeks must be pink from the exercise. “Thank you, my lord.”
“I see you do not have your fan.”
Suspicious, she slanted a glance at him and caught his sympathetic smile. Somehow, she didn’t trust it. Hot and extremely bothered, she determined to rescue her fan at the first opportunity.
He signaled to a waiter and returned with a glass of Madeira. “I see the musicians are threatening to play again.” His eyes danced with amusement, and she wondered if he found them all terribly parochial. “If you’ll excuse me, I must ask another lady to dance.”
He bowed before Fanny. She curtsied and blushed prettily as he led her onto the floor as squares formed for the quadrille. What a handsome couple they made, but she wished Fanny would not giggle so.
With a quick glance around for rivals, Mr. Oakley hurried over. She suppressed a sigh as she rose to take his arm. His eyes, filled with hope, met hers as the dance commenced.
As soon as the dance ended, Hetty excused herself and slipped from the room. The salon was deserted. She plunged her hand into the urn and straightened with the fan in her hand.
A deep voice came from the doorway. “Ah, you have found it.”
She spun around. “Why yes, it must have fallen into this vase.”
“How extraordinary you thought to look there.” The baron leaned against the doorframe.
“Yes, wasn’t it?” She snapped it open and glared at him from over the top.
He gave a benign smile and offered her his arm. “Shall we join the others in the ballroom?”
With a stiff nod, Hetty accepted. He stepped beside her, and she rested her hand on his sleeve, aware of the sensual slide of fine cloth under her gloved fingers. Her skirts rustled against his leg as they walked down the long passage with the beeswax candles burning in their sconces scenting the air.
“Do you know, Miss Cavendish, I found your groom most remarkable.”
Hetty swallowed and wished she could go home. “You did?”
“The way he cares for animals, particularly.”
“Yes, he has a gift with them,” she added, warming to her subject. Simon was a master with horses after all.
“I’ve heard it said that Englishmen love their horses more than their women.”
“Indeed?” She removed her hand. “You should not believe all you hear, my lord. Why, I’ve heard it said, that the French are overdressed flirts? Most unfair I feel sure.” She offered a regretful smile.
A grin turned up the corners of his mouth and sparked in his eyes. “Most unfair. But as I require staff for the Hall, I must warn you, I may try to steal Simon from you.”
So that was what this was about. She must stop them from meeting. “Simon will never agree. He is very loyal. I would advise you not to bother.”
He smiled with an apologetic shrug. “At least I have been honest.”
“Honesty does not necessarily guarantee good manners, my lord.” They had reached the ballroom. Relieved, she saw her father approaching. “Ah, here is Father. It must be time to leave.”
Her father thanked their hostess and excused himself to organize the carriage.
“I advise you to accept Mr. Oakley’s offer, my dear.” Lady Kemble pinched her lips. “He is more than acceptable, and your unfashionable height will bring few opportunities your way.”
“Thank you for your advice, Lady Kemble.” Hetty tried to ignore the sting of her words. “’Tis of no consequence, as I never intend to marry.”
Lady Kemble’s titter died away when the baron approached.
“How can you be sure of that, Miss Cavendish?” he asked. “You might meet your perfect match.”
“It is my wish to pursue literary endeavors like my aunt.” She now not only looked like a spinster, she sounded like one. It was his fault. His amused gaze unsettled her. It was unfair, one didn’t insult a baron, and it would be all around Digswell tomorrow. “Aunt Emily has a remarkable circle of friends and acquaintances in London.”
“A remarkable endeavor.”
She curtsied. Did he find her foolish or worse, dull?
He bowed before returning to speak to his hostess.
Some hours later, when Hetty had settled in bed, her uneasy thoughts refused to allow her to sleep. She stared into the dark, recalling her conversation with the baron and their dance. It appeared he hadn’t recognized her, and this unfortunate business would be at an end once she’d dealt with his wish to meet Simon, and a plan emerged. She would send Simon away on an errand. Then she would don the groom’s attire and waylay Lord Fortescue before he arrived at the house. Her disguise would be safe in the shadowy stables. Once she’d assured him that he need not pursue the matter and refused any offer of employment he might make her, she could whip up the back stairs and slip into a morning gown. A lace cap would hide her hair. Convinced she could make it work she yawned, and closed her eyes, drifting off.
Chapter Six
The following evening, after a day spent in fruitless search of his portmanteau, Guy wan
dered the Rosecroft gallery of portraits recognizing a feature or expression in some of his ancestors. His father had told him much of their history. He paused before a portrait of his father as a young man and his throat tightened. His father looked lighthearted, a lively humor shining in his blue eyes. Guy took a deep sip of the fine claret his butler had brought from the cellars, then continued on along the corridor which led to the west wing.
Art that his father had listed were missing from the walls, Meissen and Sévres china gone from the cabinets. Valuable items meant to be handed down from generation to generation, gone. There was a story here, and he wanted to hear it, but so far Eustace had managed to avoid his probing questions. He’d complained of the ague and retired to his rooms. Something was very wrong. Guy needed to delve deeper into the reasons behind the estate running at a loss. How was it possible for this to happen, with all the money his father had sent from France over the years? Could it be that Eustace had financial problems? Did he sell these pieces to pay his debts? Surely not, there must be another explanation. His father had written to Eustace, so he knew there was an heir who would one day come to England.
Guy sensed his father’s presence more strongly here in England. He was saddened, not only because Eustace had so obviously mismanaged the finances—despite the comfortable living the estate had afforded him, but also, because his father had walked away from so much that had mattered to him. The portrait gallery displaying Fortescues over several hundred years had struck at the very core of who he was. It was the same for his father. Strathairn had told him what had taken place before Guy’s father fled England’s shores all those years ago.
When a brash young blade, his father had flirted with a married lady and stirred the ire of her jealous husband, Earl Spender, who had demanded satisfaction. Friends had tried to persuade the earl to walk away, for the sum of it had been a brief kiss in the moonlight, but the countess had a history of dalliance, and her husband intended to make an example of Guy’s father.
The two men and their seconds met at dawn in Hyde Park. As the earl was known to be a poor shot, Guy’s father intended to delope. Earl Spender’s shot went wide. His father fired into the ground, trusting the seconds would then call a halt. But the earl insisted on a second shot and fired first. When Spender’s bullet grazed his father’s cheek, he fell back, and his pistol fired, ending the earl’s life. Before daybreak, his father had left England, never to return.
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