Her father removed his handkerchief from his pocket and laid it on a chair. “For heaven’s sake, sit, child. Then please explain yourself. I can think of no earthly reason for your behavior.”
He had not called her “child” for many a year. Would he ever trust her again?
She took a deep breath. “It all began when I took The General for a ride—”
“You rode The General?” he roared.
She perched on the edge of the chair. “Papa,” she rasped, as her throat ached for water, “if you interrupt me after every sentence, we shall be here until morning.”
He gave her a look that would have made many a soldier quiver from head to toe, which produced its desired effect on her. “As I was saying, while riding The General, I came across Guy unconscious on the road—”
Her father made a choking sound and waved at her to continue.
By the time she’d covered most of what occurred during this evening’s debacle, her father’s face had gone through several color changes varying from white to puce.
There was a long pause while he struggled to control his temper, and when he spoke, his voice didn’t sound like his own. “I must say I doubted my sister’s ability from the first. She is far too wrapped up in her own pursuits to be the right chaperone for a spirited girl like you. But I did trust Fortescue to take good care of you in my absence. I can see I asked too much of him. It seems it was too much for any man. But I never expected you to be so rash in your judgment, or to lie to me.”
“I’m sorry, Papa,” she said in a small voice.
“And I must say, I am disappointed in the baron for encouraging such behavior.”
“But he didn’t. Guy is a brave man. He endangered his life working for the government.” Might he have a wife? Tears filled her eyes. “I hope he’s not hurt. I’m not sure what happened. I heard a shot.”
Her father jerked forward on his chair. “There were shots fired? Dear God. I quake at the idea of you in such danger.”
She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her grimy hand. “We’ll learn more tomorrow.”
His nostrils quivered. “Go to bed, Horatia. I shall tell you what I’ve decided in the morning, when I’ve had time to think on it.”
“I’m sorry, Papa,” Hetty said again. There was nothing more she could say. She rose and picked up the handkerchief, offering it to him. He shook his head with distaste. Blinded by tears, she hurried to her bedchamber. She had never been so alone. It seemed her life in London had come crashing down around her ears. Digswell, with its church fetes and afternoon teas, lurked dismally in her future.
*
Guy watched with relief as John and his cronies rounded up the conspirators. Delaney spat at Guy and cursed him as the men were dragged outside. Guy kept his pistol aimed on the hunched figure of Smith, who groaned and clutched his wounded shoulder as he joined the rest of the conspirators in the wagon on their way to the cells in Bow Street.
John appeared at Guy’s side. “Forney’s gone missing–out through a back door. My men are searching for him, but it appears he had a boat waiting. I’ll get the Thames River police onto it.”
Guy grabbed John’s arm. “Did Hetty get away safely?”
“Yes, you need not worry on that score.”
“Damn it! How did she come to be here?” Guy would never forget the shock of seeing Hetty dangling from the thug’s brawny arms.
“She and the duchess were shadowing you,” John said.
“My sister, too! Mon dieu! Where is she now?”
“We had a difficult time convincing Her Grace to go home. In the end, one of my men took her to Portland Square in a hackney.” A reluctant grin stretched John’s mouth. “She was dressed like a solicitor’s clerk from Lincoln’s Inn.”
“Couldn’t you have stopped Hetty from getting mixed up in this? They almost threw her in the river,” Guy said angrily. “You lot cut it as fine as the hairs on a gnat’s bollock.”
“I’m very sorry, my friend.” John shook his head. “Some of these men have influence. We needed enough proof against them to put them away permanently, and things got out of control very fast. Don’t blame Miss Cavendish or your sister too much. They acted without delay, to alert us to your exit by the back lane.”
“Did they indeed?”
John nodded. “And Miss Cavendish kept on your tail. She’d make a damn good spy.”
Guy scowled as he climbed into the carriage beside Strathairn. “So, you and your cronies lost sight of me, John?”
“There’d be the devil to pay if we did, Guy. We had no intention of it. Several of our men followed you. You could not have escaped us.”
Guy huffed out a tired laugh. “No sense in telling Hetty that.”
“Might be wise not to reveal all of it. I fear it might encourage her, should you wish to continue to work for us?”
“No chance of that.” Guy grimaced. “Hetty will be in a terrible fix though when she arrives home in that state. Her aunt will be livid.”
“You’ll have to put things right.”
Guy frowned. “Can you drop me off in King Street?”
“I’ll be pleased to. We’ll discuss this evening’s events later.”
When they arrived outside her aunt’s townhouse, it was in darkness apart from one lighted window upstairs. “She may have been able to sneak in unobserved. I won’t be thanked for knocking on the door. I’ll go first thing in the morning. I’m for a bath, a Cognac, and a few hours’ rest.”
John stretched out his legs and sighed. “An excellent idea.”
Knowing Hetty was safe, Guy enjoyed being back in the luxurious surroundings of John’s home. He lay back in the bath in his chamber and let the warm water soothe his tight muscles. Might this business be at an end? They must capture the French count, but even if they failed, he was now alone, his web of spies in prison awaiting trial. While Hobson fussed around him, Guy’s thoughts returned to Hetty. He admired her spirit and her quick thinking, but her rashness worried him. Once married, it seemed his life would continue its unpredictable course. He was more than ready for a quiet life. She had only leapt to his defense. And though he loved her, he worried that he might not be able to give her the life she craved. He didn’t want to crush her spirit. She had been unhappy in Digswell. Water mixed with blood as he stepped from the bath into the towel his valet held for him.
Hobson peered at him. “Why, my lord, you have a fresh wound in your side.”
“It’s just a scratch, Hobson. But you may dress it for me.”
When he and Smith had grappled for the pistol, it fired. The bullet struck Smith in the shoulder. Guy had attempted to staunch the flow of blood gushing from Smith’s wound with his handkerchief. Unfortunately, the big bounder had pulled a knife and slashed clean through Guy’s waistcoat and shirt, the blade finding his ribs.
Hobson shook his head. “Might need a couple of stitches, my lord.”
“I doubt it, Hobson. It’s not deep. Please wrap a bandage around it. Then I’m for bed.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The next morning, she dressed carefully in a white muslin morning gown and entered the breakfast room, heavy-eyed from little sleep. She resisted rubbing her eyes and seated herself at the table. Her father put down the newspaper. “I intend to return home after luncheon.”
She straightened and eyed him cautiously. “Oh, will you? I’m sorry your visit has been so brief and so—”
His chest swelled with indignation. “You are to return to Digswell with me, Horatia. I have no intention of leaving you here. London is a den of iniquity. It is a miracle you were not hurt or worse. I shall not trust to luck that you’ll remain so.”
His tone softened when he saw tears gather at the corners of her eyes. “My concern is for your safety, my dear. I could not endure it if you died before me.”
“Guy and I planned to wed soon. If he’s…” She fought a fervent desire to dissolve into hysterics.
“I also need
to think about your wedding, Horatia. I was pleased when the baron offered for you. But now I see there was some ulterior motive. That you have been supporting him in some dangerous endeavor.”
“Yes, but all that has changed. We love each another, Papa.” She wished she was able to inject some enthusiasm into her voice, but she wasn’t entirely sure that Guy still felt the same way, and the mention of a wife still hovered in her mind. She needed him to come and reassure her that it wasn’t true, and nothing had changed.
“I’ve sent a note off to Eustace. I wish to discuss this matter with him.”
Her hands clenched in her lap. “Yes, Papa.”
It appeared that, at this moment, Eustace was the only ally she had, and she hoped he might persuade her father to allow her to remain here. She would not leave until she’d heard from Guy. Was he hurt? Was there already a baroness in France? So many unanswered questions filled her mind, she feared it was in danger of exploding.
“And there’s this matter of a Truesdale being buried in a rather rushed manner in the Fortescue crypt. I wasn’t aware that the baron had any relatives living in England.”
“It was Guy’s twin brother, Vincent. He’d just arrived from France when he had an accident. He fell down the stairs at Rosecroft Hall.”
“How tragic! Everyone was speaking of it in the village.”
It was fortunate that Lady Kemble was away from Digswell, for she would have made it her business to uncover the truth.
“So, Guy is now in mourning, poor fellow, and may not wish to marry so soon.” He pushed back his chair. “You need to eat a good breakfast, Hetty. Everything will seem brighter on a full stomach.”
Left alone at the table, Hetty pushed buttered eggs around her plate. She couldn’t eat it if her life depended on it.
“Perhaps some toast, Miss Hetty?” Sarah asked as she poured Hetty another cup of tea.
“Yes, thank you Sarah. And thank you for doing my hair so nicely.”
“It’s my pleasure. Such lovely hair you have.”
Hetty nodded with a vague smile. That awful villain called her a carroty-patted harridan, last night, when she feared for her life. The milkman’s son had once told her that witches had red hair. “If a witch puts a spell on you,” he went on to explain, “the only way to remove it is to take an item of clothing which is worn close to the witch’s skin and burn it in the place where she was born.” He annoyed her so much Hetty threatened to put a spell on him.
The color of her hair would never concern her again. She sniffed. As long as Guy liked it. Guy! A tremor passed through her. She would not relax until she saw his dear face again and knew that he was all right.
*
Guy woke and groaned. He felt as if he’d been trampled underfoot by a herd of cattle. Then the night’s disastrous dealings came back to him, along with the pain in his side. The wound appeared to be deeper than he’d first thought and bled in the night.
After breakfast, he visited a physician who put in several stitches and bandaged the wound again, warning him to rest. “You were lucky, sir, an inch deeper…” He shook his head.
Guy shrugged painfully into his coat. A knife wound didn’t bother him overmuch, but he shuddered when he recalled how close Hetty came to being thrown into the Thames. And his sister, too, who behaved with such bravery he wasn’t sure whether to scold her or embrace her. He would call on her later this afternoon. With all that had been going on since she’d arrived in London, he’d had very little time to enjoy having her with him again. She was his one connection to that happy time in France before everything came to such a brutal end.
On the way to King Street, he reflected soberly on the whirlwind months since he’d come to England. Vincent’s reappearance and subsequent death left him bitter with disappointment and sadness. Eustace’s distrust of him rankled, and he’d been bailed up by footpads, shot at by highwaymen, and thrown into a den of mad conspirators, escaping by the skin of his teeth. Any desire for excitement had vanished, and at this moment, it seemed entirely possible it would never return.
His nerves stretched thin, he longed for a quiet life at Rosecroft Hall. There was so much there he looked forward to getting started with, and he didn’t wish to spend another season in London anytime soon. The grouse shoot and some hunting would provide ample excitement.
He wasn’t sure how much Hetty’s father and Aunt Emily knew. If they’d been told, they would be justifiably angry having put their trust in him. It would require great diplomacy to put things to rights.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hetty was slumped in the chair toying with a piece of toast and strawberry jam when her aunt entered the breakfast room. “Try to eat a little more, Hetty. Cook says you sent back the buttered eggs untouched.”
Hetty shook her head. “I won’t, thank you, Aunt. I seem to have lost my appetite. Are you angry with me, too?”
“I’m dismayed, my dear. I have not been vigilant enough. And I believe your ardent nature has led you astray.”
“I hope Guy is all right,” Hetty whispered. “It was dreadful, Aunt.”
“Your father told me very little about what happened last night. I’m not sure I wish to learn the whole.”
Hetty firmed her lips. It wasn’t fair to draw her aunt into this when all she wanted was a quiet life. It occurred to Hetty that Aunt Emily would never have fought for her lover. Her aunt had a gentle nature evident in her contemplative poems, which lacked the spontaneity of Burns or the passion of Byron. Nor did she suffer Hetty’s impatience, which right now made her want to hire a hackney and go to Guy.
Eustace arrived before luncheon. He hurried in with a worried expression and gave Hetty a reassuring hug before her father ushered him, along with her aunt, into the small room she called her bookroom. The three of them had been closeted there for half an hour when Genevieve appeared at the door, her eyes wide with distress. “Those men sent me home. What happened?”
“Have you heard from Guy?” Hetty asked.
“Non!”
With an eye on the bookroom door, Hetty drew the duchess into the parlor. She gave Genevieve a potted version of the evening’s events, leaving out any mention of the pistol shot she’d heard.
Perhaps her voice had given her away, for Genevieve pursed her lips and frowned. “But Gee… Is he all right?”
“I hope so.” Hetty cast her eyes down. “Father is taking me back to the country in a few hours. I doubt I’ll be allowed to visit London again for years.”
“You are betrothed to Gee, are you not?” A look of horror tightened the duchess’s features. “Your father blames him for this?”
“No. Father is furious with me.”
“Pourquoi?”
“He saw how I was dressed. I had to tell him.”
“Oh. Then I am sorry.”
“It cannot be helped.” Hetty eyed her carefully. “Those men spoke of a Baroness Fortescue who lives in Paris.”
She looked puzzled. “Maman died many years ago.”
“No, Guy’s wife.”
Genevieve’s eyebrows rose. “But Gee has no wife.”
Hope took root in Hetty’s breast. “Might he have married and not told you?”
Genevieve glowered. “Non!”
“Then perhaps she is Vincent’s wife.”
“Then she is not the baroness,” Genevieve said with a fierce shake of her head. “Vincent lied to her.”
Hetty had always known in her heart it couldn’t be true. “She should be informed that her husband is dead.”
“Gee will write to her. And I will visit the poor woman when I return to France.”
At the rap on the door, the frazzled maid rushed along the passage to open it again. Hetty jumped up as her aunt emerged from the bookroom to greet the next visitor.
“Lord Fortescue!” her aunt exclaimed. Her heart racing, Hetty grinned at Genevieve, whose eyes danced with relief and anticipation. They both rushed to find Guy divesting himself of his hat and coat. He lo
oked entirely whole, and his usual unflappable self.
Her first thought was to throw herself into his arms, but she held back. On closer inspection, he seemed reserved and rather distant. Had he not forgiven her for her interference? She wanted him to, desperately, even if they failed to marry.
Genevieve didn’t suffer any such hesitation. With a flood of incomprehensible French, she gripped her brother’s waistcoat and peered up at him. “I talked Hetty into following you last night, Gee. It was me. I brought the clothes.”
Guy winced and eased her away. “That was rash of you, Genevieve.”
Hetty saw the pain in his eyes. “Guy! You’re hurt,” she cried.
Before Guy could respond, Hetty’s father and Eustace entered the parlor.
“Might I have a word, my lord?” her father asked.
Hetty’s rush toward the bookroom was abruptly halted when her father held up his hand. “Alone!”
Hetty wished she could place her ear against the library door, but with Genevieve and Eustace beside her, she was forced to remain in her seat.
She suspected that when Genevieve put her mind to it, she could charm any male living. She sat beside Eustace and patted his hand while sympathizing with him about his gout in her Gallic manner. Eustace, who was on close speaking terms with the Regent no less, was flushed with a foolish smile.
At least the problem of Guy’s claim to the title had been put to rest with Genevieve’s arrival, Hetty thought, turning back to the library door. Her aunt had gone to consult the cook, expressing the notion that when everyone had said their piece, they would be hungry.
*
Disappointment was writ large on Colonel Cavendish’s face. Closeted in a room piled high with tomes, he was at pains to express his displeasure without offending Guy.
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