A Crime of Manners

by Rosemary Stevens

  Still unmollified, the squire asked, “Are you not

  thinking of the expense, Mrs. Lanford? Why, I could

  expand the stables, improve on the lower pasture.”

  For once, Mrs. Lanford’s ambitions were solely for her daughter. “Nonsense. It will be horribly dear, naturally, for Clara will need funds for Henrietta to have a complete new wardrobe, pin money, and oh, any number of costly things. And a decent dowry must be offered. But you are not thinking, Mr. Lanford! It is our duty to see our daughter married well.”

  There was no argument to that statement. The

  squire heaved a great sigh and said, “Yes, I suppose you’re right, m’dear. Well, it’s off to Town you go then, Henrietta. See that you know what is owed us after all the care we have given you over the years.” Wagging a finger at his daughter, the squire admonished, “If you play your cards right, you might just snare a gentleman from the Four in Hand Club.”

  With this speech, the squire considered his duty done and took himself off to sit in front of the library fire with a copy of Pick’s Racing Calendar. Mrs. Lanford went to her desk to write Lady Fuddlesby that she was to bring out her niece, and Henrietta floated up the stairs to her bedchamber to dream about her imaginary beau who now wore the Duke of Winterton’s face.

  * * * *

  Several days later, at Lady Fuddlesby’s town house in Grosvenor Square, a cat walked up the stairs with a letter clamped in his jaw. He was an unusual looking animal. Stark white with a black tail, he had a wedge of black that extended across his eyes, quite like a domino mask.

  A push with his shoulder opened Lady Fuddlesby’s bedchamber door, always left ajar for just this purpose. He swaggered across the room to where the lady, seated at her toilet table, applied rouge with a light hand to her round cheeks.

  The soft pink of the cosmetic matched the decor of her ladyship’s apartments. Most of the gowns in her wardrobe were of that same hue, pink being her favorite and most becoming color.

  Unlike her horse-mad sister, Clara, Lady Fuddlesby was all that was feminine. She could lay claim to great beauty in her youth and, despite the addition of thirty unwanted pounds, was still attractive at three and fifty.

  “Oh, my dearest Knight, whatever have you there?” she asked, eyeing the parchment now dented with fang marks.

  Knight in Masked Armour, for that was his full name, stood on his hind legs and dropped the missive in Lady Fuddlesby’s plump lap.

  Breaking the seal, she said, “A letter from my younger sister. How singular! One wonders how she found the time away from her horses.”

  Lady Fuddlesby perused the lines, clucking her tongue and emitting an occasional gasp. Knight sat at her feet in a patch of afternoon sunlight, his tail twitching with interest.

  “Oh dear, oh dear. We are to have company, Knight. My niece, Henrietta. You have never met her, for she has spent her life isolated in the country, the poor dear. Goodness, she may arrive tomorrow!”

  Perhaps in understanding of this bit of intelligence, and loath to share Lady Fuddlesby’s attentions with anyone, Knight turned his whiskers down. It had just been the two of them these past five years, unless one counted a house full of servants. Viscount Fuddlesby had died of an apoplexy one evening at White’s, over a particularly unfortunate hand of cards.

  At the viscount’s death, Lady Fuddlesby had been obliged to pay off his excessive gambling debts. While she was left with the town house, and a sufficient but not large income, she found the cost of living in London and being in Society to be exorbitant. A more clever woman might have managed well, but while Lady Fuddlesby had a kind heart, she was somewhat lacking in judgment when it came to practicalities and economies.

  “Well, it seems my sister has made a mull of it. I shall be obliged to introduce the gel to Society and find her a husband. Oh dear, oh dear, I do hope she’s in looks. It does make finding an eligible parti easier if one has beauty, especially when one is a mere squire’s daughter.”

  A furrow that had appeared between Lady Fuddlesby’s brows eased. “I daresay I shall come about, Knight. After all, a generous draft on Mr. Lanford’s bank is included, so we needn’t worry the cost, and oh, I am sure Henrietta is a delight since her mama deplores her lack of interest in horses. It will be quite as if I had a child of my own.”

  At these last words, a reproachful meow came from Knight’s throat.

  “Oh! Forgive me, my darling boy,” Lady Fuddles-by cried. She reached down to scratch behind Knight’s ears, bringing an expression of intense contentment to his masked face.

  Lady Fuddlesby straightened in her chair. In her mind she began to go over the upcoming Season’s list of eligibles. She did not get far in these musings before the Duke of Winterton’s name cried out in her brain.

  No! Flying much too high, she thought. Still, how wonderful it would be, after all these years.

  Clara had made her come-out the same year as Lady Matilda Danvers. They both had been drawn to the seventh Duke of Winterton. Matilda had won him, though, since she had been an earl’s daughter, while Clara was only a plain miss.

  Forgetting almost thirty years of a comfortable marriage to Viscount Fuddlesby, Lady Fuddlesby grew agitated at the memory of her defeat.

  How gratifying it would be if she could bring about a match between her niece and the present Duke of Winterton. Perhaps she would send him a card, asking him to call ... but she would have to see the girl first and be sure she dressed in the first stare of fashion, and...

  “Oh, Knight,” Lady Fuddlesby said, pressing her fingers to her temples, “I fear I am bringing on one of my headaches with all this thinking.”

  Knight sauntered over to her ladyship’s bed, jumped up on the pink coverlet, turned around clockwise three times, lay down, and closed his eyes.

  “My dear boy,” Lady Fuddlesby crooned as she crossed the room and prepared to lie down next to the sleeping cat, “you always know what to do. A nap, of course, is just the thing to put me to rights.”

  Chapter Two

  It is a sad fact that not all journeys to London go as smoothly as that of the Duke of Winterton and Sir Polly Grey.

  Henrietta, with Megan along to lend her consequence, set out from home on a sunny, if cold, March day. There was no one to see them off except Cook. Mrs. Lanford was already down at the stables with the Squire, feeling her part in her daughter’s removal to Town was complete after writing to Lady Fuddlesby.

  In keeping with the fickle English weather, on the second day of their travels the skies clouded and snow began to fall. At first it fell in thick white flakes that melted as they reached the ground. By late afternoon the wind picked up and the snow changed to a swirling mass that obscured the view from the windows of the squire’s traveling coach.

  “Do but look, miss.” Megan’s eyes were round with fright. “I wonder how Ben can see where he’s drivin’ us.”

  Henrietta wondered the same thing but was not about to voice her fears in front of the maid. “I am certain we shall be perfectly safe, Megan.”

  Henrietta could see her breath in front of her when she spoke, the cold having claimed the interior of the coach. Both girls were dressed warmly and wrapped in carriage rugs. Henrietta wore a dark blue wool pelisse over an old-fashioned gown of paler blue. Her hair was tucked up under a matching bonnet that framed her face.

  As the women stared out at the storm, the coach pulled to the side of the road and stopped. Henrietta saw Ben’s ruddy face at the window and she lowered the glass, letting in a gust of snow.

  “I can’t go on much further, miss. The snow’s not deep on the roads yet, but I can barely see as far as the horses’ heads. I know of an inn up ahead and that’s where we’re goin’, with your permission,” he said, tugging a forelock.

  “I shall be grateful if you can get us there, Ben,” Henrietta said, shivering.

  The coach set off again, and a short time later Megan exclaimed, “I can make out some lights. I’m that glad, miss, as I can
hardly feel my feet from the cold.”

  They pulled up in front of an establishment that proclaimed itself to be the Pig and Thistle. Several carriages were in the yard, other travelers lured by the promise of relief from the elements. When Ben came back to help her down, Henrietta made note of an especially fine coach with a crest on its door. Ben went to see to the horses and avail himself of some gin and hot food while Henrietta, Megan behind her, went inside.

  The warmth of the inn was almost painful to Henrietta’s numb hands and feet. Looking inside to the crowded coffee room, she could see a large, welcoming fire burning brightly. The atmosphere was as festive as the gathering of people under a common adversity can be. The fact that everyone was drinking heavily added to the air of gaiety.

  She stepped up to the counter and briskly addressed the wiry landlord. “Good afternoon. I require a room for myself and my maid for the night.”

  “I’ve no rooms left ’cause of the storm,” he said sternly, looking at her provincial pelisse with disdain.

  Henrietta could scarcely believe her ears. What on earth were they to do?

  Across the coffee room, Viscount Baddick sat with Mr. Andrew Snively. Mr. Snively was one of those creatures just on the fringe of Society. His acceptance came chiefly from the fact he was cheerfully willing to sit down at the green baize with anyone. As he was an addicted gamester, winning or losing was rarely of consequence to him. He was not above stealing to support his pleasures when his funds were low; the lure of an elderly aunt’s jewel box had precipitated his journey to her country house.

  “What brings you to the country, Baddick?” he asked, idly toying with his brandy glass. “Surely all the women in Town haven’t closed their legs to you?”

  Viscount Baddick amused himself with Mr. Snively’s company because they were both stuck at the inn. In Town, while he would never give Snively the cut direct, he sought his company infrequently since the viscount rarely gambled on cards. Women were the viscount’s vice.

  “Indeed not,” Lord Baddick replied with a half grin. “I simply felt the need for some country air and have been at my estate.”

  “Rusticating? Now, which lady could have sent you out of Town?” Mr. Snively wondered aloud. “The demireps or even those bored widows you favor wouldn’t kick up any dust over a broken promise or an abrupt leave-taking.”

  Lord Baddick ignored the question and heaved a bored sigh. “I have developed the most awful ennui, Snively. Challenge is what I crave.” He leaned forward confidingly, a gleam coming into his hazel eyes. “I find a fresh conquest more exhilarating.”

  A frown appeared between Mr. Snively’s brows. “You can’t mean a young virgin.” At the viscount’s answering smile, Mr. Snively warned, “You’d best have a care. Else an avenging father or brother will come after you with a set of dueling pistols.”

  Lord Baddick tossed off his brandy. “I am accounted an excellent shot,” he lied. Quite the coward, he took the greatest of pains to be certain no woman he bedded had anyone to call him to account.

  “Do you remember a quiet little thing named Lady Honoria Farrow?” the viscount asked in the manner of one about to impart some titillating information.

  “Vaguely.” Mr. Snively paused, then said, “Yes, in Town with her widowed mama for her second Season.” Mr. Snively’s eyes widened as the truth struck him. “Never say you ...”

  Lord Baddick’s eyes shone with an unholy light. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You would be amazed, Andrew, at how very simple it was. I was careful with my pursuit under the watchful eyes of the tabbies of the ton. I managed to inveigle an invitation to her home in the country for the holidays. A few promises—girls are so stupid, you know—and she gave me a delectable present on Christmas Eve.” Lord Baddick concluded this lurid tale with an evil grin.

  Mr. Snively laughed appreciatively, but even one with morals as low as his inwardly shuddered for the ruined girl.

  Lord Baddick failed to mention how wide he had been forced to open his purse to quiet the crying girl and her outraged mama. Being extremely rich, this was no hardship. But it had been a near thing. He did not like the look in Lady Farrow’s eye as he took his leave, hence his prudent stay in the country. He was only now returning to London.

  As he glanced up, Lord Baddick’s attention was caught by a young girl in apparent distress, exchanging words with the landlord. “See you in Town, Snively,” he said dismissively before rising and walking across the room to investigate how he might turn the situation to his advantage.

  Henrietta stood before the counter glaring at the landlord in outrage. “You are going to turn us out into this weather and you say there is no other hostelry nearby?” she demanded, anger bringing color to her cheeks.

  The landlord appeared unmoved, but before he could reply, a gentleman placed a number of gold coins in front of him, saying, “A room for the lady.”

  Suddenly the landlord was all-obliging. “No, miss, I would never do such a thing. I have just the room for ye and yer maid. I’ll have the missus make it ready.”

  “Do go to the kitchens, Megan, and get yourself something hot to drink and eat. I will see you upstairs,” Henrietta instructed in a low voice. She waited until Megan bobbed a curtsy and hurried away, before turning to her rescuer.

  This fashionably dressed gentleman was surely the owner of the coach with the crest she had seen outside. He was tall and golden-haired, and his hazel eyes studied her with a frank and open look. He wore a bottle-green coat with gold buttons over doeskin breeches and glossy black Hessian boots.

  Before she could say a word, he held up a hand in a forestalling gesture. “I beg your indulgence for a moment, my lady. I am aware that we have yet to be introduced and I have been, one might say, presumptuous. Observing your plight from the warmth of the coffee room, I could not, in good conscience, have allowed you and your maid to be put out in such horrid weather. You would not have my reputation as a gentleman called into question over so paltry a matter as an exchange of names. I am Baddick, by the way.” A disarming smile ended this gallant speech.

  Henrietta did not know where to look. He had called her “my lady,” mistaking her station in life.

  For once, the Practical Henrietta and the Fantasy Henrietta were in complete agreement. Lord Baddick was most attractive and had indeed behaved as a gentleman. His easy manner persuaded her there was no harm in him. It was true he had saved her from an unthinkable situation and deserved her gratitude.

  She dropped a curtsy. “You are most kind, my lord. I am Miss Henrietta Lanford of Hamilton Cross. I am on my way to London and this dreadful storm halted my progress.”

  Lord Baddick bowed. “Your servant, Miss Lanford. What a happy coincidence! I, too, am on my way to Town after taking care of estate business. But please, allow me to escort you into the coffee room. I am persuaded you must be hungry after your ordeal, and I would see you comfortable by the fire.”

  She hesitated only a moment before permitting him to lead her to a small table. He had them served with a game pie, vegetables, potatoes, apricot tartlets, and wine.

  Henrietta removed her gloves and began to eat. She was famished, having eaten nothing since breakfast. Soon, feeling relaxed from food, wine, and Lord Baddick’s polite conversation, she dropped her guard, and the two continued talking easily on a variety of subjects.

  While smoothly keeping up his end of the conversation, the viscount’s mind raced. This gullible dab of a little thing was exactly the sort he craved. Furthermore, he recalled purchasing a racehorse from Squire Lanford some three years past. Although the viscount would never acknowledge it, his own ill management of the horse resulted in the animal’s poor performance at the racetrack. Lord Baddick had returned the horse to the squire, who’d given him a jaw-me-dead over the horse’s condition. The angry squire had gone so far as to declare Lord Baddick was the sort of man who would shoot a fox.

  Twirling the brandy in his glass, the viscount decided the seduction of Miss
Lanford would have the added bonus of serving as a small measure of revenge against the squire. “Are you to make your come-out this Season, Miss Lanford? If so, I must have your promise to save a dance for me. Otherwise, with your fresh beauty and becoming manners, I fear I shall be quite cut out.”

  This piece of flattery was offered in such a good-natured, friendly way, it could not possibly offend. It was a heady experience for Henrietta to command the sole attention of an exquisitely dressed and well-bred man of the world.

  “Yes, I am to stay with my aunt, Lady Fuddlesby. And after your service to me today, my lord, you may have your pick of dances.” She giggled at him sleepily as she had drunk more wine than she was accustomed to taking.

  Lord Baddick smiled tenderly into her eyes. “I own myself the luckiest of men.”

  Better and better, he thought. Really, this was a temptation he could not let pass him by. Lady Fuddlesby was of the bon ton, but a scatterbrain and an Original. She drove in the park with her cat on the seat beside her! His pulses quickened as a picture flashed in his mind of Miss Lanford underneath him in bed.

  As the hour was late, Henrietta could not conceal a yawn.

  Lord Baddick struck his chest with his hand. “I am the worst of men, Miss Lanford. Here I am keeping you to myself when you must be exhausted and only wishing for your bed. Should traveling be possible tomorrow and I not have the pleasure of seeing you before you leave, may I call on you in Town?”

  “I should like it above all things,” Henrietta assured him demurely.

  They parted on the best of terms and Henrietta went upstairs to find her room. She opened the door on a comfortable chamber with chintz hangings on the bed and at the window. Megan was nearly asleep in a trundle bed, but rose to help her mistress out of her gown and into her nightdress before stoking the fire and going to sleep.

  Henrietta pushed aside the curtains at the frosty window to look out. The storm was over and stars shone on the white landscape. It did not look as if a great deal of snow was on the ground, and it was likely they would get away tomorrow after all.