A Crime of Manners

by Rosemary Stevens

  Lady Fuddlesby, in a rose-colored gown with matching pelisse, replied with a little laugh, “Can you not feel his gaze boring into your back from the fireplace mantel?”

  Knight sat perched on his favorite people-watching post. His tail swished dangerously close to a Sevres vase while he stared at the colonel, murder in his eyes.

  Colonel Colchester turned around and addressed the cat. “I have brought you something, my brave soldier.” He opened a bag he held and produced a small dish. Removing the cover, the colonel walked slowly over to the cat. “You do like fresh lobster, don’t you, Knight?”

  Knight did indeed.

  Colonel Colchester watched with satisfaction when he placed the dish on the floor, and the black and white cat jumped down from the mantel. Barely glancing at the gift-bearing colonel, the cat consumed the treat eagerly.

  “Sir, what a shameless bribe! And so on target as well. Dear Knight never deigns to touch the ordinary fish head. He insists on table food, and I admit I indulge him,” Lady Fuddlesby said, chuckling appreciatively.

  Henrietta could not suppress a ripple of laughter and thought she detected a gleam of humor in the duke’s eyes. The tension in the room seemed to lessen.

  Colonel Colchester said, “Perhaps my unprincipled methods will serve to win him over. I do not wish to count him as my enemy,” he finished, directing a look at Lady Fuddlesby that brought color to the lady’s cheeks.

  Winterton drawled, “If you ladies are ready, we should be on our way. I do not like to keep my cattle standing.”

  The party moved out to the duke’s waiting closed carriage, which was as luxurious as Lady Fuddlesby predicted. A footman hurried to assist the ladies into the conveyance. Henrietta and Lady Fuddlesby sat on one side of the leather seats. To Henrietta’s consternation, the duke sat opposite her, his long legs stretched out in front of him, brushing her skirts. The colonel sat across from Lady Fuddlesby.

  When they moved off, the colonel and Lady Fuddlesby began a conversation about Knight. Lady Fuddlesby told the story of how she had rescued the dear little fellow, one day in the park when he was just a kitten, while he was being tortured by four small boys.

  Only part of Henrietta’s attention was on the discussion. The other part of her mind was busy commanding her body to relax and stop being assailed with unwanted feelings at Winterton’s proximity. She had been mortified to learn he, along with his godfather, was to escort them to the breakfast. But she was astute enough by now to realize that it could only be advantageous to be seen in his company after the shameful doings of the previous evening. If only her heart would cease this useless longing.

  For his part, the duke sat back, his lids half-closed, wishing he were elsewhere. He thought over the conversation he’d had with his godfather that morning.

  The colonel had come to Giles’s bedchamber to find him sitting up in bed reading the morning paper. “My boy, I have offered our escort to Lady Fuddlesby and Miss Lanford to the Peabodys’ breakfast today.” At the duke’s disbelieving look, the colonel held up his hands in a defensive gesture. “It was done before the events of last night, and it would be unforgivable to withdraw the invitation at this late date.”

  The duke sighed and folded the newspaper.

  “Lady Fuddlesby is a good woman, but her niece wants conduct.”

  “Miss Lanford is young, spirited, and learning her way. If her actions at Almack’s did display a lapse from proper behavior, it can be no excuse for lowering your own standard for good manners,” the colonel reminded him.

  Sir Polly Grey paused in the middle of eating a breakfast of seeds and apricots to remark in the seventh Duke of Winterton’s voice, “Good manners and good breeding.”

  The duke pointedly ignored the bird. He didn’t want to think of the breach from his usual superb conduct when he had shouted “Minx” after Miss Lanford.

  “Very well, sir, we will keep the commitment. But I hope you will refrain from putting me together with Miss Lanford in the future. I tried to do my duty by her, warning her of that loose screw Baddick, and she refused to listen. After today, I want nothing more to do with the girl. I am in Town to find a wife, if possible. And I need not tell you that when I marry, it will be to some lady of excellent birth. Not some blue-eyed chit from a horse farm.”

  Now, as the carriage bowled along, Winterton noticed the dark shadows underneath Miss Lanford’s blue eyes. Guilty conscience kept her awake last night, he thought with satisfaction.

  Then his attention was abruptly caught as an astonishing sight met his eyes. Outside the carriage window was Sir Polly Grey’s frantic face. He flew alongside the glass, obviously trying to come to the notice of his master.

  Winterton rapped his stick on the roof. “Hold hard!” he shouted. Then he muttered, “That bird is a Bedlamite. What notion could he have taken into his feathered head now?”

  When the carriage slowed to a stop, the duke threw open the door and swiftly jumped down, ignoring the startled exclamations of his fellow travelers.

  Sir Polly Grey had been in the room during the duke’s conversation with the colonel that morning. When Winterton had, for the first time, uttered the word “marry,” the bird had opened his beak in an expectant manner.

  The old duke, training the parrot to speak his lecture about his son’s need to marry, had often rewarded the bird with the special treat of hothouse grapes when Sir Polly Grey had successfully repeated the phrases. Hence, oftentimes the old duke would say, “Yes, Sir Polly, Giles needs to marry,” while offering the prized grapes.

  Winterton, of course, not knowing of this ritual, had not produced any grapes after saying the word “marry” despite indignant, squawking protests from the parrot. Sir Polly Grey apparently decided to follow his master, anxious to get his treat.

  It had been a simple matter to unlock his cage door. Indeed, he had done so often in the past when he wished to exercise his wings. From there, the window latch proved amusingly simple, and he had flown out high above the trees following the duke.

  He had followed the carriage unobserved until the unexpectedly long flight grew tiring. They were well outside Town.

  The duke, standing on the ground looking up toward the bird, held out his hand in the manner of a perch for Sir Polly Grey. He wondered how the parrot had managed to escape the confines of his cage and find a way out of the town house.

  Fortunately, the grateful bird came to him at once and the two entered the carriage.

  Winterton gave the office to move forward. There followed some confusion when Sir Polly Grey flew over to land on Henrietta’s hat, pecking excitedly at the artificial grapes ornamenting it.

  “Oh, your grace, he is beautiful!” Henrietta exclaimed. She let loose a trill of laughter while the duke quickly removed the parrot from her bonnet before harm could be done.

  Blue eyes shining with pleasure, she asked excitedly, “Is he yours? Was he actually following us? May I hold him?”

  “I suppose I must admit the scoundrel belongs to me. But I doubt if he will come to a stranger; these birds are known to be mistrustful....” He trailed off as Henrietta held out her hand in imitation of the way the duke made a perch out of his hand, and Sir Polly Grey promptly hopped over.

  Henrietta gasped with obvious enjoyment. “Oh, he is lighter than I thought he would be, but his claws are so strong! Do but look how very lovely he is!”

  Lady Fuddlesby and the colonel added their admiring comments, but the duke’s gaze was transfixed by the sight of the girl opposite him. She looked so fresh and innocent. Her delight in the bird charmed him. Her lips puckered while she tried to chirp back to the parrot, which was chattering bird nonsense. Shocking himself, the duke experienced a strong desire to kiss Miss Lanford’s pink lips.

  The colonel interrupted these unsettling thoughts. “Er, don’t you think it might be wise to place some sort of covering on Miss Lanford’s clothing, in case Sir Polly has to, er, well, we wouldn’t want Miss Lanford’s pelisse soiled....”<
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  “Yes, good idea,” the duke replied. He pulled out his handkerchief, reached over, and spread it out on Henrietta’s lap. Her wide blue eyes met his silvery gaze, and neither looked away. Long moments passed while the duke attempted to master an unfamiliar desire to protect and cherish Miss Lanford.

  Henrietta desperately tried to discern the meaning behind the duke’s eyes, which were now a stormy gray color. She felt a slender, delicate thread begin to form between them, and she glowed inside in the shared moment.

  Colonel Colchester observed the couple, and flashed Lady Fuddlesby a speaking look.

  The spell was broken when suddenly the parrot saw the handkerchief and erupted into loud sounds of nose-blowing.

  Everyone dissolved into whoops. Even the duke was laughing helplessly. When again in control of himself, he explained, “My father, who owned the bird for ten years, suffered from sneezing fits. Parrots have an excellent memory and they can produce sounds in their proper context. Hence, the use for a handkerchief was not lost on this intelligent fellow.”

  The remainder of the drive passed in congenial conversation about the amazing bird, although not once did Sir Polly Grey speak in the seventh Duke of Winterton’s voice.

  When they arrived at the Peabodys’, the duke gave instructions to a servant regarding food for the parrot. “Some fruit will serve. I seem to recall he is especially fond of grapes.”

  The duke then charged his driver with securing some type of carton that might be used to transport Sir Polly Grey back to Park Lane in a borrowed gig.

  The day was chilly, but the sun shone and there

  was no wind. Long tables laid with white cloths and laden with food had been set up beside an ornamental lake. The duke bowed to Lady Peabody and Betina but avoided the vulgar pair.

  The gathering was large. Society stared to see Miss Lanford and her aunt arrive, obviously in charity with the Duke of Winterton and his godfather after the scene at Almack’s the night before.

  Lady Clorinda was present with her parents. She relished the jealous looks cast at her by the ladies of the ton who felt she had snatched the matrimonial prize of the Season. Made confident by the duke’s marked attentions paid to her at Almack’s Clorinda barely held her fury in check when Winterton arrived at the Peabodys’ with Miss Henrietta Lanford. Clorinda’s face, however, was a beautiful mask as she tripped up to them dressed in the thinnest of muslins.

  “Giles!” she cried happily, placing her hand on the duke’s arm possessively. Then, seeming to realize the impropriety of this overly familiar behavior, she blushed adorably. “I meant to say, your grace, of course.” Much fluttering of eyelashes and a thrusting chest accompanied this correction.

  The duke felt somehow relieved to see Lady Clorinda despite her improper use of his name. Somewhere in his mind the voice of duty assured him that Lady Clorinda was of appropriate rank, and possessed a sizable fortune, not to mention her bosom. She was a suitable choice for his duchess. Another, quieter, voice said there was something about her that rang false. That Miss Henrietta Lanford was the true lady. But he had lived his life according to the dictates of his sense of duty, and old habits die hard.

  To Henrietta’s disgust, the duke smiled down at

  Lady Clorinda, who promptly began an intimate conversation with him that required his full attention. Henrietta looked about the crowds for Lord Baddick.

  The viscount saw Miss Lanford and disengaged himself from a flirtatious conversation with a recent widow. He hailed Henrietta, wondering if the time was right to put his plans into action.

  “Miss Lanford, Lady Fuddlesby, your servant,” he said, arriving to stand before the ladies and sketching a bow. “How enchanting you look in lilac, Miss Lanford! Won’t you take my arm and walk with me a little?” Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a suspicious look from the Duke of Winterton and felt a qualm of unease. He dismissed it, believing the duke’s interest would not be held by a mere squire’s daughter.

  As the party moved toward the food tables, Lord Baddick and Henrietta dropped back and followed at a leisurely pace. Holding out his arm for her, Lord Baddick saw with satisfaction the dark shadows underneath Henrietta’s eyes. He began speaking in a low, comforting voice. “I could not rest last night, thinking of your humiliation at Winterton’s hands. You, who are all that is innocent and good, should be protected from such as him.”

  Henrietta shuddered inwardly at the memory of her childish behavior at Almack’s. “My lord,” she said quietly, “you are most kind, but I beg you to speak of other matters.”

  Lord Baddick, secretly pleased his prey continued in a vulnerable state, placed his gloved hand over hers and squeezed it lightly. “Forgive me, fairest one. Believe that it is my greatest desire you should forget the entire incident. Allow me to obtain a plate of delicacies for you. Something to eat and drink will help restore your spirits.” He led them to the table where people milled about, chatting and nibbling food.

  Of its own volition, Henrietta’s gaze sought the duke. He stood with Lady Clorinda and her parents, Lord and Lady Mawbly. Lady Fuddlesby and Colonel Colchester were nearby. As Lord Baddick selected foods from the table, Henrietta idly noticed Lord Mawbly break away from the little group and walk over to Lady Fuddlesby. A puzzled frown appeared between Henrietta’s brows as Lord Mawbly and Lady Fuddlesby moved away to conduct a private conversation, and the duke stepped up to his godfather, taking the lady’s place. Lord Baddick returned to her side, offering her a filled plate, and she turned her attention to him.

  Across the lawn, Lady Fuddlesby waited for Lord Mawbly to state his business. She was impatient at this interruption from an affable conversation with the colonel.

  “Lady Fuddlesby, thank you for sparing me a few moments of your time,” Lord Mawbly began, his eyes darting back and forth, looking anywhere but at her. Lady Mawbly had not ceased her nagging about Lady Fuddlesby’s pink tourmaline ring. When she saw Lady Fuddlesby arrive, she demanded her husband accost the woman immediately and offer to buy the ring whatever the cost.

  “Why, certainly, Lord Mawbly, but I confess I am at a loss to know what this is about,” Lady Fuddlesby prompted with raised eyebrows.

  Lord Mawbly bitterly addressed the ornamental lake. “You see, my wife loves jewels. Never has enough. Wants your ring, the pink tourmaline. Pay you whatever sum you name.” He appeared relieved to get the request out, but this proved short-lived.

  Lady Fuddlesby was taken aback. The pink tourmaline ring had been a gift from the late Viscount Fuddlesby. He brought it back for her from Russia after a diplomatic mission he undertook shortly after their marriage. It was a particular favorite of hers, being her well-loved pink color and holding sentimental value. The thought of it gracing Lady Mawbly’s hand brought a moue of distaste to Lady Fuddlesby’s lips.

  “I am sorry to disappoint you, Lord Mawbly, but I could not part with it,” Lady Fuddlesby informed him gently but firmly, then turned and walked away.

  Lord Mawbly, in a panic, sought to prolong the moment he must tell Lady Mawbly of his failure. He slipped away toward the Peabodys’ house in hopes of obtaining a few minutes’ refuge from his wife.

  Through narrowed eyes, Lady Mawbly watched him disappear. She and Clorinda stood near Henrietta and Lord Baddick, who were conversing over their plates.

  Henrietta’s proximity was not lost on Clorinda. When she saw Lord Baddick move to the end of the table to get some champagne from a footman, she seized the moment.

  In a carrying voice she felt certain would reach Henrietta’s ears she said, “Does Papa plan to be at home in the morning, Mama?” Before Lady Mawbly could answer, Clorinda winked at her, tilting her head slightly toward Henrietta, and continued, “I dearly hope so as the duke has an important question to ask of him.” Maidenly giggles followed this lie.

  Clorinda’s words struck her target. Henrietta wished she had not eaten anything because she suddenly felt violently ill. So the duke was to marry Clorinda. She should not be s
urprised. She should not care. She would not begin to cry and bring yet another scene down upon her and her kind aunt’s head.

  Henrietta rushed the few steps over to Lord Baddick, placing a hand on his arm to gain his attention. “Please, my lord, I am feeling a bit faint. Would you take me away for a moment or two? A stroll, perhaps, might clear my head.”

  Lord Baddick exclaimed solicitously, “At once!” He removed the plate from her hand, setting it on the table. Observing the blank look in her eyes, he felt a thrill of power. Something had happened. ’Twas a shame he missed whatever it was, but no matter. He knew an opportunity when he saw one.

  They walked in the opposite direction of the crowded tables toward a small copse of trees. The grass was soft under Henrietta’s lilac slippers. Lord Baddick’s arm felt safe and secure under her hand.

  Henrietta felt cloaked in a sense of unreality. Her mind focused on the duke and Lady Clorinda. They would marry, have children. A mental image of the duke, holding a beautiful baby, brought a fresh twist to the icy knot in her stomach.

  Lord Baddick walked them around to behind the screen of the trees. He turned to face her. “Miss Lanford... Henrietta, my love,” he murmured, slipping an arm around her waist. He drew her close, bending his head down to hers.

  Henrietta did not realize how isolated they were when they reached the other side of the trees away from the party. All she was conscious of was the pain in her heart. Lord Baddick’s face looming over hers, about to kiss her, brought her sharply back to reality.

  “My lord!” she exclaimed, stepping back outside his arms. “Indeed you must not.” She raised her hands to her flushed cheeks.

  Lord Baddick seethed with rage. The little tease. He would have her. Like any other woman, she was most likely holding out for a marriage proposal. Well, he would not let a few meaningless words stand between him and his desire. He dropped down to one knee.

  “Forgive me for rushing you, fairest one! Your beauty momentarily blinded me to the honor I must always show you.” He reached up and grasped one of her hands, a look of adoration marking his features. “I know you do not yet return my love, but allow me the chance of earning that longed-for emotion. Will you be my wife?”