* * *
Beaumont, rode through the park toward the gates. The early morning mist still clung in fragile cobwebs to the branches. The hired hack wasn’t up to too much, but the ride cleared his head. Back in Buckinghamshire, Thunder, his favorite horse, would be pining for him. He arrived back at the mews to find Gabrielle walking up and down the path in front of the stables.
“Why are you up so early?” he asked his sister-in-law as he dismounted.
“I’m worried.” She clutched some correspondence in her hand.
“Is that from Philippe?” He tossed the reins to the groom, and after leaving instructions to return the horse to the park stables, he walked beside her to the house.
“If only it was. It’s a friend of mine in Paris, Madame Fauquier. It’s distressing what is happening there.” She waved the letter. “There has been unbelievable bloodshed, Anthony! And I haven’t received a letter from Philippe for ages.”
“You know the state of the postal service. How long ago was that sent? But if we don’t hear from your brother soon, something must be done. I could write to the British Embassy,” he said thoughtfully. “But that would take some weeks.”
“Surely you can’t be thinking of traveling to France?” Gabrielle screwed the letter up in her hands. “The French National Assembly has turned against aristocrats. You are known there as the fourth Viscount Beaumont who married into a French aristocratic family. A Tory who believes in the monarchy. Did you not stand with Burke in Parliament against the actions of the French?”
“They would have to answer to the British government were they to murder an English nobleman in cold blood.”
Gabrielle sighed heavily. “These are my countrymen I’m ashamed to say. Of course, reform was needed in France, but the actions of the Girondins are becoming dangerously unhinged.” She tapped his arm with the screwed-up letter. “Madame Fauquier says now that they’ve declared the guillotine as the official method of execution, they hold mock trials. Hundreds of innocent people die daily.”
Anthony took her hands to still them between his larger ones. “Please don’t get yourself in a fret, Gabby. You’ll make yourself ill again. I’m sure Philippe will be in touch soon. It must be difficult for him to get word to us.”
“I’ve begged him to come to England these past six months. He mentioned joining the émigré army of all things. Nevertheless, you must promise me you won’t go to France. It would not do to place both your lives in danger. You must first consider Henrietta.”
“I can’t promise, Gabby, but I’ll delay it for now.”
Chapter Three
Henrietta stood before her aunt in the drawing room.
“Turn around,” Aunt Gabrielle instructed.
She pirouetted to display her ball dress of white India muslin embroidered with tiny flowers and decorated with a wide, pale pink sash. The scooped neckline featured a modest lace fichu, the sleeves long and tight-fitting with frills at the wrist.
Molly had threaded her powdered fair curls with a ribbon, and she wore the pearls her father had given her.
Aunt Gabrielle smiled. “You are beautiful, Henrietta.”
“Thank you, aunt.” Would she ever reach such heights of elegance as Gabrielle? She wore a smoke-gray silk gown striped dark red, with rubies at her ears and throat. On her breast, she had pinned a single red rose.
When Henrietta complimented her, she touched the rose and said, with a catch in her voice, “Your uncle used to give me red roses. I always wear one for him.”
Her father walked in, tall and imposing in evening clothes. How different he looked, like a handsome stranger. “With two beautiful ladies on my arm tonight, I’ll be the envy of all the men.”
* * *
Henrietta’s first engagement was Baroness Le Trobe’s ball. A French émigré, she entertained lavishly in her north London mansion. The drive was alight with lamps from the queue of carriages. Ahead, candles burned in every window of the house. Henrietta had never seen such an extravagant display. The anticipation of what might lie ahead almost robbed her of breath.
They were announced by a majordomo and entered to be greeted by the Countess.
“I have a treat in store,” she said, as a butler gathered gentleman’s coats and ladies’ evening capes. “A French acting troupe has come tonight from the Queen’s Theater. My countrywoman, the renowned Parisian actress Mademoiselle Garnier, has consented to perform a scene from Hamlet with the French actor, Henri-Louis Bouchard.”
In the ballroom, a quartet played, and dancers executed the graceful steps of the minuet. Several young men approached Henrietta and begged her to keep them a dance. Her mind whirling, she could only agree and hope there were enough dances to go around.
A man appeared at her elbow. “I do hope you have a dance left, Lady Henrietta?”
One glance at the tall dark-haired man and her heart leaped. It was he who had ridden beneath her balcony earlier in the day. Close-up, he was even more imposing in blue-black and white.
“Mr. Hartley, I don’t believe you’ve met my niece, Lady Henrietta,” Aunt Gabrielle said.
A smile warmed his eyes and played at the corner of his well-shaped mouth before he bowed over her hand. Henrietta curtseyed aware her heart beat oddly fast.
“I feel we have met before, Lady Henrietta?” Mr. Hartley raised a black eyebrow.
Was he laughing at her? She hated how her cheeks burned. She suspected he knew of her discomfort and toyed with her.
“You could not have met my niece, Mr. Hartley,” Aunt Gabrielle said. “She’s only just come to town.”
“Forgive me. I’m mistaken.” He bowed again, his eyes discreetly lowered, but not before she caught the flash of amusement in them which confirmed her fears.
The desire grew to give him a sharp set down, but with her aunt watching, Henrietta held her tongue. “I certainly don’t recall meeting you, Mr. Hartley.” She waved her fan airily. “But I’ve met so many people since I arrived in London you must forgive me. Try as I might, I cannot remember everyone.”
Aunt Gabrielle frowned at her. “You must forgive my niece, Mr. Hartley, she is new to society.”
He bent over Henrietta’s hand. “Touché,” he murmured.
He straightened. “Please don’t give it another thought, Lady Beldon. I find honesty and the lack of artifice refreshing.”
Henrietta rose from her curtsey, her eyes lowered. The horrible man was scolding her. He knew she lied.
“I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, and shall look forward to our dance.” He turned away and disappeared into the throng of people.
“I trust you’ll think before you speak, Henrietta,” her aunt said with a frown. “London society prides itself on its manners. Although it is the French who are best at entertaining wit and repartee, I must say.”
Quickly claimed for the quadrille, Henrietta danced with an eye on the room but saw no sign of Hartley among the dancers or conversing with those clustered around the edge of the dance floor. It wasn’t done, her aunt had instructed her, for her to stand up more than twice with the same man. Three more dances followed. Each partner different and all quite dull. Her father led her onto the floor for a country dance. She had never danced with him before and felt proud. He stood head and shoulders above any other man there, except perhaps, Mr. Hartley. Her father had danced with several ladies tonight and appeared to enjoy their company as much as they did his. Henrietta wished he might find happiness again, but a selfish part of her hoped it would be with someone she liked.
The Master of Ceremonies made an announcement. The play was to begin. The musicians packed up and left the dais as the Baroness’s guests took their seats in the long drawing room for the performance of Hamlet. The doors to the adjoining conservatory were thrown open, and a small stage had been set up with rows of chairs arranged around it. After everyone had settled down, a woman entered dressed in a simple white gown with a yellow sash and flowers in her long, loose golden locks. S
he looked almost ethereal as she took her place on the stage beside the male actor playing Laertes. The audience clapped politely. There were many French here tonight. Henrietta considered herself half-French. She was distressed to learn of the atrocities happening in France, and like her father and her aunt she was concerned for her uncle’s safety.
She leaned forward enraptured as Mademoiselle Garnier became Ophelia. The actress was spellbinding, and her rendition flawless. The candlelight played on her lovely face and bright hair as she used her voice and slender figure to portray the fragile, slightly mad, Ophelia to perfection.
You might have heard a hairpin drop when she sang a sad little song “And will he never come again?” in a heartrendingly sweet voice suffused with emotion. The words died away, but the guests remained silent for a long moment. Then they broke into enthusiastic applause and called for an encore.
“You must come to see the play,” Mademoiselle Garnier called and kissed her hands to them. With a graceful curtsey, she left the stage. She wove her way through the throng, accepting compliments in a charming manner. At the Baroness’s side, she murmured in her ear. Henrietta was astonished when the Baroness led the actress over to where they stood.
“Mademoiselle, an outstanding performance.” Her father bowed over the actress’s hand. If he was surprised to be singled out, he didn’t show it. But then she’d always thought her father an elegant man, and by the expression in Mademoiselle’s eyes, she obviously did too.
“Merci.” Mademoiselle Garnier gazed up at him. “I’d be delighted for you and your daughter to attend the play as my guests, Lord Beaumont.”
Henrietta expected her father to decline Mademoiselle’s offer. When he accepted, she stared at him in surprise. Had he decided to remain longer in London?
“I am delighted.” Mademoiselle Garnier accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter. “Please come backstage after the performance.” She turned to smile at Henrietta. “How fortunate to have such a pretty daughter.”
Henrietta gave a quick bob in response. Her father touched her lightly on the shoulder. “Thank you, Mademoiselle. Hetta is a joy to me.”
The actress’s violet-blue gaze touched briefly on Henrietta before returning to her father. “I look forward to meeting you both again at the theater.”
Baroness La Trobe drew the actress away to meet others waiting patiently for the privilege.
“Wasn’t Mademoiselle Garnier wonderful,” Henrietta said when she and her father were alone. He didn’t answer, staring thoughtfully after the actress. “Papa?”
“Yes, wonderful. In appearance, she reminds me a little of your mother.”
“Was Mama as lovely as Mademoiselle?”
“Your mother’s fine qualities went far beyond beauty. She was a selfless and a highly moral woman.”
“And Mademoiselle Garnier would not be?”
“You are yet to learn the ways of the world, Henrietta. I don’t know Mademoiselle Garnier, so I shall not judge her.” He chucked her lightly under the chin, but his gaze returned to the stage as if seeking Mademoiselle there.
Her father’s behavior surprised her. He was usually unaffected by ladies, even when they tried hard to gain his attention. But he seemed bothered by the actress. She did not have time to reflect on it, however, as the musicians struck up in the ballroom again, and when she entered, a tall dark-haired man appeared at her side. She caught her breath as Mr. Hartley offered her his arm.
“My dance I believe?”
They took to the dance floor for the Roger de Coverley. Henrietta had time to study Mr. Hartley at close quarters as they advanced and retreated, performing the intricate steps. When they held hands for a moment, his gaze found hers. “Why, your eyes are green, Lady Henrietta.”
She flushed, forgetting she’d been secretly noting the smoky blue-gray color of his.
“As you see, Mr. Hartley.” She spun away.
“I am delighted,” he continued smoothly as if they hadn’t been interrupted, “for I thought them blue.”
They met again. “Such an unusual green. And blue is a most common eye color found in England, do you not think?”
“Yours are blue, Mr. Hartley.” Henrietta didn’t feel inclined to admit they were more gray than blue, not like the sky, but shadows over a deep mysterious lake. For some reason, she wanted to get the upper hand with this man.
He grinned. “You noticed.”
“One could hardly fail to. This dance is so long-winded.” Unable to sustain a fiery gaze when his was so pleasantly warm, she fixed on his satin waistcoat, admiring the etched silver buttons.
“Your hair is as fair as a Greek goddess,” he said when the next opportunity arose. “I like the way you wear it tonight, bound up with ribbon.”
“Yours is as black as a raven’s wing. Did you know that in the country, ravens are badly behaved birds?” she asked in a conversational tone. She glanced guiltily around at her aunt. But Aunt Gabrielle was too far away to hear although she watched them closely.
A man dancing in their set coughed.
Mr. Hartley chuckled. “I prefer yours flowing free as you wore it when I first spied you on your balcony. Like Juliet in Shakespeare’s play, I was tempted to play Romeo and climb up to you.”
“A good thing you didn’t, Mr. Hartley, for I would have thrown a pitcher of water over you.”
The neighboring man’s cough turned into a guffaw which made his partner frown and inquire what ailed him.
“I wonder if you would have,” he said, raising a dark eyebrow.
“You doubt me? We country girls learn to deal with many bothersome situations, Mr. Hartley.”
How maddening that the dance ended just when she was getting into her stride. Mr. Hartley paused at the edge of the dance floor. “Why someone has trodden on your shoe, Lady Henrietta. I trust it wasn’t me.” He bent at her feet to dust her shoe with his handkerchief. People stared, including her aunt. Henrietta’s cheeks grew hot as she stared down at his dark head. He was deliberately disconcerting her, she was sure. And he had succeeded for her fingers itched to touch his unpowdered black locks. When he stood, she averted her gaze.
“I believe it was you, Mr. Hartley,” she said to control her disturbing urges. “But please don’t concern yourself about a little mark. It was that final turn when you stumbled.”
“I stumbled? How extraordinarily clumsy of me.” His lips twitched. “Then I apologize profusely.” He returned his handkerchief to his pocket, his eyes brimming with laughter. “It’s been my pleasure, Lady Henrietta.”
Henrietta swept him a deep curtsy. “And mine, Mr. Hartley.”
“I trust we will meet again.” He offered her his arm and escorted her back to where her aunt sat among the dowagers watching them.
“London is a big town. I doubt that’s likely.” Annoyingly, Henrietta’s heart fluttered in the hope of meeting him again.
“Oh, we will, for the ton tends to flock together, in ballrooms, drawing rooms or on horseback.”
Henrietta watched him walk away. What was his given name? His handkerchief bore the monogram ‘C. H.’. Cornelius? Christopher? Charles? Cuthbert? She giggled behind her fan. She dared not ask her aunt, for that lady was far too observant.
Hours later, everyone began to depart, retrieving coats, cloaks, reticules, and shawls.
Her father placed her cape around her shoulders. “Did you enjoy your first dance, Hetta?”
“It was lovely, especially the play.” She turned and gazed up at him. “Did you enjoy it too?” Ordinarily, his thoughts would be on his cattle, and he would have suffered through this for her, but now she doubted it. He looked far too pleased to be here.
“I found the play most entertaining.”
Aunt Gabrielle had come to join them. “I am gratified that you weren’t horribly bored tonight, Anthony. When you came under sufferance.”
“I suspect Papa intends to remain in London after my presentation,” Henrietta said.
“
I shall like that above all things,” her aunt said. “But I wonder what attraction has made you so enamored of London society when it has failed to tempt you before.”
Henrietta studied him. “Yes, Papa, do tell.”
He laughed and guided them toward the door. “One might ask you, Hetta, how much you enjoyed that last dance with Christian Hartley.”
Henrietta’s cheeks grew warm. So, his name was Christian. She repeated it under her breath as her aunt cast her a sidelong glance.
Chapter Four
On the way home in the carriage, Henrietta longed to question her aunt about Christian Hartley, but she resisted. They climbed the stairs to bed, and she could wait no longer.
“Aunt, who is Mr. Hartley’s family?”
Her aunt’s shrewd brown eyes studied her. “You liked him then?”
Henrietta wriggled. Really, must her aunt scrutinize her so? “I’m not at all sure I did like him. I found him mildly interesting.”
“He’s the only son of Sir Gerald Hartley, an honorable gentleman who passed away some years ago.” Aunt Gabrielle paused at the top of the stairs. “Christian must be close to thirty. He’s been in the diplomatic service for some years. He was at one stage assistant to the British Ambassador in Paris, I believe. A mystery man, or so described by some disappointed ladies of the ton. I was surprised to find him there tonight. He rarely attends such events.” She frowned. “I can see how you would find him attractive, but he is not a suitable match for you.”
Henrietta hovered at the door to her bedchamber. “Why not?”
“He’s said to be a rake. You’ve heard of them, I’m sure.”
Henrietta had a vague idea that they drank a lot and bedded far too many ladies who were not their wives. Was that all? “What exactly is a rake?”
“They do not make good husbands, Henrietta. They move in less than first circles.”
“But,” Henrietta said impatiently, for this was like learning an entirely new language, “What is less than the first circles?”
Hostage to Love Page 3
