She stared at the sparkling gems. Did he really believe he’d return? She shook her head and rushed to her aunt’s bedchamber. She must have that letter.
A candle burned on the dresser. Alarmed by her aunt’s deep and noisy breathing, Henrietta tiptoed to her bed. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hair around the edges of her cap looked damp. “I’m sorry, you’re so ill, Aunt Gabrielle,” she whispered. “I love you.”
She spied a letter, lying on the dressing table. She snatched it up and slipped from the room. Then sat in the candlelight to read it.
It was from a Frenchwoman. Mademoiselle Bourget had taken in Uncle Philippe after she found him wounded. Writing in her native French, mademoiselle stated she lived on a farm, a half day’s ride from Le Havre near the village of Saint-Aignan. Philippe had asked that she write to allay any fears. He would complete his journey when he had recovered.
Henrietta rubbed her brow. Her father hadn’t taken this message at face value, nor did she. It was possible her uncle was seriously hurt–and in danger of discovery. Papa had been right to go. What could she do except wait to hear from him? It would be difficult, for patience had never been one of her virtues. It would be hard to even wait until morning. She wouldn’t sleep a wink.
Henrietta woke before dawn and fell asleep again. She woke with a start to find the sun high in the sky, the house ominously quiet.
Frightened, she threw on her dressing gown and ran to her aunt’s room, dreading what she might find. She flung the door open, then sagged with relief. Aunt Gabrielle was propped up on lacy pillows while a servant fed her soup.
“Aunt!” Henrietta rushed to the bed. “Are you feeling better?”
“I would be if I didn’t have to eat this horrid gruel the doctor has prescribed,” Aunt Gabrielle said in a querulous tone. “If only I knew the men were safe. You know what has happened, child?”
Henrietta swallowed and nodded.
“We must be strong and play the waiting game.”
Her aunt didn’t look at all strong, but certainly better than she had been the last evening. “You must concentrate on getting well, aunt.”
“Yes, my dear.” Aunt Gabrielle sank back against the pillows and closed her eyes.
“You may go, Mary. You too, Henrietta. Have something to eat and try not to worry. I’m going to take a nap.”
Henrietta found Molly sobbing in the corridor outside her chamber. “What’s this? My aunt is recovering well.”
“It’s not that. It’s Will, my Tom’s brother. He just came to see me. He says Tom can’t marry me. He’s lost his job with the farrier.”
“Oh, Molly.” Henrietta shivered. The fortune teller had been proved right. Would all predictions also come true? She’d said someone was to die. “You must return to Beaumont Court, Molly. I’ll give you money for the stage.”
“But, what about your clothes?” Molly shook her head. “Who will dress you?”
“Don’t be silly, as if that matters. You must go to Tom.”
“Thank you, Lady Henrietta. You are too good.”
“Go today. Write to me when you have news.”
Henrietta petted the two dogs languishing in the corridor outside her aunt’s room, while her mind searched for answers. What of Mr. Hartley? Had he not offered help should she need it? She might send him a note, but what could she tell him? And what could he do? As she puzzled over the matter, the knocker sounded at the front door. The butler opened it and a lively discussion erupted in the vestibule. Frankston was insisting in frigid tones that her aunt was indisposed. He asked the lady to please leave her card.
A French voice. Insistent. “It’s Lord Beaumont I wish to see. I must speak to him.”
Henrietta peered over the banister. Mademoiselle Garnier stood below in the entry hall. “It’s imperative that I speak to him,” she repeated, louder, as if the butler was deaf.
Henrietta marched down the stairs. “I’m afraid my father isn’t here.”
Huge, frantic jewel-like eyes searched hers. “I have received a note—May I speak with you privately, Lady Henrietta?”
“Of course.” Henrietta turned to the butler. “We shall take a dish of Bohea in the drawing room, thank you, Frankston.” She turned to the stairs. “I’m afraid we are at sixes and sevens here at present. The servants don’t like it when things fail to run smoothly.”
Frankston frowned, disapproving as he took the lady’s redingote and bonnet. Old snob, Henrietta thought.
“Oh, what beautiful dogs.” Mademoiselle Garnier fell to her knees on the drawing room carpet where the spaniels stretched out by the fire and stroked their heads. “I am so very fond of animals.”
Henrietta’s cool attitude toward the Frenchwoman warmed a little. She hoped she might learn something from her.
Henrietta sat on the sofa. “You’ve heard from my father?”
Mademoiselle Garnier’s cheeks flushed. “He has gone?”
“Yes. During the night.”
She left the dogs and came to sit beside Henrietta. “He sent a note this morning. I hoped to see him before he left.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I am very much afraid for him.”
Henrietta inhaled sharply. “My uncle, yes, but not my father, surely.”
Mademoiselle Garnier leaned forward and placed a gloved hand on Henrietta’s arm. “You don’t understand. As soon as your father puts a foot on French soil, he will be hunted down. I must get word to him.”
Henrietta gasped. “I know it to be unsafe there.” She frowned. “But why would they want my father?”
“Believe me when I say they do. Your father could be walking into a trap.”
Chapter Nine
“A trap?” Mademoiselle Garnier words chilled Henrietta to the bone. “What kind of trap?”
“I do not know the reason, but he is wanted by the French government,” she said. “I must get word to him.”
“I don’t see how.” She stared at the Frenchwoman as icy prickles of fear traveled down Henrietta’s spine. Like herself, Mademoiselle Garnier was a woman of action. Would it be possible that they might act together in some way?
“Where did your father go?”
“A farm in the north. Near a village called Saint-Aignan.”
She nodded. “I’m familiar with that part of the country. I grew up near Rouen. Never fear. I will find them. Nothing happens in a small village without everyone knowing it. But let’s hope that hasn’t worked against your uncle.”
“What can you do even if you should find them?”
“Urge them to leave the country without delay.” She rose. “I must hurry.”
Henrietta leaped up. “Take me with you.”
“Mon dieu! Your mother was a French aristocrat. You would be in danger and your papa would rightly hold me responsible.”
“Nevertheless, I shall come with you, mademoiselle.” Henrietta placed her fisted hands on her hips.
She shook her head. “Non! It is too dangerous.”
“Two heads are better than one.”
“You’re concerned of course.” When Mademoiselle placed a trembling hand on her arm. “But I cannot take you. I’m sorry.”
“I will follow you.”
“I doubt that is possible.”
“Then I shall go alone, and my father will learn that you refused to help me.”
Mademoiselle stared at her. “You are a very determined woman.” She sighed heavily. “We must use a disguise. Come to the theatre tomorrow. We’ll dress in costume.”
“An excellent idea.” Henrietta almost grinned despite her desperation. “What will we go as?”
Mademoiselle tapped her chin. “I’ll be a wealthy widow and you my page.”
“Perfect.” Dressing as a page would be a novel experience.
After the footman brought in the tea tray, Henrietta poured the brew. She passed a cup and saucer to Mademoiselle. “My aunt isn’t well. This will worry her.”
“Then it’s best you remain here.” Mademois
elle put the cup down picked up her reticule.
Henrietta frowned. “I’m coming.”
“Then you must tell your aunt some story.”
Henrietta was ashamed that she lied about Vauxhall Gardens. “I must tell her the truth.”
“Would she feel better if you did?” Mademoiselle Garnier reminded Henrietta of her French
no-Nonsense aunt. When she considered the wisdom of her decision, it quickly lost its appeal. “I’ll feel better, but my aunt will not.”
Mademoiselle nodded.
“I’ll say I want to return to the country and wait for Papa to return.”
“Tries bien.” Mademoiselle stood. “Come to the theatre tomorrow morning at nine of the clock. Send a message if you cannot.”
Henrietta jumped up. “Wait, mademoiselle. Will I need traveling documents?”
“Yes.” She patted her reticule. “You can obtain them at Le Havre.”
Henrietta held out her hand. “I’ll hold on to yours until we meet.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You want me to give you my papers?”
“They are safe with me. How else can I be sure you’ll wait for me?”
“Because I said I would.” Mademoiselle stared at her. “And if you don’t come?”
“I’ll send them to you. I have no intention of delaying you.”
Mademoiselle heaved a sigh. Removing a folded document from her reticule she handed it to Henrietta. “Why should you trust my word?”
“Because I have no choice. Tomorrow then, mademoiselle,” Henrietta said.
As soon as the door closed behind Mademoiselle Garnier, Henrietta hurried upstairs. Aunt Gabrielle had just woken from her nap. “I’ve decided what must be done, Henrietta,” she said.
Henrietta sat beside the bed. “Yes, Aunt?”
“You will be disappointed, but with your father away and me less than my best, I must refuse all invitations.”
“I thought I’d go back to the country. There is much I can do while Papa is away. Would you mind, Aunt?” Guilt flooded over her. How easily the lie had slipped from her lips.
Aunt Gabrielle smiled and patted her hand. “Poor child. That is sensible. It provides us with a perfect excuse. I shall put it about that you and your father were called home.” She sighed. “I shall miss you. But it is better than sitting here with nothing to do but worry.”
“I’ll leave tomorrow.” Henrietta left the room assuring herself that once she came home with Papa and Phillippe, all would be forgiven.
The next morning, Henrietta was driven to the theatre in the family carriage. She ordered the coachman to return to collect her in an hour. As he’d been instructed to take her to the country, it was necessary to include him and the groom in this escapade.
Mademoiselle waited for her in the foyer. She held out her hand. “My papers?”
Henrietta shook her head. “On our way in the carriage.”
Mademoiselle’s brows knitted. “I had hoped you’d see the sense of leaving this dangerous expedition to me.”
Henrietta pursed her lips. “Then you were wrong.”
The actress sighed. She led Henrietta into the wardrobe mistress’ room. “Wait for me here.”
While Mademoiselle talked to the stage manager, Henrietta peeked behind the curtain at the props, backdrops and necessary paraphernalia required to create an illusion for the audience. She trailed after the French actress to the wardrobe mistress’ room, which reeked of candle wax, and other exotic smells. An Aladdin’s cave with colorful costumes knee-deep on shelves around the walls. Large wicker baskets overflowed onto the floor. An inner room of bare boards featured a wide table with a row of mirrors propped in its center. Its surface was covered in pots of creams and potions. The air heavy with the smell of greasepaint. Boxes bulged with paste jewelry and gewgaws. To Henrietta, the air seemed to crackle with excitement.
Mademoiselle tossed her a role of bandage.
“Bind your breasts,” she said before whisking around, pulling out clothes and holding them up to Henrietta and herself.
Behind a painted screen, Henrietta stripped off her gown, corset, and shift. She bound her breasts in the bandages as tightly as she could bear. As she sat to remove her stockings, Mademoiselle handed her a set of clothes to try on. Most were too big, but finally, Henrietta stood before the mirror in buff breeches and white stockings, white shirt, and an olive-green coat, a muslin cravat tied neatly at her throat.
“Try on these shoes.” Mademoiselle handed her a pair of black buckled shoes. They were a perfect fit.
“Let me look at you.” Mademoiselle turned her.
“I should cut my hair.” Henrietta studied herself in the mirror, holding her hair up.
“Non! I know a way. Your hat will hide most of it. Pity you’re so fair. We might have blackened your face. But, you’ll do. Luckily, you’re petite; you might be a young boy. But don’t look directly at people. Avert your eyes. Leave the talking to me.” She removed a tall black hat from the peg.
The hat was too big, but once Henrietta’s hair was cunningly arranged by Mademoiselle, the high crowned hat sat firmly atop her head.
Mademoiselle dressed in a tight waisted oyster gown, a kerchief fastened with a cameo broach covering the low neckline. Her redingote was charmingly decorated with peridots in sky blue and her gloves the same blue. Her tall coffee-colored hat matched her shawl, which was also adorned with blue peridots. Her blonde hair was arranged in curls down her back. “I am, how you say, a widow of the haute bourgeoisie.” She put a gloved hand to her small waist. “A little behind the latest fashion, and not too rich, but not too poor either.”
“Won’t your troupe be angry if you are not here for a performance?”
She shrugged. “Not with Mrs. Siddens in the play. Her portrayals of Ophelia and Lady Macbeth are legendary. My understudy is competent and will be only too delighted to fill in for me.”
They left the theatre and crossed to where the coach waited. The coachman gaped. He grasped the edge of the box. The wide-eyed groom jumped down from the box. “Please fetch the trunk,” Verity said.
“Why do we need a trunk?” Henrietta asked. “It will make our journey more difficult.”
“Because I am a well-to-do widow. Without baggage I will appear suspicious. And we shall need the extra clothes I assure you.”
“On to Portsmouth, John, and as quick as you can,” Henrietta ordered, forgetting that a page displaying such authority would be noticed immediately. Fortunately, the pavement was empty.
The coachman drooped on the box. “But, Lady Henrietta, I am instructed to take you home to the country.”
He received a ferocious glare for his pains. “Portsmouth, please. You are not to tell a soul where I’ve gone. It is a matter of life and death. I must have your promise.”
“Life and death?” James, the groom’s voice rose an octave. He turned to stare at the coachman who shrugged and attended his horses.
Henrietta climbed into the coach behind Mademoiselle. She enjoyed the freedom of movement the boy’s clothes afforded her. In this attire, she could handle herself well in a skirmish. She could ride astride quite well, in fact she preferred it. She hoped she’d get the chance.
The carriage jingled down the road. They had embarked on a great adventure, and Henrietta would be thrilled but for her father. Was he walking into a trap?
* * *
Christian Hartley, his mahogany cane resting over his shoulder, strolled toward Brook Street, having just left the Horse Guards in Westminster. He’d received his orders and would leave London in two days’ time. While he waited to cross the street, he barely acknowledged the coach drawn by four thoroughbred gray horses. He’d not been able to get a certain young lady out of his mind. He kept seeing Lord Beaumont’s daughter, Lady Henrietta, her elfin face, and bright green eyes lit by moonlight on that carriage ride from Vauxhall. She sparkled with a youthful vigor he seemed to have recently lost. When she’d lifted her chin to him, he’d
been tempted to kiss her. Thankfully, he’d resisted the urge. Wise to resist the attraction. He wasn’t in the market for a bride.
Lady Henrietta had expressed her very real concerns for her father and her uncle, Baron St. André. He could do nothing to help. He was hamstrung by his own commitments. Hopefully there would be a happy outcome. An English lord would carry some weight with the French. On this mission he planned to forget all about the lovely Henrietta. He wasn’t foolish enough to succumbed to the charms of a green girl. He wanted nothing more than to retire to his house in the country and fish for trout in his river. If he survived this mission, he would do precisely that.
Christian attempted to banish her anxious face from his mind as he went over the details his spymaster had given him. He took no notes committing his instructions to memory. At the corner a carriage pulled up to allow a crossing sweeper to sweep the road for two ladies waiting to cross.
A page in a black hat gazed at him from the carriage window where a lady traveled. The page’s big green eyes rested on Christian. They widened. The page’s rosebud mouth formed an ‘O’ before the boy pulled down his hat and quickly turned away. Christian stood rooted to the spot. The coach moved off again. Was he seeing things? Was Lady Henrietta’s visage burned into his brain? Those eyes. That mouth. He stared after the vehicle. The carriage turned a corner, and he checked the crest on the door panel. Beaumont’s!
Christian watched it disappear. He whipped off his hat and raked his fingers through his hair. What was that young lady mixed up in now? She had the devil in her. Hadn’t he just rescued her from a scrape before it turned nasty? In all his eight and twenty years, he’d never encountered anyone quite like her, and as his work involved him in all sorts of situations that was saying a lot. She wasn’t alone, Mademoiselle Garnier accompanied her. Where were the two of them going?
He ran out to signal an approaching hackney. He had another briefing in the morning, but would call on Beaumont at Lady Belden’s tomorrow afternoon, damned if he wouldn’t.
Hostage to Love Page 8
