by Liana Lefey
“Harriett?”
Lily’s worried face blocked Harriett’s view. By the time she managed to again get a clear vantage, the mirage was gone.
“Harriett, darling? Are you well?”
Her gaze finally focused on Lily’s face. “It’s nothing. I just thought I saw someone I knew.”
“Alive or deceased? I haven’t seen you turn that particular shade of white since the funeral.”
“It’s nothing, really,” Harriett told her, forcing a little laugh. “You were telling me about Nanette?”
~ * ~
Damn me, but this is bloody boring. Roland turned away from a scene identical to countless others marching back through his memory in a lengthy, monotonous line. How he longed to be back at the Royal, cutting capers backstage with Rich and celebrating a night’s success with the Beefsteak Club.
He cast his gaze out over the crowd. Not a genuine one among them. Especially the women. In Covent Garden one at least knew the difference between an act and the real person. There, acting was reserved for the stage. Here, it was an entirely different matter.
Every last one of these women was pretending to be something other than what she was. Some were probably not even aware they were doing it. Others were. Regardless, they’d all been trained from birth to say and do whatever they thought would best please a potential husband. None of them were real.
Was he truly expected to select a wife from among this lot?
He downed another glass of champagne. The servant who had just handed it to him stared, boggle-eyed, at the empty flute he handed back. Chuckling, Roland turned away and wandered the room. The women looked at him with assessing eyes, sizing him up like a prize pig on auction at a country fair.
Perhaps I ought to put an apple in my mouth...
“I can hardly believe she’s back on the market,” said one girl to another as he passed. “I thought she’d gone to a convent or something.”
“She certainly looks as though she belongs in one,” snipped the other. “It’s been nearly two years, and she’s still in half-mourning. I cannot imagine wasting my youth and beauty to mourn a man to whom I wasn’t even married. Not for a moment longer than required, anyway. I should have doffed the black the very second it was permitted.”
Roland’s neck prickled. Keep walking. Don’t stop. But his feet refused to obey.
“She must have truly loved him,” said the first one in a wistful voice.
The other snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. He was almost twice her age, Marian. Nearly everyone I know is of the opinion she has been overly dramatic about the whole thing. Trying to garner sympathy, no doubt. I heard her father had to finally force her to put away her mourning.”
“Oh, Nanette, don’t be so unkind,” admonished the first one. “At least her sister doesn’t appear to mind sharing the field, bless her.”
“I shouldn’t think she has much to worry about,” retorted the nasty one—Nanette. “Harriett Dunhaven may be back on the market, but I doubt she ever will be taken off the shelf.”
Harriett. An image arose in his mind’s eye, blinding him to everything else around him. William’s funeral. He’d arrived drunk and caused a scene. A furious Harriett had pulled him aside to try and shut him up, and he’d torn off her veil, accusing her of putting on a grand show for her graveside audience.
He’d never been so wrong in all his life.
Not for her the cool, neutral mask so many ladies of quality put on when faced with anything that dared deviate from the perfect orderliness of an uneventful life. No. She’d given her grief free run, let it inhabit her entire being.
The memory of her ravaged face struck him like a blow to the gut. Even in stark, unflattering black, even red-eyed and looking like the very devil, he’d found her strangely beautiful. It wasn’t so much her features, for they ran quite to the ordinary. It was what they’d conveyed that had held him in thrall: righteous indignation and grief so intense it had sliced him to the marrow, for it had been no less deep than his own.
Seeing his misery mirrored in her hazel-green eyes had done something to him. Something he couldn’t even put a name to. All he knew was it had hurt and seeing it had made the loss of William unbearable. Shame filled him as he remembered his appalling reaction to that pain. He’d told her—loud enough that everyone present heard it—that William could have done better.
Oh, God. And she’s here tonight. Panic gripped him as he followed the direction of the ladies’ furtive glances.
Sure enough, there she was, the avenging fury herself, Lady Harriett Dunhaven. And far too close for comfort. As the women had said, she still wore the lavender of half-mourning. She lifted her hand to check that her hair was still imprisoned in its snood, and his eye was drawn to the glint of gold.
There on her finger was the ring he’d sent her after his brother’s funeral. She still wore it. She didn’t know he’d sent it, of course, or she’d likely have come to personally cram it down his throat. It had been his way of quietly making amends for his horrid behavior.
A queer, unpleasant sensation unfurled in the pit of his stomach as he continued to stare at her. Along with it came more memories of their final disastrous encounter.
Rather than running off in tears over his insult, she’d gotten right in his face and at the top of her lungs had called him a drunken, heartless, worthless bastard. Shocked to the boot soles, he’d been the one to back away, not her. Unfortunately, thanks to the copious amount of liquor he’d consumed, he’d lost his balance—and had fallen smack into her.
But did she squeal and jump away? No. She hadn’t behaved as any normal female would. Rather, she’d stood her ground and shoved back at him, planting her hands against his chest, sending him right onto his arse before both the living and the dead.
To this day, despite having been raving drunk, he still remembered the instant heat and desire that had overtaken him upon coming into close contact with her. With the woman who had nearly become his sister-in-law. With my brother’s fiancée...
Desperate to get away before she could discern the embarrassing truth, he’d insulted her yet again—and she’d walked right up to where he sat and slapped him. She’d hit him so hard it had knocked the back of his head into the grave marker behind him. That slap, along with the look in her eyes, had left a permanent imprint on his soul.
He watched now, immobilized, as she turned. For an instant, he saw her face in full. Her eyes widened in recognition, again sending a stinging wave of hot prickles down the back of his neck. Half a heartbeat later, someone moved between them and blocked their view of one another.
Roland fled without any care for his dignity and did not stop until he reached an unoccupied salon and put a closed door between himself and that woman. He stood against it, gulping for air.
Damn.
His heart raced, his skin was clammy, and he shook like a man taken by an ague. In the back of his mind he’d known it would be impossible to avoid her entirely, yet still he’d hoped never to lay eyes on her again.
He needed to leave. At once. If history was any sort of guide, there would be an enormous row should the two of them meet. And if history was any sort of guide, he would be on the losing end of it.
After an acceptable interval had passed without event, he opened the door a crack and peeked out. Seeing no one, he ventured into the hall and made his way back to the ballroom. As he approached the entrance, he again caught a glimpse of her still conversing with her friend.
It was pure luck he hadn’t run right into her. He dare not tempt Fate by lingering now. Skirting the edge of the room, he left without bothering to pay respects to Twickenham.
As the London night slipped past his carriage window, he tried not to think about what a bloody coward he’d become.
Three
One Week Later
“Praise the Lord, he signed them!” Harriett exclaimed, looking in disbelief at the papers Mr. Blume handed her.
“Indeed, he did,
my lady. All of them.” His smile was beatific.
Her brows rose farther as she thumbed through the stack. “By George—he authorized the hiring of additional staff, too? I didn’t think that one would make it past him. I must say, I never expected Lord Pain-in-the—” Stopping, she flushed and began again. “I never expected His Grace to be so cooperative. However did you manage to persuade him?”
“There wasn’t really much persuasion to it, I’m afraid,” replied Mr. Blume with a sheepish look. “I believe Lord Manchester might have been just a bit, ah, eager to see the back of me. He never seems to enjoy my visits the way his brother did.”
“Well, I certainly do,” she assured him, rising. “Especially today. Come and have tea with me in the kitchen, Mr. Blume, and we’ll celebrate this miracle with a slice of cake. Mrs. Glasse has created a wonderful new confection—she’s calling it a ‘pound’ cake for the pound of butter it requires. You simply must try it.”
His smile widened. “I could never turn down such a kind offer. Mrs. Glasse’s creations are legendary. The woman ought to write a book of her recipes. She’d likely make a fortune.”
“That is certainly a suggestion worth considering. Perhaps I’ll suggest it to her. Today would have been William’s thirty-sixth birthday, you know,” she told him as they walked. “I thought it fitting that we should mark the day with a bit of joy—hence the cake.”
“I’m sure he would have approved, my lady. He was a good man, the former duke. A noble spirit with a heart for those less fortunate than himself.”
“Yes. Unlike his successor,” Harriett muttered uncharitably. “Though on this day, I suppose we must include him in our gratitude, as well. After all, he did sign the papers. When can we expect to see the funds?”
“I’ve already been to the bank and taken care of it, my lady,” replied the solicitor with good cheer. “I thought it prudent to act at once, lest His Grace come to regret his haste and attempt to retract his largesse. Still, I shouldn’t take too long to make the purchases outlined in your request, if I were you.”
“You are not only skilled in your profession, Mr. Blume, but very wise. I’ve had the papers ready and waiting for the past several weeks now. I shall send them immediately after we’ve had our tea. If His Grace comes looking for his money, he shall find it in the form of provisions, beds, linens, and coal.”
She strode into the vast kitchen and greeted its mistress with warmth. “Dear Mrs. Glasse, might I prevail upon you for tea and two slices of your new cake?”
“Of course, my lady,” answered the cook, beaming. Turning her smile upon their guest, she added, “I’ll be sure to wrap some for you to take back to Mrs. Blume as well as some sweeties for the children.”
“Many thanks, Mrs. Glasse,” said Mr. Blume, bobbing a bow. “They will be delighted for the treat, I’m sure.”
Appropriating one of the work tables at the back of the room where it was a bit cooler, Harriett bade her guest sit while they were served.
Mr. Blume took a forkful of dense, buttery cake. His expression transformed to one of rapture. “Have you given any thought to how his lordship will react when he finds out the person who has been running this place in his absence is a woman?” he asked finally.
“I have,” she answered, enjoying his reaction to the cake. It really was delicious. “And I believe it would be best to make myself scarce when he comes to visit. You will send word to warn me of his anticipated arrival, won’t you?”
“Of course, my lady. But what excuse shall I give His Grace for your absence?”
“Tell him...tell him my wife is ill and I have gone to see to her care. That should suffice.”
“As you say, my lady,” he said, nodding. “Now, as to the improvements you’ve outlined in these documents—”
“The workers have been on standby, as well. I shall have them begin the renovations first thing in the morning. One must make hay while the sun shines, and I want those improvements well underway before His Grace’s visit.”
The solicitor shook his head and laughed. “You would have made an impressive general, my lady. You’ve a talent for staying ahead of your opponent.”
Her cheeks grew warm. Such praise was rare these days. Only William had ever been so open in his admiration of her abilities. “My talent may be accounted for simply by virtue of knowing my enemy.”
“How I wish the previous Lord Manchester had lived long enough to marry you,” said the man, bowing his head. “Then there would be no need for subterfuge.”
“I, too, find it distasteful to resort to such methods. For my part, I wish the current duke were a better man so that it would not be necessary, but we must make do with what we are given.” She shook off her bitterness and smiled. “And today, we have been given a reprieve. Indeed, we have been given an unexpected, bountiful blessing. One I do not intend to waste. Come again in a week, Mr. Blume, and you shall learn the meaning of industry.”
He smiled back at her. “I shall, and with great pleasure and anticipation, my lady.”
Once their repast was finished and the conversation at an end, she saw him to the door. In his arms was a large basket containing a sampling of Mrs. Glasse’s best treats—including several of the small, brick-shaped “pound” cakes. His family, particularly the young ones, would be most appreciative. It was small compensation for his many kindnesses.
Mr. Blume was a dear. Since William’s death, the man had run interference for her with the current Lord Manchester. It had been at his suggestion that she’d taken the pseudonym “R. Dun” in order to facilitate business transactions between them. By this strategy, combined with the new duke’s complete disregard for his responsibilities, she’d managed to evade him thus far.
Unfortunately, that blessed time had come to an end. At least for now. Still, His Grace was only obliged to visit the premises in person twice a year. As long as she continued to manage things efficiently, he would have no reason to visit more often. She would see to it the place shone by the time he deigned to cross its threshold.
She entered the Administrator’s office—William’s office, had he been here—and stared for a moment at his portrait. Set in an ornate gold-gilt frame, it was a fine piece, far better than she’d expected to receive from the current Lord Manchester when the request had been put forth.
Gazing into William’s kindly blue eyes, she sighed. He always seemed to be smiling at her with gentle approval. “It has been a hard year, my love,” she whispered. “But matters are about to improve. I will not fail you.”
She’d done her best to carry on his work and felt she’d been fairly successful, especially given the shortages at times. The other governors had eventually given her their seal of approval, along with enough funds to make ends meet—just. Even so, she’d done better than many a male counterpart might have with more.
Looking down, she smiled at the crumbs still clinging to her skirt and brushed them away. If people were loath to give of their purses directly, at least there were those who gave in some other form. The cake today was the result of a special gift of flour and sugar from the Duchess of Montrose—enough to bake several dozen of Mrs. Glasse’s new cakes with plenty left over. Thanks to her generosity, the children would have fresh bread for several months and enough sugar for their tea to last even longer, if properly stored and used sparingly.
Last year, she’d garnered a gift of soft gray flannel from Lady Roxburghe. It had been plain, but plentiful—enough to keep fifty-three children warm through the winter. What mattered the color, so long as it kept a body from freezing?
Lancashire coal from Lord and Lady Crawford.
Turnips and barley, each in their respective season, from Lady Townsend.
Forty new woolen blankets from Sir Danby. He’d sent them after adopting a young boy from the Hospital. His wife had sent her a private gift of their finest merino as personal thanks, as well. It had made a lovely cloak.
Great wheels of Somerset cheddar from Mr. Waxle
y.
Cast-off furnishings from any number of benefactors throughout the year.
In truth, she’d been blessed with kind connections. Without them, she would have had to turn away some of those most in need.
With all her heart she hoped Arabella’s condition remained a secret, lest she lose those connections and bring harm to the Hospital and its small charges. Her sister’s fall from grace had the potential of damaging far more than her good name. If the worst happened, she would have little choice but to leave in order to save William’s legacy from the taint of her family’s scandal.
Not for the first time, anxiety made Harriett chew her lip. Her chief worry should be the care of these children, not her sister’s foolishness. To receive the censure of Society over the sins of another seemed unjust in the extreme, but that was how it would be. Arabella—and her father and unwed sisters with her—would suffer complete ostracism.
Such a disaster would soon be followed by poverty’s gnawing bite, for Papa had a terrible habit of wagering beyond his means. In the two years they’d been in London, everything she had not managed to invest or hide had been frittered away thanks to his desire to play the role of a gentleman at leisure.
Even her dowry had been plundered. On discovering it, she had in secret begun taking a small portion of their monthly income and saving it at a different bank. Thus far, she’d managed to squirrel away four hundred ninety-three pounds. It was a meager nest egg, certainly not enough to save them from privation for very long.
The changing of surname was the only way to save her and her sisters. One of them must marry well enough to care for the others.
Harriett stared at William’s likeness. If an offer came her way, she would be foolish not to take it. He would want her safe and secure, but it was difficult to think of marrying anyone else. He’d been everything she admired.
