by Julia Quinn
Dunford pushed away from the pillar. “I just might be able to help you out.”
Billington motioned with his hand to the darker recesses of the lawn. “I had a feeling you might.”
* * *
Lady Sarah-Jane Wolcott saw the two men walking toward the back of the garden, and her interest was immediately piqued. They had been conversing already for several minutes; what else could they need to talk about that would require even greater privacy? Mentally blessing the fact that she had chosen to wear a dark green dress that evening, she slipped into the shadows, moving quietly toward them until she found a spot where she could hide behind a large shrub. If she leaned forward, she could catch most of the gentlemen’s conversation.
“. . . going to have to get rid of Christine of course.” That sounded like Dunford.
“I certainly didn’t think you’d want to keep supporting a mistress with such a lovely wife.”
“I should have cut her loose weeks ago. Haven’t been to see her since I returned to London. One must be delicate about these things, though. I really don’t want to hurt her feelings.”
“Of course not.”
“The lease isn’t up on her house for a few months. That ought to give her time enough to find another protector.”
“I was thinking about offering myself for that role.”
That earned a chuckle from Dunford.
“I’ve had my eye on her for a few months now. Just been waiting until you tired of her.”
“I was planning to meet with her Friday evening at midnight, to tell her I’m getting married, although she’s bound to have heard already. I’ll put in a good word for you.”
Billington smiled as he took a sip of the drink he’d been holding in his hand. “You do that.”
“I must confess, I’m glad you’ve taken an interest in her. She’s a nice woman. I shouldn’t like to think of her set adrift.”
“Good.” Billington slapped Dunford on the back. “I’d best be getting back to the party. One never knows when a debutante with a brain might show up. I’ll talk to you next week, after you’ve had a chance to deal with Christine.”
Dunford nodded and watched Billington stride back across the terrace. After a few moments he did the same.
Sarah-Jane’s lips curved into a smile as she pondered what she had just overheard and what use she could make of the tidbit. She wasn’t exactly certain what it was about Miss Henrietta Barrett that so rankled her, but rankle she did. Perhaps it was simply the fact that Dunford was quite obviously besotted with the girl when she, Sarah-Jane, had been angling after him for nearly a year. And little Miss Henry obviously felt the same way. Every time she looked at the chit, she was looking at Dunford as if he were a god.
Sarah-Jane supposed that was what irritated her most about the girl—she was so damned innocent and unaffected, rather like Sarah-Jane had been at that age, before her parents married her off to Lord Wolcott, a notorious lecher three times her age. Sarah-Jane had consoled herself with a string of affairs, mostly with married men. Henry was going to be in for a rude awakening when she realized that married men did not remain faithful to their wives for very long.
Her head snapped up. Why not teach Henry that little lesson early? It wasn’t as if she were doing anything evil, Sarah-Jane rationalized. Henry was going to have to learn the sad truth about ton marriages sooner or later. And perhaps sooner was better. Approached from that angle, it was obvious that she was actually doing Henry a favor. Better that the chit enter her marriage with open eyes than become horribly disillusioned a few months later.
Sarah-Jane was smiling as she made her way back to the party.
Henry tried hard not to crane her neck as she scanned the crowds for Dunford. Where on earth had the man gone? She had spent the last half hour answering questions about their upcoming nuptials and thought it was high time he did his fair share.
“May I congratulate you on your upcoming marriage?”
Henry sighed and turned to the latest well-wisher, then opened her eyes a little wider when she saw it was Sarah-Jane Wolcott. “Lady Wolcott,” she said, unable to keep a touch of frost from her voice. The lady had, after all, practically thrown herself on Dunford the last time they had met. “What a surprise.”
“Why a surprise?” Sarah-Jane replied with a tilt of her head. “Surely you do not think I would begrudge another lady the happiness of wedded bliss.”
Henry wanted to tell her she had no idea what she would or would not do, but mindful of the curious eyes and ears around her, she merely smiled and said, “Thank you.”
“I assure you, I have nothing but the fondest wishes for you and your fiancé.”
“I believe you,” Henry said through clenched teeth, wishing that the other lady would just disappear.
“Good, but I would like to give you a bit of advice. From one woman to another, of course.”
Henry did not have a good feeling about this. “That is very kind of you, Lady Wolcott, but Lady Worth, Lady Blackwood, and the Duchess of Ashbourne have all been most kind in giving me all sorts of necessary advice as pertains to the married state.”
“That is very good of them, I am sure. I would expect no less from such gracious ladies.”
Henry swallowed down the bad taste in her mouth and refrained from saying that the three ladies in question did not view Lady Wolcott with equal admiration.
“The advice I have for you,” Sarah-Jane continued with an affected twist of her wrist, “is something no one else could tell you.”
Pasting a bright, unnatural smile on her face, Henry leaned forward and said, “I am breathless with anticipation.”
“Of course you are,” Sarah-Jane murmured. “But here, let us step back from the crowds for a moment. What I have to say is for your ears alone.”
Eager now to do anything to get rid of the woman, Henry obligingly took a few paces back.
“Please believe that I would do nothing to hurt you,” Sarah-Jane said in a low voice, “and I tell you this only because I do not believe that any woman should enter into marriage without her eyes widely opened. I was not given that privilege.”
“What is it, Lady Wolcott?” Henry ground out.
“My dear, I just thought you should know that Dunford has a mistress.”
Chapter 20
“Is that all, Lady Wolcott?” Henry said frigidly.
Sarah-Jane did not have to feign surprise. “Then you already knew. You must be an exceptional young woman to dote on him so when there is another woman in his life.”
“I do not believe you, Lady Wolcott. I think you are malicious in the extreme. Now, if you will excuse me—”
Sarah-Jane caught hold of Henry’s sleeve before she could make her escape. “I can understand your reluctance to accept that what I say is true. You probably fancy yourself in love with him.”
Henry almost blurted out that she didn’t “fancy” anything—she was in love with Dunford—but not wanting to give Lady Wolcott the satisfaction of seeing that her emotions had been roused, she simply clamped her mouth shut. Sarah-Jane cocked her head in an extremely condescending manner, and Henry, unable to take any more, tugged at her sleeve and said coldly, “Please let go of me.”
“Her name is Christine Fowler. He is going to see her on Friday. At midnight.”
“I said, ‘Let go of me,’ Lady Wolcott.”
“Have it your own way, then, Miss Barrett. But think about this: if I am lying, how could I possibly give you the specific time of his next assignation? You could simply go to her house at midnight, see I am wrong, and declare me a liar.” Abruptly, she let go of Henry’s sleeve. “But I am not a liar.”
Henry, who had been poised for flight just moments earlier, found herself rooted to the spot. Lady Wolcott’s words held more than a grain of sense.
“Here.” Sarah-Jane held out a piece of paper. “This
is her address. Miss Fowler is rather well-known. Even I know where she lives.”
Henry stared at the slip of paper as if it were a monster.
“Take it, Miss Barrett. What you choose to do with it is up to you.”
Henry still stared, unable to identify the awful emotions coursing through her. Lady Wolcott finally picked up her hand, uncurled her fingers, and tucked the paper into her palm. “In case you don’t read it, Miss Barrett, I will tell you the address. She lives at number fourteen, Russell Square, in Bloomsbury. It is quite a nice little house. I believe your husband-to-be acquired it for her.”
“Please go away,” Henry said, her voice flat.
“As you wish.”
“Now.”
Lady Wolcott inclined her head gracefully and disappeared into the crowd.
“Oh, there you are, Henry!”
Henry looked up and saw Belle approaching.
“What are you doing off in the corner?”
Henry swallowed. “Just trying to escape the crowds for a moment.”
“I certainly cannot blame you. It can be rather wearisome being the latest rage, can it not? But have no fear, Dunford surely will be along shortly to save you.”
“No!” Henry said wildly. “That is, I don’t feel well. Would I be terribly rude if I went home now?”
Belle looked at her with concern in her eyes. “Of course not. You do look a trifle flushed. I hope you do not have the fever.”
“No, I just . . . I just want to lie down.”
“Of course. Why don’t you make your way to the door? I’ll find Dunford and have him escort you home.”
“No.” The word came out quickly and with more force than Henry intended. “That’s not necessary. He’s probably with his friends, and I don’t want to interrupt him.”
“I’m certain he won’t mind. In fact he would be most upset with me for not informing him you are ill. He’ll be very concerned.”
“But I really want to go now.” Henry could hear a note of hysteria creeping into her voice. “I really would like to lie down, and it may take you ages to locate him.”
“All right,” Belle said slowly. “Come with me. I’ll have my carriage bring you home. No, I’ll escort you. You don’t look very steady on your feet.”
Henry wasn’t surprised. She certainly didn’t feel very steady, either on her feet or otherwise. “That’s not necessary, Belle. I’ll be all right once I lie down.”
“It’s absolutely necessary,” Belle replied firmly. “And it is no trouble at all. I’ll see you to bed and then return to the party.”
Henry nodded, not even noticing when the hated piece of paper slipped from her fingers.
They made their way outside, stopping to ask a friend to inform John and Dunford that they had left. When they reached the carriage, Henry realized she was trembling; the shaking stayed with her the entire way home.
Belle’s eyes grew more and more worried, and she reached to touch Henry’s forehead. “Are you certain you do not have the fever? I had one once. It was dreadful, but we can treat you more effectively if we detect it early.”
“No,” Henry said, clutching her arms to her chest. “It’s just fatigue. I’m sure of it.”
Belle did not look convinced, and when they arrived at the Blydon mansion, she prodded Henry quickly up the stairs and into bed. “I don’t think I should leave,” she said, sitting down in the chair next to Henry’s bed. “You don’t look at all well, and I shouldn’t like you to be alone if you take a turn for the worse.”
“Please don’t stay,” Henry begged, thinking that somehow she needed to be alone in her misery and confusion. “I shan’t be alone. Your parents employ an army of servants. And I don’t intend to do anything other than lie down and go to sleep. Besides, John will be expecting you back at the ball. You did leave word that you planned to return.”
“You’re certain you’ll go right to sleep?”
“I’m certain I’ll try.” With all the thoughts swimming in her head, Henry wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to sleep peacefully again.
“All right, then. But don’t think I’m going to enjoy myself.” Belle smiled as she tried to tease some good humor into her friend.
Henry managed a feeble smile in return. “Would you please blow out the candle when you leave?”
Belle nodded, did as she was asked, and walked out.
Henry laid awake in the dark for several hours. She stared up at a ceiling she could not see, her mind whirling around in a maze that always seemed to take her back to the same spot.
Surely Lady Wolcott had to be lying. She was obviously malicious, and Henry had been made very aware that she wanted—or at least once had wanted—Dunford for herself. She had every motive for trying to destroy Henry’s happiness.
Furthermore, Dunford loved her. He had said he did, and Henry believed him. No man could have gazed upon her with such tenderness, made love to her with such exquisite devotion, if he did not love her.
Unless—what if she hadn’t pleased him? When they had made love, Dunford had stopped short of completion. He had told her it was because he hadn’t wanted her to become pregnant. At the time she had marveled at his control.
But would a man in love possess that kind of control? Maybe he hadn’t felt the same sort of urgency she had. Maybe he would have found a sophisticated woman more desirable. Maybe she was still too much of a green, country-bred girl. No, a tomboy. Maybe she wasn’t enough of a girl at all.
When it came right down to it, she still knew very little about being a woman. She had to consult Belle on nearly every matter of importance.
Henry curled into a ball, pressing her hands against her ears as if this could shut out the pessimistic voice inside her. She wouldn’t let herself doubt him. He loved her. He’d said so, and she believed him.
Only a man in love could have said in such intense, grave tones, Sometimes I think I would give my life just for one of your smiles.
If Dunford loved her, and she was certain he did, then he couldn’t possibly want to keep a mistress. He would never do anything to hurt her so viciously.
But then why would Lady Wolcott have offered a specific time and place for his supposed meeting with this Christine Fowler? As she had said, if she was lying, it would certainly be easy for Henry to find her out. All she would have to do is lurk outside Christine Fowler’s house at the appointed time and see if Dunford arrived. If Lady Wolcott was lying, Dunford would never show.
So there must be some sort of truth in Lady Wolcott’s story, Henry decided. She didn’t know how she could have acquired this information, but she would not put it past the woman to eavesdrop or to read other people’s missives. But regardless of Lady Wolcott’s treachery, one thing was certain: something was going to happen at midnight on Friday.
All at once Henry felt a wrenching wave of guilt. How could she doubt Dunford like this? She would be furious with him if he displayed a similar lack of trust in her. She knew she shouldn’t doubt him. She didn’t want to doubt him, but she couldn’t very well go up to Dunford and question him about the matter. Then he would know she had doubted him. She didn’t know if he would react with fury or cold disappointment, but she didn’t think she could bear either one.
She was running in circles. She couldn’t confront him because he would be angry that she thought there might be even a kernel of truth in Lady Wolcott’s words. And if she didn’t do anything, she’d spend the rest of her life with this cloud of doubt over her head. She didn’t really think he kept a mistress, and to accuse him would be provoking in the extreme. But if she didn’t confront him, she would never know for certain.
Henry squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she would start to cry. Tears would exhaust her, and then maybe she’d be able to sleep.
“What do you mean she’s ill?” Dunford took a menacing step toward Belle.
“Just t
hat, Dunford. She wasn’t feeling well, so I took her home and put her to bed. It’s been a most tiring fortnight for her, in case you hadn’t noticed. Half of London decided they simply had to make her acquaintance in the last two weeks. And then you practically abandoned her to the wolves the moment we got here.”
Dunford winced at the note of reproach in Belle’s voice. “I am trying to keep gossip to a minimum. If I pay too much public attention to her, the tongues will begin to wag anew.”
“Will you cease about the gossip!” Belle snapped. “I know you say you’re doing it all for Henry, but she doesn’t care a fig about it. All she cares about is you, and you disappeared this evening.”
His eyes burned, and he started to walk past her. “I am going to see her.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Belle said, catching him by the sleeve. “The poor girl is exhausted; let her sleep. And when I said to stop worrying about the gossip, I did not mean to imply that it was acceptable to storm into her room—in my mother’s house, no less—in the middle of the night.”
Dunford stilled, but he clenched his jaw against the strength of his self-loathing and impotence. He’d never felt this way; it was as if something were eating him from the inside out. Just knowing that Henry was ill, and if not alone at least not with him, made him shiver with cold and hot and fear and God knew what else. “Is she going to be all right?” he finally got out, his tone carefully even.
“She’s going to be just fine,” Belle said softly, laying a hand on his arm. “She just needs a bit of sleep. I will make certain to ask my mother to look in on her later this evening.”
He nodded curtly. “Do that. I’ll be by to see her tomorrow.”
“I’m sure she’ll appreciate that. I’ll stop by as well.” She started to walk away, but he called out her name. Turning back around, she said, “Yes?”
“I just want to thank you, Belle.” He paused, a muscle working in his throat. “For befriending her. You have no idea how badly she needed a friend. It has meant a great deal to her. And to me.”
“Oh, Dunford. You don’t have to thank me. She makes it so very easy to be her friend.”