by Julia Quinn
Dunford sighed as he left the ball. The party had been tolerable only because he had known that he would soon claim his fiancée in a waltz. Now that she was gone, there was nothing left to look forward to. It was amazing to think how bleak life looked without her.
What was he thinking? With a shake of his head, he banished the thought from his mind. There was no reason even to contemplate life without Henry. He loved her, and she loved him. What more could he need?
“You have a visitor, Miss Barrett.”
Henry looked up from her bed at the maid who had just made that announcement. Belle had come by that morning to keep her company, and the two of them were presently leafing through fashion plates.
“Who is it, Sally?” Belle asked.
“It’s Lord Stannage, my lady. He said he wants to see how his fiancée is faring.”
Belle frowned. “It’s not really proper for him to come up here, but you are ill, and I am here to chaperone you.”
Henry didn’t have time to say that she wasn’t certain if she wanted to see him before Belle added, “I’m sure you’re just dying to see him. It will be all right for just a moment.” She nodded at the maid, who went downstairs to fetch Dunford.
He appeared so quickly that Henry thought he must have taken the steps two at a time. “How are you?” he asked huskily, moving quickly to her side.
She swallowed spasmodically, trying to get rid of the lump in her throat. He was looking at her with such love in his eyes, she felt like a traitor for ever having thought, however briefly, that Lady Wolcott was telling the truth. “A—a bit better.”
He took her hand and held it between his. “I cannot tell you how glad I am to hear that.”
Belle cleared her throat. “I’ll just wait outside the door.” She leaned down and said to Dunford, “Only two minutes.”
He nodded. Belle left the room but did not close the door. “How are you really feeling?” he asked.
“Much better,” Henry said truthfully. She did feel much better now that she’d seen him again. She felt like a fool for ever thinking he’d betray her. “I think it was mostly fatigue.”
“You do look a bit tired.” He frowned. “There are shadows under your eyes.”
The shadows were probably entirely due to her inability to sleep the night before, Henry thought ruefully. “I think I shall spend the rest of today in bed,” she said. “I cannot remember the last time I did so. I feel sinfully lazy.”
He touched her chin. “You deserve it.”
“Do I?”
“Mmm-hmm. I want you well rested when we get married.” He grinned wickedly. “Then I intend to tire you out.”
A hint of a blush crept across her cheeks, but she was not too embarrassed to say, “I wish we were married right now.”
“As do I, my love.” He leaned forward, his heavy-lidded gaze dropping to her lips.
“Hello!” Belle poked her head into the room.
Dunford cursed rather fluently under his breath. “Your timing is, as always, impeccable.”
Belle shrugged. “It’s a talent I cultivate.”
“I wish you’d cultivate it a bit less,” Henry muttered.
Dunford lifted one of Henry’s hands to his lips and kissed it before rising to his feet. “I shall call tomorrow to see how you are doing. Perhaps we can go for a walk if you feel up to it.”
“I’d like that.”
He took a step as if to leave, then turned back to her, bending his knees slightly so his face was more on a level with her own. “Would you do me a favor?”
Henry nodded, startled by the serious look in his eyes.
“Will you promise me that if you feel the slightest bit worse, you will consult a physician immediately?”
She nodded again.
“I also want you to see one if you don’t begin to feel better by tomorrow.”
“I already feel much better. Thank you for coming.”
He smiled, one of those secret smiles that never failed to turn her knees to butter. Then, with a slight bow, he left the room.
“Did you have a nice visit?” Belle asked. “No, don’t even bother answering. I can see for myself. You’re positively radiant.”
“I know that ladies aren’t supposed to go into trade, Belle, but if we could bottle one of his smiles as medicine, we’d make a fortune.”
Belle smiled indulgently as she straightened her skirts. “Much as I adore Dunford, I feel obligated to point out that his smiles are not nearly as special as those of my husband.”
“Bah,” Henry scoffed. “Speaking from a purely objective standpoint, anyone can see that Dunford’s smiles are clearly superior.”
“Objective standpoint, my foot.”
Henry grinned. “What we need is an impartial observer. We could ask Emma, but I have a feeling she’d simply say that both of us are mad in the head and that Alex has the nicest smile.”
“I imagine that is the way it should be,” Belle said.
“Mmm-hmm.” Henry plucked at her blankets for a few moments before saying, “Belle? Might I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“It pertains to married life.”
“Oh,” Belle said knowingly. “I thought you might want to talk to me about that. Since you don’t have a mother, I didn’t know whom you’d turn to with questions.”
“Oh, no, not that,” Henry said quickly, feeling the now-familiar blush stain her cheeks. “I know all about that.”
Belle coughed, hiding a bit of her face behind her hand.
“Not from firsthand experience,” Henry lied. “But remember I grew up on a farm. We did a fair amount of animal breeding.”
“I . . . ah . . . I feel I must interject here for a moment.” Belle paused, looking as if she were trying to figure out the best way to proceed. “I did not grow up on a farm, but I am not wholly unfamiliar with animal husbandry, and I have to say that although the mechanics are the same . . .”
Henry had never seen Belle blush this much. She decided to take pity on her friend and quickly said, “The matter I wanted to talk to you about is slightly different.”
“Oh?”
“I understand—that is to say, I’ve heard that many men keep mistresses.”
Belle slowly nodded. “That is true.”
“And that many of them continue to keep their mistresses after they are wed.”
“Oh, Henry, is that what this is about? Are you afraid Dunford is going to keep a mistress? I can assure you he won’t, not when he loves you so much. I imagine you’ll keep him so busy he won’t have time for a mistress.”
“But does he have one now?” Henry persisted. “I know I cannot expect that he has led the life of a monk before meeting me. I’m not even jealous of any women with whom he might have had liaisons before he met me. I certainly cannot hold it against him if he didn’t even know me at the time. But what if he still has a mistress now?”
Belle swallowed uncomfortably. “I cannot give you anything less than complete honesty, Henry. I know that Dunford was keeping a mistress when he left for Cornwall, but I don’t think he has seen her since he returned. I swear it. I’m sure he’s broken it off with her by now. Or if he hasn’t, he’s going to.”
Henry licked her lips thoughtfully, relief sinking into her bones. Of course, that was it. He was planning to see this Christine Fowler woman on Friday night to tell her she would need to seek another protector. She’d rather that he had taken care of the task when they first arrived in London, but she couldn’t censure him for putting off what was probably an unpleasant chore. Henry was sure that his mistress wouldn’t want to part with him. She couldn’t imagine any woman wanting to part with him.
“Did John keep a mistress before he met you?” Henry asked curiously. “Oh, I’m sorry. That was frightfully personal.”
“It’s all right,” Belle assured he
r. “Actually, John was not keeping a mistress, but he also wasn’t living in London. It’s quite a common practice here. I know Alex kept one, though, and he stopped seeing her the minute he met Emma. I’m sure it’s the same for you and Dunford.”
Belle sounded so convinced that Henry couldn’t help but believe her. It was, after all, what she wanted to believe. And in her heart she knew it was true.
For all her certainty in Dunford’s innocence, Henry still found herself oddly jittery on Friday. She was startled every time someone spoke to her, and the slightest noise made her jump. She spent three hours reading the same page of Shakespeare, and the thought of food made her sick.
Dunford collected her for their daily walk at three in the afternoon, and the sight of him left her tongue-tied. All she could think about was that he would be seeing HER that evening. She wondered what they would say to each other. What did SHE look like? Was she beautiful? Did she look like Henry? Please, God, don’t let her look like me, Henry thought. She wasn’t entirely certain why this meant so much to her, but she thought she might be ill if she found out she resembled Christine Fowler in any way.
“What has you so preoccupied?” Dunford asked, smiling down at her indulgently.
Henry started. “Just wool-gathering, I’m afraid.”
“Penny for your thoughts.”
“Oh, they’re not worth it,” she said with unnecessary force. “Believe me.”
He looked at her oddly. They walked on for a few paces before he said, “I hear you have been making use of Lord Worth’s library.”
“Oh, yes,” Henry said with relief, hoping that a benign topic would help to take her mind off Christine Fowler. “Belle has been recommending some of Shakespeare’s plays to me. She has read them all, you know.”
“I know,” he murmured. “She did it in alphabetical order, I believe.”
“Did she? How odd.” Another silence, and Henry’s thoughts were back to precisely where she did not want them. Finally, knowing she was absolutely, positively doing the wrong thing but unable to help herself, she turned to him and asked, “Do you have any special plans for this evening?”
The tips of his ears grew red; a sure sign of guilt, Henry thought. “Ah, no,” he said. “I was just planning to meet some friends at White’s for a game of whist.”
“I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time.”
“Why do you ask?”
She shrugged. “Curiosity, I suppose. Tonight is the first night in weeks that our plans for the evening don’t coincide. Except, of course, for when I was ill.”
“Well, I don’t expect to be seeing quite as much of my friends once we’re married, so I’m rather obligated to join them in a card game now.”
I’ll just bet you are, she thought sarcastically. Then she berated herself for thinking so badly of him. He was going to his mistress’s house that evening to break it off. She should be happy. And if he was lying to her about it, well that was only natural. Why would he want her to know he was going there at all?
“What are your plans?” he asked her.
She grimaced. “Lady Worth is forcing me to attend a musicale.”
Horror slid across his face. “Not . . .”
“I’m afraid so. Your Smythe-Smith cousins. She feels I ought to meet some of your relations.”
“Yes, but doesn’t she understand . . . ? Henry, this is too cruel. Never in the history of the British Isles have there been four females less gifted with musical talent.”
“So I’ve heard. Belle has flatly refused to accompany us.”
“I’m afraid I dragged her to one last year. I don’t even think she’ll walk down their street anymore for fear she might hear them practicing.”
Henry smiled. “Now I’m growing curious.”
“Don’t,” he said, very seriously. “If I were you, I would endeavor to have a serious relapse this evening.
“Really, Dunford, they can’t be that bad.”
“Yes,” he said darkly, “they can.”
“I don’t suppose you could swoop down and save me this evening?” she asked, giving him a sideways glance.
“I wish I could. Truly, I do. As your future husband, it is my duty to shield you from all unpleasantness, and believe me, the Smythe-Smith string quartet is beyond unpleasant. But my engagements this evening are most pressing. I cannot break them.”
Henry now was certain that he was going to see Christine Fowler at midnight. He’s breaking it off, she repeated to herself. He’s breaking it off. That was the only explanation.
Chapter 21
That may have been the only explanation, but it didn’t mean Henry felt particularly chipper about it. As midnight grew near, her thoughts became increasingly fixed on Dunford’s upcoming meeting with Christine Fowler. Even the Smythe-Smith musicale, dreadful as it was, failed to distract her.
On the other hand, perhaps Dunford’s meeting with Christine Fowler was a blessing in disguise; at least it was distracting her from the Smythe-Smith string quartet.
Dunford had not underestimated their musical skill.
To her credit, Henry managed to sit still throughout the performance, concentrating on discovering a method to somehow close up her ears from the inside out. She looked discreetly up at the clock. It was quarter past ten. She wondered if he was at White’s now, enjoying a game of cards before his meeting.
The concert finally drew to its last discordant note, and the audience breathed a collective sigh of relief. As she stood, Henry heard someone say, “Thank goodness they didn’t perform an original composition.”
Henry almost laughed, but then she saw that one of the Smythe-Smith girls had heard the comment, too. To her surprise, the girl did not look ready to burst into tears. She looked furious. Henry found herself nodding approvingly. At least the girl had spirit. Then she realized that the seething glare was not directed at the rude guest but at the girl’s mother. Curious, Henry immediately decided to introduce herself. She made her way through the crowd and onto the makeshift stage. The other three Smythe-Smith daughters had begun to mingle in the crowd, but the one with the forbidding expression on her face played the cello, which she couldn’t very well carry around with her. She seemed reluctant to leave it unattended.
“Hello,” Henry said, holding out her hand. “I am Miss Henrietta Barrett. I know that it is forward of me to introduce myself, but I thought we might make an exception as we are soon to be cousins.”
The girl stared at her blankly for a moment and then said, “Oh, yes. You must be betrothed to Dunford. Is he here?”
“No, he was otherwise engaged. He has a very busy schedule this evening.”
“Please, you don’t have to make excuses for him. This”—she waved her hand at the chairs and music stands still in place—“is hideous. He’s a very kind man and has come to three of these already. Actually, I’m quite glad he didn’t come. I shouldn’t want to be responsible for his deafness, which is sure to ensue if he attends too many of our musicales.”
Henry smothered a giggle.
“No, please go ahead and laugh,” the girl said. “I’d much rather you did that than compliment me as all these people are bound to do soon.”
“But tell me,” Henry said, leaning forward. “Why does everyone keep coming?”
The girl looked bewildered. “I don’t know. I think it must be out of respect for my late papa. Oh, but I am sorry, I have not even told you my name. I am Charlotte Smythe-Smith.”
“I know.” Henry motioned to her program, which listed the daughters’ names and their respective instruments.
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “It has been lovely meeting you, Miss Barrett. I hope we will have a chance to do so again soon. But please, I beg of you, do not attend another one of our performances. I should not like to be responsible for the loss of your sanity, which is sure to occur if you do not find yourself deaf fir
st.”
Henry bit back a smile. “It’s not as bad as that.”
“Oh, but I know that it is.”
“Well, it certainly is not good,” Henry admitted. “But I am glad I came. You’re the first of Dunford’s relatives I have met.”
“And you are the first of his fiancées I have met.”
Henry’s heart skipped a beat. “I beg your pardon.”
“Oh, dear,” Charlotte said quickly, her face growing pink. “I have gone and done it again. Somehow the things I say sound so much different in my head than they do aloud.”
Henry smiled, seeing quite a bit of herself in Dunford’s cousin.
“You are, of course, his first—and one would hope only—fiancée. It is just that it is most exciting to hear that he is betrothed. He has always been such a rake, and— Oh, dear, you didn’t really want to hear that, did you?”
Henry tried to smile again but just couldn’t manage it. The last thing she wanted to hear tonight were tales of Dunford’s rakehell days.
* * *
Caroline and Henry took their leave soon thereafter, Caroline fanning herself vigorously in the coach and declaring, “I swear I will never attend one of those recitals again.”
“How many have you attended?”
“This is my third.”
“One would think you would have learned your lesson by now.”
“Yes.” Caroline sighed. “One would.”
“Why do you go?”
“I don’t know. The girls are really quite sweet, and I shouldn’t want to hurt their feelings.”
“At least we may make an early evening of it. All of that noise exhausted me.”
“Myself as well. With any luck I’ll be in bed before midnight.”
Midnight. Henry cleared her throat. “What time is it now?”
“It is probably near to half past eleven. The clock said fifteen minutes past the hour when we left.”
Henry wished there was some way to stop her heart from beating quite so fast. Dunford was probably preparing to leave his club at that very minute. Soon he would be on his way to Bloomsbury, to number fourteen, Russell Square. Silently, she cursed Lady Wolcott for having given her the address. She hadn’t been able to stop herself from looking it up on a map. It made it all the more difficult, knowing precisely where he was going.