The countess continued, “Of course, as a man, he is oblivious to the trials of introducing a young lady into society, let alone one who has been isolated in the country.”
“He doesn’t understand at all!” Mary said.
“But I do, child.” She laid a comforting hand on top of Mary’s. “Although it took no small effort on my part to convince him how unprepared a young woman of your situation would be to face a London season, he finally had the wisdom to acknowledge your need of genteel feminine guidance.”
“Is that why you have come?” Mary asked. “To provide guidance?”
“Exactly, my child! How clever you are! At Sir Richard’s behest, I am to instruct you in the ways of polite society and feminine comportment.”
“With all these coaches, servants, trappings, and trunks?”
“All necessary implements for your transformation,” Lady Blanchard answered with aplomb.
Mary’s stomach roiled. “Wh-what kind of transformation?”
“To that of a modish young lady, of course. When my abigail and dresser are finished with you, you will be one of the toasts of London.”
“But why would I wish that?”
The question caused the countess a visible start. “Dear girl, how absurd you are! To snare a titled husband, of course!”
“Snare? Like a rabbit?”
“But of course! For what man willingly enters wedlock? Fortunately, you my dear, have more than adequate bait for your snare. Your wealth should draw them like bees swarming to honey.”
“Truth be told, my lady. I don’t truly wish to wed at all, but if I must, it should be to a man who at least desires me.”
“La, child! Your notion of marriage is quite misguided. In the class to which you aspire, sentiment is rarely part of the bargain, for gentleman of rank and station are an entirely covetous breed. They wed for money and estates and the heir to continue the line. But once an heir or two has been produced, most husbands are no longer much of a burden for their wives to bear.” She gave Mary a meaningful smile.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that they take mistresses, darling, although it is exceedingly ill-mannered to speak of such things.”
“But my father never had a mistress,” Mary said. “And I don’t desire a husband who would.”
“Poor dear, you truly do have no understanding at all.” Lady Blanchard patted her hand. “Men are naught but rutting beasts, driven by carnal desires that a gently bred woman simply does not share. Thus, it is much more pleasant to allow them to tend those baser needs elsewhere. Don’t you see?”
“No, my lady. I don’t see. Surely there must be some men who cherish their vows?”
“La, child! ‘Tis a pity I must shatter your illusions but you will eventually come to see how it is. For your own sake, I would bid you to lay aside your romantic notions and accept my guidance in all matters matrimonial. Indeed my little Cinderella, you must think of me as your fairy godmother.”
Chapter Five
THE FOUNTAIN TAVERN ON THE STRAND, WESTMINSTER, AUGUST—1727
Hadley Blanchard drummed his fingers on the scarred oak table while sipping his third glass of Madeira. The languor he sought from the bottle to cool his nerves still eluded him, though one would never know by his languid sprawl, and the covert manner in which his hooded gaze tracked the crowded taproom. After five years of practice, his eyes were as attuned to the smallest details as his hearing had become to filtering individual voices out of a cacophony of conversation. He plied both skills as he waited.
From the corner table he’d chosen, a habit adopted long ago as a means of self-preservation, he missed little. The Fountain Tavern was a political hotbed and an ideal place to gauge the shifting winds. Yet, the snippets he’d snatched from the men around him annihilated his last hopes—with the new king the old guard had remained. For Hadley, that meant little chance to regain what he had lost.
Hadley had come to London with a dual purpose, for Barbara’s letter had come swiftly upon the heels of King George I’s demise. It was an occasion that had filled both Hadley and the Pretender with renewed hope—for James to reclaim his throne, and Hadley, his own titles and properties. Sent to England to act as a covert emissary for the exiled king, he’d adopted the guise of an Italian nobleman, adorned in exquisite and costly silks and an elaborate full-bottomed wig, complete with powder, patch, and all the frills and frippery of a Continental fop. The incognito was a measure he’d taken out of caution, for the years abroad had tamed his reckless nature. It had also taught him patience and prudence. He strongly suspected this meeting would be an exercise in both.
His heart sunk when Sir Richard Fiske entered alone. He despised dealing with such a perfidious intermediary, but he should have known the First Lord of the Treasury would not deign to meet him in person. The porcine baronet squinted through the tallow smoke until lighting upon Hadley and elbowing his way through the throng with an air of self-importance.
“Signore Fiske! Che piacere vederti!” Hadley rose and swept his hat in a grand and flourishing Italianate gesture.
“My dear Conte di Caserta.” The baronet smiled and gave a low scraping bow for the benefit of onlookers. He then hissed through his clenched teeth. “What the devil are you doing here? You are supposed to be in Rome dancing attendance on the Pretender. You jeopardize everything with your recklessness!”
Hadley waved to the vacant chair with a benign smile. He answered in a low murmur, “As a matter of fact, I am come on a mission at the Pretender’s behest, for he and his friends no longer trust His Majesty King George’s mail service.” They had very good reason, as Walpole had long ago put the postmaster in his pocket to open the mail of every known Jacobite.
“You carry dispatches? Who are the treasonous dogs?” Sir Richard demanded. “Anyone we know?”
“Perhaps,” Haldey replied, purposefully vague. “I do not yet have the names. All of the correspondance has been transacted in cypher. They are preparing the next step, however, and this requires a meeting. Thus, I am come as James’ most trusted emissary.”
Sir Richard rolled his eyes. “They still conspire to put Dismal Jimmy on the throne? How many times before they finally learn? ‘Tis such a tiresome business quashing traitors, but then again it’s capital entertainment to see their necks stretched. You will give me copies of all the correspondance of course.”
“In good time. But at the moment I have other business.”
“The devil you say! What business is more important than what we pay you for?”
“Personal business, Sir Richard. You promised me five years ago to do your foremost to see my title and lands reinstated, yet in all this time, I have seen no progress to that end. I now intend to petition the king for the return of my birthright.”
Sir Richard poured a glass from the open bottle and studied Hadley with a narrowed stare. “Have you indeed? And why the deuce would you believe anything would have changed?”
“Did I not prevent a threat to the crown by delivering Bishop Atterbury on a silver salver? For five years I have been your whore, copying private letters, carrying secret dispatches, and risking my neck. Do I not merit any reward for my loyal service to the Hanoverians?”
“You have already been generously compensated. You have no reason for complaint, whiling away your days in idleness in sunny Italy like a bloody prince.” Sir Richard drained his glass and signalled the drawer for another bottle.
“As you well know, my so-called princely lifestyle has been necessary to this entire enterprise. How else could I have provided the quality of information you sought? Yet I have seen disproportionate compensation for my efforts.”
“If the arrangement is no longer satisfactory, another could easily take your place.”
Hadley laughed, yet his resentment seared white hot. “You are all bluster, Sir Richard. You chose me for a reason—because I was perfect for the part and I have fulfilled my end of the bargain. You know damn well it w
ould be years before you could gain any useful information from any one else. The Pretender’s friends are much more cautious than ever before. If, however, you are willing to assist me in my endeavor, I could be highly instrumental in putting another in my place.”
“What you want is impossible.”
Hadley arched a brow. “Oh, I think not. You are a very persuasive man when you wish to be, Sir Richard. Do you deny it was you who convinced the ministry to pin the crimes of others on my father? To posthumously impeach him?”
The baronet glared. “You blame me?”
“I know that you helped to perpetrate one of the greatest swindles in our time, a crime so great that it bankrupted thousands. My father, the late Earl of Blanchard, could not have profited from the South Sea Company as you claimed, for he was ruined well before he ever put the pistol in his mouth. But a dead man makes a most convenient scapegoat, doesn’t he?”
“You can prove nothing,” Sir Richard said.
“No. I cannot, for the stock ledgers disappeared the moment there was talk of an investigation, but I know what you did and how you were screened by those who were more powerful and equally guilty. Oh, I confess it took me a while to see it, but lucidity came at last. You profited Sir Richard by entirely fraudulent means, and were handsomely rewarded—at my expense.”
Sir Richard appeared unmoved. “You have no allies to back you here. To create noise now would only make you foes. Very powerful foes. I advise you to quietly return whence you came.”
Hadely ignored the implied threat and picked up an apple, polishing it on his sleeve. “Is that why you have kept me out of the way all these years? In hope I would remain ignorant while you profited? I have already been to the Chancery. I know in whose possession my lands lie. It is you who controls my lands. My birthright.” Hadley pulled a short but meanacing dagger from his boot. He inspected the blade and slanted the baronet a dark look. “I want them back.”
Sir Richard’s eyes bulged. “Impossible. I am only the trustee. They were sold years ago to one Francis Edwardes, Esquire.” He exhaled in an audible gush when Hadley proceeded to peel the apple.
“You will intercede on my behalf,” Hadley insisted. “I want my life back, Sir Richard—the one you stole from me.”
Sir Richard laughed outright. “But my dear boy, you give me no incentive.”
“Incentive?” Hadley ran his thumb along the razored edge of the dagger, watching in fascination as a narrow crimson line appeared. He noted with satisfaction the bobbing motion of Sir Richard’s adam’s apple. He cut a section from the apple and popped it into his mouth, offering the next one to his nemesis.
Sir Richard waved it away, but the tremor of his fleshy hand betrayed his alarm. He took another drink. “Perhaps I could negotiate a sale.”
“So you can profit once more?” Hadley laughed, a grating sound. “And why should that surprise me? First it is impossible, and now all may be purchased?”
“You should know by now, that everything in this world is negotiable…for the right price.”
“And what of my title? What price do you require for that?” Hadley asked, already mentally tabulating the value of his earthly goods, and knowing he had not a fraction of what would be asked.
“I think twenty thousand should suffice for all.” Sir Richard replied with a sly smile.
It was an astronomical sum. “You command far more than it’s worth.”
“Ah! But the value of anything is so very subjective,” Sir Richard argued. “If you wish to reclaim the Earldom of Blanchard, twenty thousand is my price.”
“I would need to secure a mortgage.”
“How the devil do you hope to do that when you have no credit? The very mention of your name would bar any such transaction.”
The dagger in Hadley’s hand stilled. For a brief moment, he fantasized about embedding it in Sir Richard’s gut. He wondered vaguely if the man would squeal like a stuck pig.
The patent alarm in Sir Richard’s eyes said that he’d correctly read Hadley’s thoughts. “You are no threat to me,” Sir Richard blustered. “I can see you installed in the tower like this.” He snapped. “Yet, I am not an unreasonable man. Should you manage to secure the necessary funds, I will see your paternity restored. This offer, however, is not without limitations.”
He emptied his glass and heaved himself to his feet. “I give you a fortnight to produce both the funds and the names of those you have come to meet. Should you fail to meet these conditions, I expect your immediate and permanent departure for Rome.”
“And if I refuse?” Hadley asked.
Sir Richard returned a vindictive smile. “Then you will receive the reward you truly deserve for returning without my permission—I will see you hanged, drawn, and quartered for treason.”
Chapter Six
BLANCHARD HOUSE, HANOVER SQUARE
As the solo harpsichord began a Corelli air, Mary watched mesmerized. In flawless synchrony with the music, and with bodies posed in perfect symmetry, the couple performed the intricate figures of the dance with fluid grace—ebbing and flowing in an elegant wave, moving in absolute harmony with one another. Rising and falling in gentle rhythm, arms gracefully rounded, reaching, touching, and turning, they seemingly floated across the floor.
It was lovely beyond description.
Monsieur Gaspar had rightly described the stately minuet as the perfection of dancing and Mary was entranced. But lost in her admiration of the dancers, she forgot she was supposed to be studying their intricate steps and patterns, until the couple executed the final two-hand turn and then faced her with the last elegant dips to honor their audience of one.
The dancing master raised Lady Blanchard’s hand to his lips. “Vous êtes toujours incomparable, Madame la Comtesse.”
Lady Blanchard answered the compliment as if it were her due, with an elegant inclination of her head and only the merest hint of a smile.
«It is true, my lady,» Mary gushed. «I’ve never beheld anything so lovely.»
Lady Blanchard turned to Mary and smiled archly. «Dancing is the premier mark of gentility in any woman, my dear Mary, and the minuet is foremost amongst the dances. Thus, you must master it—along with the sarabande, gigue, bourée, and gavotte, before you may attend any of the balls.»
Mary’s stomach dropped. «All of them? But I have no experience of this kind of dancing.”
Lady Blanchard regarded her with raised brows. “Do you mean to say you’ve never danced?”
“Only country dancing, my lady. Never like this. I fear it is well beyond my ability.”
The countess waved her hand. “Nonsense, child. You have the benefit of a master’s tutelage and must simply apply yourself.” She glanced to the clock with a frown. “I am expecting someone. I leave you now in Monsieur Gaspar’s capable hands.”
In dismay, Mary watched the countess depart.
“Mademoiselle?” The dancing master flourished a bow and then offered his arm and an indulgent smile on painted lips. Yet an hour later found him tearing at his periwig and Mary near to tears.
“Non! Non! Et non!» cried the Frenchman. «You must rise on the toe and sweep the foot. Thusly.” He demonstrated with exaggerated patience. “And the arms, they are too stiff!”
“Like this?” Mary rounded her arms and began the steps again.
“Par blue! Elle se deplacer comme une vache! You move like the cow and the figure, it is all wrong! It is zed.”
“Zed?” Mary repeated blankly.
“Oui, zed!” he insisted.
“I don’t comprehend you, monsieur,” Mary cried in growing frustration. “I’ve told you already I have no French.”
Throwing up his hands in Gallic fashion he shouted, “Zed! Zed!” as if bellowing would bring enlightenment. “Etres vous simple? It is the last letter of the English alphabet! Comprenez? Zed! S’il vous plait dancez la figure maintenant.»
«I’m sorry, Monsieur Gaspar. Would you please show me once more?» Mary asked, f
lustered beyond despair and on the verge of tears.
«Perhaps, monsieur,” a deep-timbered, cultured, and slightly accented voice arrested the dancing master’s impending tantrum, “the difficulty lies not so much in the student’s lack of aptitude, but in the instructor’s method of tuition.”
Mary turned to face her would-be rescuer, a vision that stole her breath. Tall and elegant, he was dressed in hues of richly embroidered satin, bedecked with yards of frothy lace, and jewels that would be the envy of any woman, yet paradoxically, there was nothing effeminate about him. He advanced into the room with a languid gait to halt before them, flicking over the Frenchman with inscrutably dark eyes and an expression of frigid hauteur.
It was his eyes that first entranced her, deep-set and piercing indigo-blue beneath straight, dark brows that seemed starkly incongruous compared to the fashionable white powdered wig. To Mary, his face was a fascinating study of contrasts, at once strong, proud, and distinctly aristocratic. Yet, the imposing vision he presented was somehow softened by a generous mouth and the most fascinating dimple in his chin. Mary was next riveted to that dimple, and then lastly to the softening curve of his mouth when the stranger inclined his head to her alone, as if the dancing master were completely beneath his notice.
It was an intentional snub that made the Frenchman tremble with indignation. “I will have you know, monsieur, that I am le maitre-de-dance to the very Princesses Royales!”
“I should never make such a confession, were I you,” the stranger drawled.
The frenetic little Frenchman puffed his chest. “You think it an idle boast?”
The gentleman chuckled, a low, warm, rumbling sound. “No indeed, monsieur, for I have seen how execrably they dance!”
The Frenchman purpled and erupted into a stream of incomprehensible curses. With flailing arms and sheet music flying, he signaled the musician, and the pair stormed from the chamber, a scene so utterly preposterous that Mary thought she would burst.
She clapped her hand over her mouth in an effort to suppress the irreverent flow of giggles, while her knight-errant threw his head back, making no effort at all to stifle his own laughter.
Treacherous Temptations Page 3