“I heard you’re a dangerous man. Not a sentimental fool, sir.”
“A dangerous man,” he repeated, wishing he didn’t feel such an impotent one when it came to rejuvenating his unfairly tarnished reputation. Debenham had friends in high places. London was his stamping ground and he’d worked hard on his revenge. “No, lass, I’m a man with enemies but I am on a mission to clear my name. Mark my words, I shall bring to justice the one who is intent on ruining me.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Who, sir?”
He considered her a moment. In the dim light her eyes were luminous and her question seemed innocent enough. She was rather a fetching little thing, when all was said and done.
“A man called Debenham. My late wife’s cousin, in fact. He claims he has proof that I’m a felon. A letter found clutched in the hand of my darling Margaret when she died purports to the fact…apparently.” He made sure she registered his irony. “Conveniently, it has now gone missing.”
She raised herself onto her elbows, her look haunted. “So you are not a dangerous man?”
“I’m sure there are those who might consider me so—namely Debenham if I’m able to find proof that the boot’s on the other foot and that he’s the traitor in their midst.” He sat up and chucked her under the chin. “And now it is time for me to cast you out, for I have work to do, though I’ll render you the small service of fastening your dress once you’ve availed yourself of my washbasin.”
When he’d finished working on her buttons, he raked her with his appreciative gaze. “My, but a good tupping has done you the world of good. Your color and the brightness of your eyes are much improved. Pray inform Madame Chambon that I will require your exclusive services for at least the next month. No doubt her account will be exorbitant.”
* * * * *
Dazed, Hetty trailed through the corridors of Lady Knox’s residence until the strains of the music drew her toward the ballroom.
“There you are!” Araminta pounced as Hetty hesitated on the threshold. Her sister gripped her wrist and hauled her roughly into the room. “I’ve been looking all over for you. No doubt you’ve been cowering in the mending room, too afraid a man will look at you and you won’t know what to do. Well, Hetty, you’re just going to have to gain more experience in order to make a gentleman want to pass the time in your company with idle small talk, much less do anything else. Mr. Woking was asking for you, and although I know he’s not much to look at, beggars can’t be choosers.”
“I’m not a beggar.”
“No, you have something in the way of a dowry but then so do many other girls, including me…girls far comelier, meaning you’ll just have to take what you can get. Ah, there he is!”
Araminta raised her arm to hail someone across the room as Hetty asked, “Who?”
“Mr. Woking, of course. He wants to dance with you and you could do worse than to court his interest.”
“But he’s got spots and terrible breath. You wouldn’t want to dance with him, would you?”
“Of course not. I’ve got my sights set on someone far more my equal.”
“Lord Debenham?”
Araminta looked uncomfortable. “I learned a few things about Lord Debenham tonight that make me think Sir Aubrey is the better candidate.” Araminta simpered, adding in a furtive whisper, “He has made his interest very clear and I mean to see that it goes somewhere.”
Hetty’s insides cleaved. Her legs felt shaky and she had no idea whether she was going to laugh or cry. “Cousin Stephen says he’s not a friend of England.” She didn’t know what to make of this statement now, not after what Sir Aubrey had told her about his quarrel with Lord Debenham. She’d only succumbed to his advances through her fear that he was capable of murder.
When he’d walked into his bedchamber and discovered her in the shadows, he’d been covered with blood. He’d admitted just killing a man. Then he’d all but ordered her to submit as he’d toyed with the blade of his cutlass. What choice had she had?
Yet, overwhelming though the experience was, she felt—instead of cowed and humiliated—exhilarated. He’d evoked glorious sensations within her. She’d not known it was possible to feel like that. And he, a man who was supposedly a fiend, had been responsible. That is, before he’d claimed his reputation had been falsely tarnished by none other than Lord Debenham.
Araminta tossed her head. “Cousin Stephen has served in the Foreign Office less than a month. What does he know? Ah, Mr. Woking, here is my sister and she tells me she’s simply dying for the pleasure of partnering you.”
In a haze of confusion and mixed emotions, Hetty went through her dance steps with the stoop-shouldered young man who was clearly at pains to engage her interest by the enthusiasm with which he told her of his expectations.
All Hetty could think of was the rampant endowments of her erstwhile lover and wonder why she was not feeling ruined and violated. She’d never kissed a man before tonight. Heavens, she’d never done anything remotely exciting with a man until tonight. She should be horrified with herself, yet after her initial fear, she’d relished every second.
She lowered her eyes. It would be her secret. She’d carry it to her grave—her one moment of wild abandon. For once, she’d have something over Araminta.
Mr. Woking was speaking to her. She plastered on an attentive smile as she asked him to repeat himself.
“That’s my uncle over there. He’s the member of parliament for Westhaven.” He looked proud.
Hetty glanced in the direction Mr. Woking was pointing and choked on a gasp. “Lord Debenham is your uncle?”
Several gentlemen had their heads bent in earnest discussion. The taller one, with the jet-black locks and the dangerous glint in his eye, surely did not hail from the same planet as Mr. Woking.
“You don’t look anything like him.” The words were out before she could check herself.
Sadly, Mr. Woking did not favor his uncle. Even at his young age his hair was rapidly thinning. His nervous habit of glancing around jerkily, rather like a bird pecking at crumbs, was as far removed from Lord Debenham’s sartorial elegance as Hetty could imagine.
Mr. Woking cleared his throat. “He’s a step-uncle, actually. The brother of my father’s third wife.”
“Your father married three times?” Again Hetty failed to filter her thoughts. Surely he must guess that her surprise did not stem from anything to flatter his father.
The jerky way Mr. Woking rearranged his body at her remark made Hetty think a poker had been rammed up his bottom, though the look in his eye suggested prickly pride. “Lord Debenham is working to rid this country of traitors. Traitors like the Spenceans.” He brought his face closer to Hetty’s, as if he were searching for something, and she forced herself not to recoil from his unpleasant breath. When he straightened, the glint in his eye suggested she’d passed some test. “Have you heard of Sir Aubrey?” He lowered his voice. “Perhaps your sister has said something, for I have been watching Sir Aubrey closely and it would appear he is most interested in your sister.”
Hetty stumbled in his embrace and he caught her close—too long—before she pushed him back, saying proudly, “I think you are mistaken. I’ve noticed nothing.”
“You’d do well to warn her to take care, Miss Partington. Sir Aubrey is my uncle’s quarry. I reveal nothing that the villainous Sir Aubrey doesn’t already know. However you are a good woman, Miss Partington, and so I am entrusting you with this secret.”
“In order to keep Araminta safe?” She rather suspected something deeper was at play here.
“That,” he paused, “and to help deliver justice. Perhaps you’d care to inform me if you notice anything untoward.”
“Like what?”
He shrugged. Perhaps he didn’t know. He was trying to impress her. She’d not believe it.
Smugly he announced, “Sir Aubrey is a Spencean. A man who plots with the enemy to overturn society and plunge us into revolution like the French. He was involved in th
e attempted assassination of Lord Castlereagh.”
Hetty shook her head. Clearly he interpreted this as shock rather than denial for he went on, his tone intimate, “His late wife had evidence that has gone missing, for indeed it was my uncle who saw the incriminating letter with his own eyes. It is his mission to find that letter so that justice will be served and Sir Aubrey and his like no longer threaten the values we uphold.”
Hetty realized she was gaping like a fish. In less than an hour she’d been given two wildly varying stories. She knew who she wanted to believe but…
“Miss Henrietta, I would ask you to keep your ears and eyes open. If your sister reveals anything to you—”
The music faded away and Hetty broke apart to see Araminta coming toward her, Cousin Stephen in her wake. She wondered if Mr. Woking and Cousin Stephen had shared their concerns.
“It’s time to go home, Hetty.” Araminta patted her sister’s shoulder condescendingly. “You’re only just out and you’re not used to such excitement.”
Excitement? Hetty wondered if she’d ever enjoy such excitement again and wished she felt more filled with shame.
Confusion, fear and doubt, she felt in abundance.
But not shame over what she’d done tonight.
Perhaps that would come.
Chapter Four
It was a beautiful evening for a night of revelry at Vauxhall Gardens, warm and sultry, with a blaze of stars just starting to twinkle in the twilight.
Although Araminta had declared that Hetty would benefit from an early night “so the shadows under her eyes might be less in evidence” and “in the hope that her skin might look brighter”, as she told Cousin Stephen, her loyal cousin had gallantly responded by saying Hetty was on the way to becoming a beauty like their mother. He didn’t say she already was, but it was sufficient to bolster her spirits so that seeing her sister’s nose put out of joint was almost as enjoyable as being made a party to such an exciting event, albeit one that included their deadly dull cousins Seb, who was in the army, and his two turkey-necked sisters, Mary and Amelia. They were distant family members from the country and, their dress and manner immediately proclaiming them country bumpkins, of complete disinterest to Araminta, who barely concealed her distaste at being forced to entertain them.
Hetty was not surprised when Araminta seized upon the first opportunity to separate from them. The crowd was now a roiling mass of humanity within the hub of the gardens. Hetty had visited Vauxhall before and was familiar with the layout but the crowds were disconcerting. It would be easy to become lost.
Peering past a floral-festooned headdress, Araminta cried out in feigned surprise, “Oh goodness, Cousin Stephen, why, isn’t that Miss Cordelia Entwistle and her brother? Don’t you remember what a jolly time we had together playing charades at Lady Wainright’s house party last summer?” With a falsely pitying smile, she grasped Cousin Seb’s wrist, murmuring, “They lost their dear brother at Waterloo. Anything to remind them of the army sends poor Miss Cordelia in paroxysms of grief. Perhaps it’s best if you didn’t accompany us to offer our greetings, for they have seen us in the crowd and we must go to them.” Already she was moving on, her grip now transferred to Cousin Stephen’s wrist as she said over her shoulder, “I propose we meet in an hour in the supper room we’ve bespoken in the Druid’s Walk.”
Hetty started to follow, stopping with dismay as her sister called across the lengthening distance that now separated them, “Hetty, you must keep company with Cousins Amelia and Mary. They can chaperone you until we meet again.”
Grumbling, Hetty turned. Her cousins were a lackluster trio. Yet when none of them could be seen amidst the roiling throng, their company was suddenly never more desirable. Especially when, dashing after Araminta, Hetty discovered that every single member of her original party appeared to have vanished into thin air.
Breathless, she came to a junction of pathways, her terror increasing when she still could see no sign of them. What if she was observed, alone? Her reputation would be in tatters.
“Mayhap sweet Cupid pursues me once more?”
Hetty swung ‘round at the sound of the familiar low growl, covering her mouth as she found herself staring into the handsome, smiling face of…well, the man who’d seduced her only days before. “Sir Aubrey!”
He flashed her a sardonic smile as he clapped her on the shoulder. It was such a familiar gesture from a gentleman…
And yet not nearly as familiar as they’d enjoyed. And while she’d relished every single moment, it had been so wrong. Of her, Hetty. She’d led him to believe something that wasn’t true and compromised herself as a result. She’d been as wicked as a young woman could be but she’d got away with her actions. Now if she were discovered alone with Sir Aubrey in such a public place, she’d be ruined. She’d have no choice but to retire quietly to the country, where she’d be destined to live out her days. Survival in every sense depended upon withdrawing into the shadows, evading him so he’d never set eyes upon her again and she could do what she had come to London to do—make a good marriage and start her own independent life.
That would never be possible with Sir Aubrey.
She contemplated her alternatives while her heart performed strange contortions in her chest and warm, molten liquid seemed to pool in her lower belly. Her body was betraying her while her mind cried out for reason to prevail.
Perhaps she should scream. No, that would draw attention to what should not be observed as anything out of the ordinary. She should definitely find some way of slipping out of his grasp and simply disappearing into the crowd. It could be done, yet…
The truth was, there was something so compelling in the weight of his hand and so desirable in the genuine pleasure she saw in his eyes that she was incapable of doing anything other than murmuring, inanely, “What a surprise to see you here, Sir Aubrey.”
His grip tightened as he pulled her closer. “The investigative prowess of your abbess is to be commended. Perhaps I should employ her myself. Come, my angel, I shall spirit you away in my carriage—”
“No, sir…no, I mean, it’s not possible right now.” The extraordinary thing was that even though Hetty’s acquaintance with this man was so limited—and then only to an encounter of the most shocking, carnal kind—she couldn’t think of anything more tempting than exploring the other surprises he had to offer in the privacy of his own home.
His expression hardened. “Surely you weren’t trawling the Serpentine Walk for trade? I thought I’d made it clear—”
“Indeed you did and it’s very flattering.” Hetty floundered as she searched for a response that would appease him and enable her to retain any shred of respectability. “However, I am on my way to a special event I’ve promised to attend.”
“Special event?”
He didn’t sound pleased as he nevertheless led her forcefully up the short laneway toward a private supper box.
Wildly, she searched for some plausible excuse. “It’s my brother’s birthday celebration. I’ve promised him I’ll be there.”
“Yet you are here?” He raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical.
“I am, sir, because…my brother lives not far from here.”
“Indeed.” He ushered her into a dimly lit supper box, closing the door behind them. Immediately they were plunged into a cocoon of intimacy.
Longing overlaid with the knowledge that she had to escape made Hetty desperate. More so when Sir Aubrey placed his hands on her shoulders and drew her into his warm embrace. Instant connection vibrated between them. She felt it in his stiffening of awareness, his faint intake of breath.
He would not believe she’d not yield for him. She could feel his desire pressing against her stomach, unleashing her own rampant need for closer connection. She’d never felt excitement like this yet how, when she knew it was so wrong, could she have found herself in such a situation? Again? What would the repercussions be for her future? For her ability to hold her head high and look her
darling mother in the eye?
With a degree of shame, she acknowledged she was more concerned with discovery than the rightness or wrongness of her actual actions.
“The fact that your loyalty to your brother outweighs financial considerations is, I suppose, to be commended.” His breath caressed her heated ear like a promise. “Especially when most little ladybirds would be doing all in their power to reel in such a catch as myself.”
“It must be a fine thing to have such a high opinion of oneself, sir,” Hetty remarked, trembling as his lips touched hers.
His laugh reverberated gently between them and she opened her eyes to find him shaking his head. “Why, methinks you do not speak in jest. How refreshing.” He held her a little tighter before drawing her by the hand to a pile of sumptuous silk cushions in the corner of the room. “And do you have a high opinion of yourself, my little one? You certainly ought to after the aptitude you showed for one so inexperienced.”
“You mean at Lady Knox’s ball?”
He folded his lean, muscular frame into a semi-recumbent position upon the pillows and pulled Hetty against his side. With cocked eyebrow and quirked lips, he regarded her as he might a delectable cream puff. That is, if a man as athletic as Sir Aubrey had a liking for pastries.
“Indeed, at Lady Knox’s ball.” He gave a short laugh. “When I found you trespassing in my chamber it crossed my mind you were a spy working for Lord Debenham. It was perhaps a dangerous way for your abbess to introduce to me her latest novice. A novelty, certainly, but dangerous. Perhaps I might have slit your throat.”
Hetty grimaced. “When I saw you covered with blood, I feared that’s what you were about to do, sir. Especially after you confessed you’d just killed a man.”
His rumble of laughter brought him into closer proximity. “Lord, did I neglect to tell you the truth? Never mind…” He ran a fingertip from the tip of her nose, tracing her contours until he reached the top of her décolletage. “I’ve never killed a man and I hope I never do. Ah, but you must be Madame Chambon’s star creation.” He kissed her brow lightly. “Ingenuous, inexperienced and yet you could pass as a lady.”
Dangerous Gentlemen Page 4