“I could? Well—” Meanwhile his confession that he had in fact never committed murder was decidedly dismaying, removing as it did any acceptable reason for Hetty engaging in the wanton acts she had with the man.
He put his fingertips to her lips. “I do not want to hear your sad and sorry tale. Your acting powers are clearly evident so I’d not believe you, besides which I am remunerating you handsomely for attending to my desires. That’s where it ends between us.”
There was an edge to his voice, which Hetty found both disturbing and, to her confusion, disappointing.
“Sadly, I think, it must end now, sir.” Hetty struggled amidst the cushions into a sitting position. Her smile was regretful as she tried to ignore the fierce desire that raged through her.
She was sailing too close to the wind. Amongst a sea of hopeful debutantes, he’d not looked at her twice yet he’d be furious if he were to discover her true identity.
He’d think she’d tried to trick him.
“Playing games, are we?” He reached out a languid hand as she rose, not bothering to get up for clearly he did not believe that she intended to leave. “Well, my dear, if you cannot spare the time to attend to me in my own domain, it seems you are in a hurry to expedite proceedings here. I’d thought it a novelty to enjoy some preliminary conversation but if you wish to bypass that, by all means, let us proceed to the carnal part of this evening.”
Hetty shook off his hand, incensed by his manner and now more than ready to leave. “I am honored you wish to further our acquaintance,” she said with heavy irony. “Indeed, our previous encounter was surprisingly enjoyable but, yes, I really do have to go, I’m afraid.”
Clearly he still did not believe her, but as she pulled the door open his eyes widened.
“Ah, you are adept at this game for one so inexperienced. I think I came to the wrong conclusion earlier. Indeed, you’d prefer to come to me at my townhouse, where you will experience greater comfort and possibly a more rewarding outcome. You want to insinuate yourself more thoroughly into my life. Predictable after all.”
Hetty sent him a level stare. “I do not care to visit you in your townhouse when you choose to be so uncivil, sir.” She drew back her shoulders, stifling the urge to cry. She’d been wild for this gentleman and yet he was indeed the rogue and libertarian he’d been painted. A philanderer with no shred of civility. She inclined her head as she passed through the door. “I’m sorry if I leave you disappointed though I’m certain my shoes will not be too difficult to fill.”
His parting words showed he was not the slightest bit shamed. “It was not your shoes I had hoped to fill.”
Angrily she slammed the door behind her.
* * * * *
Sweeping into the night was not the liberating experience she’d expected. For the first time in her life, Hetty realized what it was to be truly alone. She took a couple tentative steps toward the main walkway, along which small groups and the occasional stray individual meandered, but she lacked the courage to make her isolated state evident, preferring to loiter in the shadows.
What should she do? She couldn’t return to Sir Aubrey after what he’d said. She was nothing to him.
For days she’d built up her importance through daydreams of what might be possible between them when the truth was revealed—at the appropriate time, of course.
Now she knew he must never realize it. The recollection of his voice sent tremors of shame through her. The irony, the entitlement and boredom in his tone revealed him as the kind of man who would consider that she was the one entirely to blame for the loss of her reputation. With a sob, she prepared to sally forth onto the main path but drew back behind the trunk of an elm when she heard male voices, one of which sounded frighteningly familiar. An acquaintance, perhaps, of Cousin Stephen? As an unchaperoned debutante she dare not risk exposure.
Hearing the name of her erstwhile…lover…made her hold her breath.
“He’s in there.” The faintness of their discussion made it impossible to follow until one of them sniggered, “Entertaining some little ladybird.”
The other voice, younger, interjected, “Don’t worry, he’ll let his guard down one of these days, Lord Debenham.”
With a start, Hetty realized it was Mr. Woking who spoke with such fawning self-importance. “He will be caught and convicted soon. We cannot afford a repeat of Spa Fields else every landowner will go about in fear of having their throats slit by their laborers.” With greater urgency he added, “But what if we can find no evidence?”
“Then we must weigh up the merits of preserving the peace through resorting to methods whereby evidence is,” there was an ominous pause, “discovered.”
“My lord—” Mr. Woking began, but Lord Debenham cut him off, his tone reassuring.
“The government upholds the national interest above all. Do not concern yourself with the details, Roderick.”
The voices moved on and Hetty ventured a quick glance through the tree branches.
Dear heavens, they were intent upon stringing up Sir Aubrey, even if they couldn’t find what they needed to convict him. He might be a philanderer, and Hetty nothing more than one of his many conquests, but she couldn’t see him hang for something he hadn’t done.
Sliding into the walkway as a throng of revelers rounded the bend, she melted into the darkness, joining their straggling ranks as if she were one of them until she reached the hub of the park once more. The orchestra had struck up a lively piece by Mozart and as she cast her panicked look around, she was never more relieved to hear Araminta’s voice.
“There you are, Hetty! Oh, and there’s Cousin Seb, too, with Mary bringing up the rear. Goodness, that girl’s sourer than ten-days-old milk. You’ll find yourself a husband before she does, Hetty, if that’s any consolation.”
The only consolation Hetty felt at that moment—and it was considerable, nonetheless—was that she’d inadvertently timed her arrival at the moment the two disparate sets of cousins converged. Both groups seemed to assume she’d been with the other.
Araminta hooked elbows with her as they sauntered through the gardens, saying what a pity it was Hetty had chosen to abandon her and Stephen since Mr. Woking had accosted them not two minutes before, asking after her.
“Papa would be satisfied with such a match, for Mr. Woking’s family has large landholdings in Hampshire and he’s an only son. I doubt you could do better.”
“But I don’t like Mr. Woking,” Hetty protested. “He has clammy hands and his breath really is most unpleasant.” Though that was the least of her objections. Overhearing him and his uncle just now had left her in a difficult predicament.
Araminta affected a falsely disapproving look. “It sounds as if you’re already far too familiar with Mr. Woking to possibly back out now.” When Hetty tossed her head, Araminta said, more placatingly, “An ardent suitor is just what you need after Edgar’s tragic death. Planning a wedding will take your mind off your grief and marrying Mr. Woking is just the ticket, I’d say.”
Miserably, Hetty countered, “Then why don’t you marry him if you think he’s such a good catch and he’s an only son and well connected?”
Araminta didn’t hide her revulsion. “Not even if I were desperate. No, I can do far better. Besides, as I’ve told you, I have my sights set on other quarry.”
“Perhaps you think that if I marry Mr. Woking you’ll have closer access to Lord Debenham. You can’t use me like that, Araminta.”
Araminta appeared to shift uncomfortably. “I’ve told you already, it’s Sir Aubrey I’m interested in. And as for the slander Cousin Stephen harps upon, it doesn’t worry me a jot. As long as he’s received and he has money and a title, then he’s handsome enough for me.”
“What if Sir Aubrey does not wish to make you his wife?” Hetty was aware of her combative tone. She did not like Araminta’s sly smile.
“I have gained the impression on the several occasions we have been alone together that I am just t
he kind of wife he is after.”
Her lips curved up even more at Hetty’s gasp. Fortunately Araminta must have assumed it was shock at her boldness because her response sounded smug. “Dear Hetty, even an innocent debutante must take risks if she’s to seize the advantage. I intend to marry Sir Aubrey before the year is out.”
“You can’t—”
Araminta raised her eyebrows and in the amused silence, Hetty struggled for a response. “I’d have imagined Lord Debenham held a greater attraction for you.”
“Indeed, he is most intriguing with his brooding black looks and raven locks, his white skin and hawklike nose. If I’d call anyone dangerous, it would be Lord Debenham.” A faint look of distaste marred her pretty features.
“Lord Debenham would have you believe that Sir Aubrey is the villain.”
Ignoring this, Araminta replied sharply, “And I would have you try to foster a tendre in Lord Debenham’s nephew. He looks sheep’s eyes at you when you’re not looking, you know.”
“Sometimes, Araminta, you are so heartless it gives me a headache,” she whispered.
Araminta frowned as if she did not understand her. “Heartless? My dear, I am doing everything I can to foster Mr. Woking’s interest in you in order to ensure you don’t end up a poor, discarded creature destined to play unpaid nursemaid to our parents as they grow old and feeble. For you do know that’s what will happen if you become a confirmed spinster?”
“I’d rather that than become wife to Mr. Woking.”
Araminta turned to wait for Stephen and the others. Gently chiding, she said, “You know you don’t mean that, dearest. A September wedding, I’m predicting. You can borrow my goose-feather-trimmed bonnet that Aunt Sarah made me. I’m afraid it makes me look such a goose, which is why I’ve never worn it, but it’ll please Aunt Sarah and I think that you’ll feel more comfortable if you’re overwhelmed by feathers and furbelows. Certainly that’ll be the case if you’re not exactly feeling overwhelmed with love—though I’ve heard that often comes with time.
“Ah, Stephen, Hetty was saying she has a headache so perhaps you can get the cousins to take her home so we can go on together to Lady Misshelene’s ball-assembly. I distinctly heard Sir Aubrey mention he’d be there this evening.”
Stephen slanted a concerned look at Hetty before regarding Araminta with suspicion, but Hetty had no heart for more entertainment.
Silently, she followed her lackluster cousins into the hackney carriage Stephen flagged down. Cousin Seb was showing distinct signs of queasiness by the time they passed their townhouse and wearily Hetty told them to have no concern for her as, with worried looks, they questioned the rightness of allowing her to continue the two blocks to her own lodgings.
But Hetty didn’t care what became of her and waved aside as lip service their fears for her well-being over such a short distance, saying, “Judging by the bilious look on Cousin Seb’s face, I think it’s best to remove your brother earlier rather than later.”
Cocooned in silence, Hetty reflected amidst the tumult of her feelings. Sir Aubrey was a scoundrel but she did not believe in her heart of hearts she’d fallen victim to a villain. In fact, the conversation she’d overheard outside the supper room suggested Sir Aubrey was facing a more immediate danger than he could know.
The more she dwelt upon it as the lonely clip clop of hooves rang upon the cobblestones, the greater became her concern. Sir Aubrey had no idea of the lengths to which his enemies would go to condemn him. Only Hetty knew. A great sense of destiny made her sit straight as she considered her options.
The hackney was nearly to her home but not three blocks away was Sir Aubrey’s townhouse. He might not be there but he was in danger. She could warn him. She could distinguish herself by her boldness and daring.
Not by speaking to him and risking her reputation again, but she could ask for pen and paper to scribble him a note that would be delivered to him the moment he came in. She’d sign it so he knew that she was his benefactress.
For once Hetty could feel as if she were the star performer in her own adventure. A heroine. Yes, for once Hetty could play the heroine.
Chapter Five
A large waxing moon had Sir Aubrey waving away the lantern his footman rushed forward proffering. He didn’t need any help from anyone.
Wearily, he climbed the stairs to his townhouse. He’d been a fool to have bespoken a supper box in Vauxhall Gardens, but it had been the second anniversary of Margaret’s defection and Vauxhall was where he’d proposed marriage. For some maudlin reason he’d planned to drown his sorrows in claret. It had done nothing except make him dissatisfied and distinctly out of sorts.
Or maybe that odd little chit of Madame Chambon’s had done that with her refusal to entertain him. She’d scampered across his path when he’d least expected it and completely disarmed him with her dimpled smile and plump white arms.
Recalling the image gave him the urge to enfold her in his embrace and kiss her cheekiness into something far more primal.
It piqued him more than he cared to admit that she’d wriggled out of his amorous embrace. However there was something oddly endearing about her, which was strange since she was by no means as dashing as Jezebel, nor the beauty Margaret had been.
With her round, innocent face and her confident demeanor she was an enigma; part unworldly debutante, part brazen lightskirt. Perhaps she was a gentlewoman fallen on hard times. If so, she seemed oddly agreeable to his ministrations.
He cleared his mind of any further speculation. When it came to women, Sir Aubrey had a policy of probing no deeper than what they chose to present as part of their charade for his benefit. He didn’t have time or energy to invest in any “fallen on hard times” or “ruined by the vicar” tales of woe. Whatever cards one was dealt, it was incumbent upon the individual to make the best of them. If they threw a woman into his orbit, he would do the decent thing by her, show her what pleasure could be had, milk the situation for what was on offer and then move on.
Well, that had been the way the past twelve months or so had played out. He had discovered true love after he’d married Margaret. The string of associations since her death had done nothing to take the edge off his pain, though he prided himself on the fact no mistress had come after him with anger or vengeance in her heart. He always settled his dues.
As he reached his front door, he noticed a hackney loitering by the kitchen steps.
Expecting to surprise some gormless lackey posted to monitor his movements, Aubrey returned to the pavement and rapped on the curtained window. He was taken aback when a familiar cherubic face peered at him through the glass.
“Good Lord!”
He wrenched open the door and she gazed out at him, her expression severe rather than inviting. “I was writing you a note, Sir Aubrey.”
“Indeed.” He thrust his arm into the dark interior. “Perhaps you’d care to come inside and explain why you felt a note was more desirable than your company.” Despite his irony, he was exhilarated. She must have left Vauxhall and come promptly to his townhouse. Her lackluster response to him in the supper box had been part of the pretense.
“Really, you’ll catch your death of cold.” He patted her gloved hand as he helped her out before paying the jarvey, and was even more amused by her apparent reluctance. As if she hadn’t planned this from the start.
As he led her up the stairs to the front door, he was impressed at how well she played the young lady of fashion. Her dress, her mannerisms had been learned to a fine art. He dampened the flash of curiosity as to her origins, saying instead, “That’s right. Dombey will take your things.”
When she hesitated once inside the lobby, he chuckled. “It’s too late to play the coy maiden now when you’ve already cast discretion to the winds. Up the stairs we go. That’s right. Along that passage. I want to hear exactly what you’re up to and what’s in this note.”
For a brief moment, she hesitated at the top of the stairs. As well she might,
the little baggage, he thought almost fondly before suspicion gained the ascendant. Could she really be spying on him? Was it possible she’d been recruited by Lord Debenham?
As soon as they’d gained the sanctuary of his private quarters, she swung around to face him. “Let me make it plain, Sir Aubrey, I have no interest in further dealings between us other than to warn you that I believe you have enemies,” she stated baldly. “That is why I am here.”
The defiance of her tone and the way she squared her shoulders was so at odds with the soft and ladylike creature she presented in all other respects that he was assailed by a pang of something resembling tenderness. Dismissing his earlier suspicion she might be a spy, he almost hugged her to his chest.
Instead he tilted his head and replied with his usual heavy irony, “Indeed.”
Trembling, she thrust something at him.
“Your dance card? Empty? Is this the device now employed by those who seek to emulate their betters? Hardly novel.”
She glared. “I won’t stay if you’re going to make fun of me. I simply thought it might interest you to know I stumbled upon two gentlemen hiding in the bushes outside your supper room and overheard part of their conversation that concerned you, sir.”
This shocked him though he tried to hide it. He hadn’t wanted validation of his suspicions that his enemy was engaged in further eroding his standing. He cocked his head, thinking perhaps it was he who was jumping to conclusions. He was the blameless party, after all. He had nothing to fear or hide. All anyone had to go on were rumors and he knew they could never be substantiated.
“Try another gambit, my dear—”
“Harriet,” she said. “Harriet’s my name.”
Dangerous Gentlemen Page 5