With a laugh, he took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Things will be better once we are married.”
“Then why don’t we elope to Gretna Green?” Horatia still feared for his safety and wanted to remain by his side. Didn’t he wish it too? She must now spend the evening with a group of ladies discussing the merits of Coleridge’s poems. She thought of her aunt and her ingratitude made her blush, but she did not look forward to the evening.
“Have patience, Horatia. I cannot marry with this Sword of Damocles hanging over my head.”
“I don’t care if you haven’t found your papers. I wouldn’t care if you drove the refuse cart.”
Guy’s eyes widened. “Qu’est-ce?”
Horatia searched for a French equivalent. “Refusent?”
Guy held up his hands and shrugged.
Horatia smiled at his Gallic gesture and glanced at the door. Her aunt had become quite lenient of late and had gone upstairs for her shawl. She shifted closer on the sofa, put her arms around his neck, and pressed her lips to his, convinced this would prove a better explanation of her meaning than any words.
Guy needed little encouragement and pulled her close. The kiss deepened, and her fingers found his hair.
Hearing her aunt’s footsteps on the stairs, Horatia drew away and tidied herself. The heated look in Guy’s eyes told her he understood her meaning. He attempted to smooth his disordered locks and rose to his feet as her aunt walked into the room.
“Aunt, Guy has invited us to Lady Bloxham’s rout tomorrow evening.”
“I have met Lady Bloxham.” Aunt Emily smiled warmly at Guy. “She is a devotee of the Romantic poets. It will be delightful to enjoy her company again.”
“Excellent. I must go.” Guy bowed. “Until tomorrow evening.”
Horatio jumped up to give him a pert curtsey. “Enjoy your evening, my lord. But not too much.”
Guy laughed, donned his tall hat, seized his cane and gloves, and departed.
Aunt Emily raised her brows at Horatia. “What did that parting quip mean?”
“Guy escorts Lady Georgina to a ball this evening.”
“I shouldn’t worry,” Aunt Emily said. “By his distracted expression and disheveled hair, I feel he’s more than content with his lot.” She made a clucking sound with her tongue and shook her head. “Perhaps I should be more diligent as chaperone.”
“Nevertheless,” Horatia said with a heavy frown, “Lady Georgina is an aristocrat of good fortune. And she’s very pretty to boot.”
“Lady Georgina has been kept in cotton wool and is a trifle spoiled,” Aunt Emily said. “I believe Guy has too much sense to take on a girl who would try to turn him into a Bond Street Beau.”
“Well, I doubt he wishes for that,” Horatia said with feeling. He’d showed little interest in becoming a fashionable leader of society. She’d come to understand Guy, his faults as well as the finer points in his character. He would be a stalwart friend to the last, but he was unequivocal in his demand for loyalty from others. She suspected Guy would never forgive Eustace for doubting him, even if he was proved innocent of any crime. Guy had come into her life like a blaze of energy, shattering her dull existence. Sometimes lying in bed at night, it all seemed like a dream, from the moment she first saw him lying on the road.
She loved his passion, his humor, his masculine pride and would trust him with her life. What would the future hold for her without him? It seemed a dry and dusty prospect.
Guy stood outside in the street and ran a finger along the inside of his cravat, glad he didn’t have a chance to tell Horatia of the cloud he now found himself under. He would find it difficult to reassure her, and he didn’t want her involved in this. He had hoped a trip to Bow Street would unravel the mystery; instead, it had deepened.
John was attending to business when Guy left the house. He disliked being watched for any reason. He was confident, if he kept alert, he could handle himself well in a crisis, and even though John was a trusted friend, he was not acting out of love for him but on instructions from Sidmouth, the Home Secretary.
It galled him to think he’d become a public enemy without recourse to prove his innocence. He rested his cane on his shoulder and walked the few streets home.
In the evening, he and John escorted Lady Georgina along with their severe aunt to the ball, which was a celebration of Miss Taylor’s eighteenth birthday.
As soon as they walked into the ballroom, a crowd of hopeful young blades crowded around Georgina. It was not surprising, for she looked very pretty in a silky white gauze gown, with flowers and ribbons dressing her dark curls. “Promise me a dance, Guy,” she whispered before a gentleman led her to the dance floor for the quadrille.
Out of respect for Horatia, Guy had not intended to dance. He planned to move amongst the guests to test society’s mood. He steeled himself for variations of the cut direct. The ruthless ton would turn their backs on anyone of whom they disapproved.
Instead, he found polite interest. A couple of the older men remembered his father and spoke of him with regret. Of course no one even hinted that Guy might be a dangerous spy. Spying was a secretive business.
John danced with Lady Sibella Winborne, a beautiful dark-haired young woman, daughter of the Marquess of Brandreth. Interesting that if Strathairn danced at all it was always with Lady Sybella. They were deep in conversation, but Guy guessed John merely amused himself. His preferred feminine companions came from far lower down the social scale, as he did not intend to marry for some time yet.
Guy smiled to himself. A lady such as Lady Sibella might change John’s mind. He passed through a group of eager young men, claimed Georgina’s hand, and led her onto the floor for the waltz she had made him promise her.
As the first notes of a Handel waltz were struck he placed a hand at her waist and guided her around the floor among the other couples.
“You could have danced with one of those eager young bucks,” he said as they changed direction.
“I would rather dance with you.”
“My dancing is in no way superior to your last partner. The duke, wasn’t it?”
She gave Guy a fierce look. “You are the one man I’ve met who does not bore me.”
“Are you flirting with me, Georgina?”
“Yes.”
“You do remember my betrothed, Horatia?”
“Oh yes. I quite liked her. But she is not right for you.”
Amused, Guy said, “Let’s enjoy the dance.”
“I am the right girl for you, Guy,” she said. “If only you could see it.”
“The duke seems a perfect choice for you. I’m sure your brother would agree with me. It has been spoken of, oui?”
“He is too young.”
“Broadstairs must be close to thirty.”
“He isn’t as…sophisticated.”
“Il est bon. Then perhaps he will make you a good husband.”
She pouted. “I don’t wish to find out.”
“You may not get the chance. He is dancing with a jolie girl.”
“Is he?” Georgina looked around. She shrugged. “Oh, that’s Melanie Gilliam.”
“She’s amusing him. See how he laughs?”
Georgina shrugged again. “So?”
Guy noticed her take another peek when they turned in that direction. “Can you make him laugh like that?”
“Of course I can.”
“Will he dance with you again?”
“As a matter of fact, he has asked for the next dance,” she said airily.
“Then I shall watch and see if you make him laugh.”
“I’ll accept the bet. If I win it, what will you give me?”
“My compliments.”
“Pooh!”
Amused, Guy stood and watched Georgina dance with the Duke of Broadstairs. She flirted shamelessly. The poor man looked helpless. Guy wished the duke would stand up to Georgina more. It was what she needed. She respected her brother for that reason.
The Taylors’ mansion in Hampstead was some ten miles from Mayfair and had a large park bound by a high brick wall. A fresh breeze ruffled the trees on the soft spring night, and a full moon like a silver penny hung suspended in a cloudless sky. What a perfect night to share with Horatia. They might have been wed by now and living at Rosecroft Hall. He wandered down the steps and moved beyond the flaming torches into the shadows. At the sound of rustling in the bushes behind him, he spun around expecting some night animal to emerge.
Something hard struck the side of his head. He saw flashes of bright light, heard a laugh, and sank into oblivion.
“It is not like Guy to be late,” Horatia said for the fifth time.
“No,” her aunt repeated.
Horatia walked to the window and back, her skirts swirling around her legs.
“Do sit down, Horatia. I declare you have worn a path in my carpet.”
Horatia sank down but remained on the edge of her chair, her ears cocked for the sound of horses clattering over the gravel. “I’m afraid, Aunt.”
“What can befall him in a short carriage ride through Mayfair?”
“What if he’s been hurt?”
“Someone would send word.”
“What if Lady Georgina has beguiled him?”
“Beguiled by two different women within a few days? I doubt he is that susceptible,” her aunt said.
Another hour passed with little said. Only the ticking of the long-case clock broke the silence.
It was close to midnight before Horatia consented to go to bed. She lay stiffly staring into the darkness while jumbled thoughts crowded her mind. Guy was not a liar. Nor was he a coward. If he didn’t wish to marry her, he would tell her so. She thought about his passionate kisses in the coach and how they’d made her feel so alive. She couldn’t believe he no longer felt that way.
She punched her pillow and rolled onto her side, as worry turned to anger. She’d asked him several times about his past, but he’d told her little. Perhaps she’d been fooling herself and didn’t know him at all. She turned over and tucked her hand under the pillow, staring blindly into the darkness. That wasn’t true. She knew him almost as well as she knew herself, and the realization made her tremble with fear.
Dawn broke, and traffic began to rumble through the streets. She heard the servants moving about.
Horatia sat up. Someone had knocked at the door.
Chapter Fourteen
At the loud rap of the knocker, Horatia rushed down the stairs, her heart racing, praying it might be Guy. She reached the hall where a maid had just admitted Lord Strathairn.
“I apologize for flouting convention and calling at cock’s crow, Miss Cavendish,” he said. “But I wonder if you know where Lord Fortescue might be?”
His words produced a shudder of fear. She clutched her dressing gown and shook her head, her plait swinging. “I don’t. You’d best come in to the parlor, Lord Strathairn.”
The big man followed her inside. Horatia sat before her knees gave way. Lord Strathairn perched on the edge of a chair looking as if he wished to be gone.
“Guy was engaged to escort my aunt and me to a rout last evening, but he didn’t come. Nor did he send word.”
“He disappeared while attending a ball with my sister, Lady Georgina, and I.” He looked down at the hat he held in his hands. “I didn’t worry at first. I have not known him long but suspected, well, that a lady might be involved.” His lashes shuttered his eyes, making her wonder what he wasn’t telling her.
“A lady?”
“I thought it might be you, Miss Cavendish, for Guy seems single-minded in that respect. I waited all yesterday, and when he did not return last night, I grew alarmed.”
Horatia clutched the arm of the sofa. “He disappeared during the ball?”
“Yes. It was a perfectly respectable affair, held at the home of Lord and Lady Taylor at Hampstead. He wasn’t seen again after he danced with Lady Georgina.”
Guy danced with Georgina! Lord Strathairn’s words rang warning bells in her mind. She shook her head and tried to focus on what was important. “And your sister returned home with you?”
“Yes.” His sandy eyebrows lifted. “You have no worry on that score. Lady Georgina spent most of the evening dancing with another gentleman. Fair set the ton on its ear, but that’s my sister.” He stood as if to leave. “Try not to worry. I shall obtain the guest list from Lady Taylor. Someone might be able to enlighten us.”
Horatia rose too. She swallowed to moisten her scratchy throat. “Would you let me know as soon as you have news, Lord Strathairn?”
“I promise.” He took her hand. “Don’t worry. Guy is a capable fellow.”
After the door closed, Horatia rubbed her arms and paced the room. She felt as if the life had been sucked out of her. She went to the window and watched Lord Stathairn climb into the carriage. “The Horse Guards in Whitehall,” his booming voice instructed the jarvie.
Aunt Emily entered the room, adjusting her lace cap.
“Did you hear, Aunt?”
“Yes. I listened at the door. I didn’t want to greet him in my wrapper.”
“Why would he go to the Horse Guards?” Horatia asked.
“Perhaps he seeks help from his fellow officers.”
“I wonder if he believes Guy has abandoned his goal and returned to France.”
“Surely not. You don’t, do you?”
“There was something Lord Strathairn didn’t wish to tell me.” Horatia turned away from the window, massaging her aching temples. “Someone wants Guy dead, but it doesn’t seem possible they attacked him at the ball. A guest would have witnessed it, or his body…” She swallowed. “…would have been found.” She moaned. “I must try to find out what happened.” She covered her face with her hands. “I don’t know where to begin.”
Aunt Emily patted her arm. “Hush, my dear. You must learn patience. We shall hear soon enough. I must say when you first told me of these attacks on Guy I put it down to coincidence. England can be a very dangerous place, if you are wealthy and go about unprotected. But no one plots and plans to kill others without a very good reason. And what reason could that be? I’m sure there is a quite logical explanation for his absence.”
The hours passed in excruciating slowness. It became almost unbearable. At times, Horatia suspected she was losing her mind. She had hastily dressed, barely eaten, and jumped at every sound.
When the knocker sounded, it took her a moment to believe she hadn’t imagined it.
Horatia rushed into the hall to find Aunt Emily’s maid, Sarah, at the door open-mouthed. A glamorous dark-haired woman stood on the porch in a striped French silk pelisse of Mexican steel blue.
The lady came forward with her gloved hand held out. “Mademoiselle Cavendish? Je suis Duchesse la Châteaudunn, la sœur de Lord Fortescue.” She put her hand to her flushed cheek, and her light green eyes became anxious. “Oh, pardon! English!”
“How nice to meet you, Your Grace.” Horatia sank into a low curtsey. “Will you come into the parlor?”
Guy’s sister reminded Horatia of a tiny bird. She barely reached Horatia’s shoulder. But there was a family resemblance in the resolute look in her eye. She settled her skirts around her on the sofa.
“My brother did write to inform me of your fiançailles. I wish we could have met under more pleasant circumstances. Do you know where he might be? I called at the earl’s house. Lord Strathairn was away from home. The servants could tell me nothing. A young lady said my brother had left without giving his direction. She gave me your address.”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace. I don’t know where the baron is. I wish I did.”
“You…you are worried, too. I can see.”
“I must confess I am a little.”
“Gee has always been most solide,” the duchess said with a stric
ken look.
“Yes, that’s what makes it so surprising,” Horatia said. And so frightening. Horatia resisted expressing the full force of her fears aloud, for the duchess looked close to tears as she fidgeted with her stylish reticule.
“He would not be so …” She waved the reticule about as she frantically sought for a word. “Negligens.”
Horatia plastered on a polite smile. “Can I offer you tea or coffee, Your Grace?”
“Non, merci beaucoup.”
“Where might I contact you, should I hear any news?”
“I have taken a house in Portland Place.” She shook her head, causing the soft feathers on her bonnet to flutter. “But we must act ne pensez-vous ? Where might we begin, Miss Cavendish?” She motioned to the window, through which a luxurious carriage and four matched grey thoroughbreds stood restlessly, their heads held by a liveried groom.
Horatia stared at the lady opposite, who chewed her bottom lip while waiting for her reply. She might be a duchess, but she was also a woman after her own heart. “We might go to Hampstead.”
“Pourquoi?”
“That is where Lord and Lady Taylor reside. It is where Guy was last seen. He disappeared, you see, while attending a ball there.”
“Then we go there.” The dainty woman rose on feet encased in blue suede half-boots the like of which Horatia had never seen, trimmed with silk rosettes.
“I’ll inform my aunt and fetch my bonnet.” Horatia felt her spirits rise as she hurried towards the door. At last she could do something.
Guy opened his eyes and stared into the dark. It might have been a moonless night at midnight, but he knew he was indoors. The air was thick with dust and mold. He moved his head gingerly. It ached and every part of his body seemed bruised. Where was he? A memory flashed into his mind, a silvery moon, the sweet smelling garden at Hampstead and then . . . nothing. He put his hand to the sore spot on his crown and discovered a lump and crusted dried blood coating his hair. He loosened his cravat, his mouth bone dry, his insides hollow with hunger. His last conscious thought came back to him, a demanding voice in the darkness. What did they ask him? He couldn’t remember. How long had he been unconscious? Once his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he spied a faint light under a door. He staggered from what appeared to be a bed of coarse dusty onion sacks and walked an unsteady path towards the light.
A Baron in Her Bed Page 15