Soon her ladyship’s gentle snore could be heard in the darkened room. The black and white cat cast a quick look at his mistress before jumping down from the bed and slinking over to the toilet table. Despite his weight, he hopped up onto the surface silently, his paws landing expertly without disturbing anything.
He appeared to study the boxes containing the rings lying open in front of him, his head tilted speculatively. Suddenly a paw, with claws extended, reached in the black velvet box and removed the genuine ring. Knight dropped it aside, where it made a light metallic sound on the table’s top. The cat turned his head sharply toward his mistress, but Lady Fuddlesby continued to snore.
Knight stretched his paw into the blue satin box, adroitly removed the paste copy, and dropped it into the black velvet box. The genuine ring was batted up and into the blue satin box, where the paste had rested a few moments before.
Apparently satisfied with this piece of chicanery, the rascal returned to the bed and fell instantly to sleep.
* * * *
The next afternoon Lady Fuddlesby was none the wiser when she innocently turned the paste copy over to Lord Mawbly for a large sum of money.
Lord Mawbly, however, had acquired many jewels for his greedy wife over the years. He knew at once the ring was paste. Being a very timid man, he could not bring himself to confront Lady Fuddlesby with his knowledge. Instead, he pondered the problem during the carriage ride home. Luckily, he had not told Lady Mawbly he had been successful in striking a bargain with Lady Fuddlesby, so he would not have to deal with his wife right away.
But what was he going to do? His brow creased with concentration, until the solution struck him. The Duke of Winterton! He would turn the matter over to his daughter’s beau. The man’s godfather was on good terms with Lady Fuddlesby, and they were certain to know how to proceed. Tonight, at Lady Chatterton’s musicale, he would tell the duke everything.
Chapter Nine
While Felice put the finishing touches to Henrietta’s coiffure, a housemaid scratched at the door. Entering the room, she bobbed a curtsy and said, “Miss, her ladyship wishes to see you in her bedchamber when you’re ready.”
“Thank you, Sally.” Henrietta dismissed the maid and turned to study Felice’s face reflected in the cheval glass. The woman worked expertly with a length of amber-colored ribbon.
Since sleeping through Lord Baddick’s attack, the Frenchwoman seemed in low spirits. Surmising the lady’s maid felt guilty over her lack of assistance, Henrietta had tried to reassure her all had turned out well, but the woman’s manner remained despondent.
Now Henrietta looked at the glossy curls Felice had coaxed, and complimented her. “As usual, you have worked wonders with my hair, Felice. You are a treasure.”
Felice’s lips stretched in a small smile. “Thank you, mees. You look beautiful in that amber gown. The color sets off your dark hair, and the cut shows your figure to advantage. Let me put these amber beads about your neck, and then you can go to her ladyship.”
Henrietta smiled her thanks before rising, shaking out her skirts and making her way down to her aunt’s bedchamber. She found the lady, attired in a raspberry silk gown, seated at a desk, writing out what looked to be some sort of list.
“Good evening, my lady. Sally said you wanted to see me before we leave for Lady Chatterton’s musicale,” Henrietta said, dropping a kiss on her aunt’s rouged cheek.
She walked over to a pink chaise nearby the desk, where Knight stretched out languidly. Sitting down next to him, she stroked his white back, and the cat rewarded her with a throaty purr for her efforts.
Lady Fuddlesby put down her pen and gazed at her niece with an excited expression on her plump features. “Oh, my dear Henrietta. I have the most delightful news for you! You will be in transports when you hear it, just as I am.”
Henrietta tilted her head in a questioning manner, a crease forming across her ivory brow. “What is it, Aunt? Is the Prince Regent to attend tonight’s musicale?” she teased.
“What? Oh, my dear, you are bamming me,” Lady Fuddlesby replied, and chuckled. Then, as a thought seemed to take hold in her ladyship’s mind, she said, “Although now you have mentioned him, I wonder if I should include Prinny on the invitation list.”
“Invitation list? Are we to have an entertainment of our own?”
“Yes.” Lady Fuddlesby’s pale blue eyes lit with anticipation. She clapped her hands with evident relish. “Henrietta, I am planning to hold a ball in your honor! All the best people will attend, we shall have champagne, perhaps flowing from a little
fountain. Yes, that would be elegant, and oh, masses of hothouse flowers, and ...”
Henrietta bit her lip in dismay. She contemplated whether or not she deserved such special treatment after her improper behavior since her arrival in Town, first at the Denbys’ and then at Almack’s. In addition, there had been the whole ill-judged relationship with Lord Baddick, and its shocking consequences. She did not think her performance in Town thus far merited such generosity.
She heard Lady Fuddlesby rambling on about Gunter’s catering and their delicious lobster patties, and felt the cat’s body underneath her hand heave a sigh. Henrietta began her protest, “I do not know—”
“Oh, indeed, dear, Gunters is who everyone uses, and we could not expect Mrs. Pottsworth to prepare all the food that we shall require,” Lady Fuddlesby argued, misunderstanding her niece’s words.
Agitated, Henrietta rose and stepped over to stand in front of the desk. “No, it is not that, dear lady. While I appreciate your kindness, I am certain whatever Town parties we attend will serve the purpose of introducing me to eligible gentlemen. I simply feel a ball would be a great expense, and perhaps unnecessary.”
Henrietta felt uncomfortable bringing up the matter of the cost, but knew from different incidents her aunt’s pockets were not well lined. While Lady Fuddlesby was no lickpenny, Henrietta had noticed when her aunt had refused herself the purchase of a new bonnet, and had appeared worried after a mysterious visit from her solicitor.
But Lady Fuddlesby brushed the matter of expense aside in a curious way. “Nonsense, my dear. I just received that roll of soft from Lord—”
Here the lady interrupted herself and, with a fluttering of hands, rose from her seat and abruptly changed the course of the conversation. “Henrietta! What can you mean when you say a ball will be ‘unnecessary’? Naturally, every young lady must have a ball in her honor. Why, I have been remiss in not planning one for you before now. All you need think of is what to wear. I believe the ball gown of white silk with the lace overdress Madame Dupre made up will serve. And since it will be a special occasion, I do not see where it would be improper for me to loan you a small diamond necklet.”
Lady Fuddlesby chattered on, all the while gathering her reticule and a pretty Norwich shawl. Henrietta realized her aunt’s mind was set on the subject of a ball, and she assumed an expression of enthusiasm far from her true feelings. Restraining a sigh, she allowed herself to be led downstairs to the drawing room.
* * * *
Knight trailed the ladies downstairs, and when they entered the drawing room, he stared curiously at the stranger.
Mr. Edmund Shire rose from the brocade sofa and greeted them in his casual, unpretentious way. He wore a brown coat over tan breeches, and his cravat was tied in a simple style. Seeing the cat, he ventured a friendly “Here, kitty, kitty.”
Knight promptly turned around and left the room. His abrupt departure indicated clearly he was uninterested in anyone who would address him in this inane manner.
Mr. Shire cleared his throat at the rebuff and said, “Ladies, if you are ready, let us return to my aunt’s house. She wishes me at her side when the guests arrive.”
Henrietta restrained a smile at the look of apprehension with which the country gentleman made this statement. He was clearly not the type of man who was comfortable with Society, or its diversions, unlike the Duke of Winterton, who was ever elegant. The duke was
well bred enough never to show unease, or any other emotion for that matter.
Perhaps that was not quite true, she reflected during the drive to Lady Chatterton’s. Mr. Shire monopolized a conversation with Lady Fuddlesby about a mutual acquaintance, leaving Henrietta to her musings. She remembered the duke had certainly forgotten himself the night at Almack’s when he shouted “minx” at her. And then, after rescuing her from Lord Baddick’s perfidy, there had been that kiss. A kiss that had left a burning imprint on her.
She fell into reliving the experience once again, recalling the ecstasy of being held against his strong body. As the carriage rolled along, her longing to see the duke intensified. Gazing out at the London streets, she wondered if she would be able to determine if any clue was to be had regarding his sentiments about her.
They were the first to arrive, Lady Chatterton meeting them in the hallway and indicating, in her whispery way, for them to go upstairs while she and her nephew received the other guests.
Entering the drawing room with Lady Fuddlesby, Henrietta stopped and blinked her eyes, attempting to adjust them to the dim lighting. Her previous assumption that Lady Chatterton held light in aversion was confirmed. The large drawing room with its dark, heavy furniture contained only a few branches of candles, casting most of the room in shadows. Evidently it was to be a small affair, since a mere six rows of chairs were set up in addition to the existing settees and wing chairs.
Soon other people were announced, and footmen circulated, passing glasses of ratafia and champagne. Absently accepting the ratafia, Henrietta looked up each time a new party arrived, hoping to see the duke.
She sensed her aunt waited for Colonel Colchester, and the two ladies talked lightly until the Duke of Winterton, his mother, and godfather walked in. They were followed by the Mawblys and Lady Clorinda.
Lady Fuddlesby started at the sight of her old rival, Matilda, conversing amiably with Colonel Colchester.
Seeing her dismay, Henrietta gently turned her aunt away, and said, “Come Aunt, let us take our seats. Lady Chatterton and Mr. Shire are here now, so the musicale will most likely begin.”
Walking to the end of one row of chairs, they sat down, and it was not long before Colonel Colchester hurried over to sit on the other side of Lady Fuddlesby.
“Good evening, Miss Lanford,” he said, and then immediately addressed her aunt. “Lady Fuddlesby, I must beg your forgiveness. I intended to ask to escort you this evening. Indeed, I have a treat at home for my brave soldier, Knight. But Giles invited Matilda to dine, and I felt it would be rude to leave them with just one another’s company.”
The tension drained from Lady Fuddlesby’s face. “Oh, dear sir, ’tis of no consequence. Goodness, I must tell you our glad news. We are to hold a ball!”
Henrietta barely heard any of the conversation that followed between the two older people. Discreetly she watched the duke conversing with his
mother and the Mawblys. How very agreeable he appeared in his slate-colored coat and black breeches. His dove-gray waistcoat must match his eyes, she believed, unable to see for certain in the room’s low light.
Then her view of him was blocked by Lady Chatterton, who joined the group and appeared to be furiously whispering something to Lady Mawbly and Clorinda. Whatever it was resulted in an adorable case of dimpling on Lady Clorinda’s part.
The duke strolled away from them, and he and the dowager came to sit on the other side of Colonel Colchester. Henrietta’s gaze never left the duke when he paused before he sat down to rake her body with a knowing eye. “Your servant, Miss Lanford,” he said in arctic tones.
Henrietta blushed scarlet and merely nodded to him. She was robbed of speech for the moment. How dare he speak to her in that cold way after the kiss they shared? And that look. She quite felt he knew exactly what she looked like without her clothes. And that was not possible from one embrace. Was it?
By the massive fireplace, Lady Chatterton attempted to quiet the room, without much success. Shocking the assembly, she finally shouted, “By God, be quiet, you great bunch of bacon-brained gudgeons!”
Barely concealed titters followed, as Society saved this on dit to be repeated over the teacups tomorrow. The beau monde loved being insulted, by one of their own, of course.
Henrietta noticed an indulgent smile on her aunt’s face, but Mr. Shire had turned the same shade of purple Henrietta had heretofore only seen on Papa’s face, when he was upset over his horses.
In her usual voice, Lady Chatterton announced, “The diva has not yet arrived, but I have persuaded Lady Clorinda Eden to sing for us.”
A smattering of applause greeted Lady Clorinda, who stood in front of the gathering, lovely in a revealing peach gown decorated with blond lace. In a clear voice, she sang a haunting ballad of love.
As she performed the song, Clorinda’s Venus-like body dipped and swayed gracefully. The gentlemen in the audience leaned forward as one in their seats, attempting to better view her magnificent bosom. Clorinda appeared to enjoy every moment of the attention she was receiving.
The Duke of Winterton sat with his arms folded across his chest and his lips pursed in a grim line. The girl was calling too much vulgar attention to herself, he decided. It would never do, if he decided to settle for Clorinda, for the future Duchess of Winterton to be the subject of distasteful notice.
Casually he glanced sidelong at Miss Lanford. The amber-colored gown she wore was vastly fetching. Her cheeks were rosy, and she appeared to be studying her gloved hands, which were folded in her lap. He reflected that she had a certain quiet dignity about her.
Her innocence was unnerving. Without warning, his mind dragged him down into the memory of her sweet-tasting lips. The way her tiny hands had rested on his shoulders evoked a protective feeling in him no other lady had stirred.
He remembered with satisfaction that she had not pushed him away. On the contrary, Miss Lanford seemed to have savored the meeting of their lips as much as he.
Good God, he wanted her. It could not be denied.
A disdainful look crossed his aristocratic features. Naturally, he could only have her in the marriage bed. In the past, when picturing his bride-to-be, she was always nameless and faceless, just a female form. Now, inexplicably, Miss Henrietta Lanford’s demure countenance appeared in the vision. What would it be like to hold her naked body in his arms every night in their bed?
Giles forced his thoughts to those of a more practical matter. More to the point, what would it be like to converse with her during meals and at the end of every day? They seemed to come to cuffs frequently.
Would she be able to oversee the running of his households? He shrewdly guessed it was she who handled such things commendably at the squire’s. But she would have no experience in dealing with a staff the size of his at Perrywood.
He had to admit, though, she had shown remarkable courage the night of Baddick’s attack. Any other Society lady he knew would have swooned or had strong hysterics. Miss Lanford had been understandably overset, but still in admirable control of herself.
His father’s voice sounded in his brain, reminding him of his duty. Sighing, the duke asked himself about the undeniable fact that he owed more to his name than a mere squire’s daughter.
On the subject of marriage, why had Miss Lanford agreed to marry a philandering miscreant like Baddick in the first place? This question had plagued him the most since the fateful night at the opera. Although he had not thought it at the time, he now wondered if she had loved the viscount before he had shown himself to be a blackguard.
A sensation of intense jealousy, normally an emotion foreign to him, swept over the duke. Frustrated, he ran a hand through his dark hair and ordered his mind to cease its haranguing inquisition. He was only able to do so after vowing to interrogate Miss Lanford at the first opportunity.
He had no chance to put this plan into action, however, as the diva arrived, and Lady Clorinda finished her song. Smiling angelically under hearty appl
ause, she went to sit next to her parents, directly in front of him.
Lady Mawbly twisted around in her seat to face Winterton. The sudden bright light of her diamond brooch almost blinded him in the darkened room.
“Your grace, has not my Clorinda the loveliest voice you have ever heard? Her stitchery is un-equaled as well,” Lady Mawbly began, and went on endlessly in a conversation that centered on her daughter’s many accomplishments.
Lady Clorinda sat quietly by, giving him a view of her beautiful profile, as her mother shamelessly commended her, causing the duke to form the impression the girl thought the praise was her due.
Good manners, and the fact he was trapped in his seat since no one had risen in the interval between Clorinda’s singing and the diva’s appearance, prevented him from rudely telling Lady Mawbly to stubble it.
Fortunately, just when he reached the end of his tether, a hush fell over the room.
In front of the assembled guests, two pillars, formerly holding Grecian busts, now each held a branch of candles. The diva, a large, dark-haired woman in a severe black gown, stood between the columns and began her performance. Her wide mouth stretched open to the limit as she bellowed out an indecipherable aria.
The darkness of the room, combined with the
woman’s black hair and clothing, resulted in only her white, lead-painted face being visible. Thus, a ghostlike head, seemingly suspended midair, roared out over the assembly.
Winterton’s lips twitched at the sight, and he turned to see the expression on Miss Lanford’s face. At that moment she looked his way, and he saw the laughter brimming in her eyes. They smiled at each other in silent communication.
After the singing, the duke rose, meaning to speak to Miss Lanford, but a hand on his arm stayed him. Lord Mawbly, his gaze darting nervously back and forth, said, “Your grace, I beg a few minutes of your time.”
Winterton stiffened. Could the man be impertinent enough to press him regarding Clorinda? His voice haughty, the duke inquired, “What is it, Mawbly?”
A Crime of Manners Page 13