Henrietta could not take the time now to try to fathom Mr. Shire’s words. The mystery of her aunt’s ring demanded her attention.
Making her escape as quickly as possible, Henrietta entered the house. Seeing Chuffley in the hall, she asked, “Where is my aunt, Chuffley?”
The butler responded, “Her ladyship has gone out on calls, miss.”
“Did she take Felice with her?”
“No, miss, Sally went along. I believe Felice is working on her ladyship’s ball gown.”
Thanking him, Henrietta ran up the stairs to her bedchamber. Quickly removing her hat and gloves, she hurried down to Lady Fuddlesby’s apartments. Felice was just the person to help her find out about the pink tourmaline ring, and this was a perfect opportunity to question her since Lady Fuddlesby was out.
Henrietta found the lady’s maid in Lady Fuddlesby’s sitting room repairing a tear in the lace of a pale pink ball gown. Knight was curled up on a velvet cushion near the fireplace, apparently placed there for his use. Henrietta’s eyebrows rose when she saw Felice and Knight in the same room. Since Knight usually left any room Felice occupied, Henrietta could only judge Knight’s harrowing experience had left him a more tolerant cat.
Seeing her, the maid started to rise, but Henrietta said, “There is no need to get up, Felice.”
“Her ladyship ees not here, mees,” the Frenchwoman stated, sitting down and resuming her sewing.
Henrietta casually walked into the room to stand by the fireplace. “Is that the gown my aunt plans to wear for my ball?”
“Yes, mees.”
“La, I would have thought she would commission Madame Dupre to make up a new gown,” Henrietta said carelessly, hoping Felice might let slip some information about her ladyship’s finances. Not that she considered Felice would be privy to details, but perhaps Lady Fuddlesby had muttered an aside in front of the maid about not being able to afford a new gown.
Felice pursed her lips and did not look up. “Thees gown will be as good as new once I have repaired the lace, mees, and looks very fine on her ladyship.”
Henrietta frowned. Well, at least she knew Felice was not one for servants’ gossip. Maybe a more direct approach was needed. Surely Felice knew the pink tourmaline ring was gone, since it would be her responsibility to maintain an account of Lady Fuddlesby’s jewelry, as well as keeping the various items clean.
“I suppose Lady Fuddlesby will wear the pink tourmaline ring the late Viscount Fuddlesby gave her. It would be ideal with that gown,” Henrietta said, watching Felice’s reaction closely.
Felice sat very still for a moment, then shifted the gown and began setting tiny stitches on another part of the lace. “I do not know, mees. It ees possible.”
Henrietta knew it was not possible since Lord Mawbly had the ring. Frustrated, she blurted, “Possible? Felice, I would like to examine the pink tourmaline ring, please. It ... it fascinates me.”
Felice glanced up, her sharp black eyes staring thoughtfully into Henrietta’s face. Henrietta shrank back under the scrutiny, but to her amazement, the maid rose, put the dress aside, and moved over to Lady Fuddlesby’s jewel case. She extracted a blue satin box and handed it to her.
Henrietta opened the case, and the pink stone winked in the afternoon sunlight. Disbelieving her own eyes, she stammered, “But this cannot be. ... The duke said ... Oh, I am confused.”
The maid stood with her hands folded across her chest. “Mees Lanford, it ees time you, how do you say it? Ah, yes, cut line. What do you know about thees ring?”
It was obvious to Henrietta Felice knew more than she did, and would not divulge any information unless she was told the whole story. She believed the maid could be trusted, so she explained the duke’s account of Lady Fuddlesby’s sale of the ring to Lord Mawbly, and his lordship’s assertion the stone was paste.
At the conclusion of the tale, Felice’s sallow skin took on a ghostly shade, and she paced the room, muttering fearfully, “Je ne sais quoi! It ees all over now. To the gallows, they will take us. The hangman, the noose—”
Henrietta grabbed the woman by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Felice! Calm yourself and help me untangle this muddle. How can Lord Mawbly have the pink tourmaline ring when I hold it in my hand?”
“A copy. Her ladyship charged me with obtaining a paste copy. My friend Monsieur Jacques made it. He did superb work.” At Henrietta’s look of confusion Felice explained, “You see, Lord Mawbly, he wants to buy the ring. But Lady Fuddlesby did not wish to sell it. Her husband had given it to her. So her ladyship decides she wants a paste copy she can keep to remember him. She sells the real ring because she needs the money for your ball—”
Felice stopped, hearing Henrietta’s sharply indrawn breath. “S’il vous plait, I should not have told you,” the maid said anxiously.
“No, it is all right. I suspected Lady Fuddlesby sold the ring to pay for my ball.” Henrietta bit her lip to keep from crying. That her aunt should make such a sacrifice for her! Her own parents would never forfeit anything they treasured to benefit their daughter.
She rubbed her hand across her forehead. “Felice, the only explanation is that somehow her ladyship switched the rings by accident.”
Knight’s head popped up from the cushion, his green eyes suddenly alert.
Henrietta paced the room, still holding the ring in her hand. “This must be the genuine stone since Lord Mawbly has the paste.”
“But how could such a theeng happen? Her ladyship knew which ring was which. They were in deeferent-colored boxes,” Felice exclaimed.
Knight slinked out of the room guiltily.
Henrietta distractedly noticed him go, then turned her attention to the maid. She shook her head dismissively. “It does not matter. We must contrive to switch the rings again, so that Lord
Mawbly ends with the genuine stone as he was meant to. I shall take this with me the night of the Duke of Winterton’s dinner party. He can then make things right with Lord Mawbly.”
Felice’s dark eyes narrowed into a knowing look. “Ah, the duke ees to help you. He ees a virile man, no?”
Henrietta felt hot color rise to her cheeks. Ignoring the maid’s remark, she said, “Bring the ring to me the evening of the dinner. I dare not keep it now, because my aunt might miss it. Should her ladyship notice its disappearance after the dinner before the duke and I can replace it, will you be able to give her some excuse?”
Felice frowned for a moment, then said, “Yes, mees. I can tell her Monsieur Jacques wanted to assure himself the stone was secure, or some such excuse. But do not worry. Lady Fuddlesby will not wear the fake in company, and I do not believe she ees taking the ring out every day.”
Henrietta sighed with satisfaction. “Very well then.” Looking closely at the lady’s maid, she continued, “I know I can trust you not to repeat any of this, Felice.”
The maid’s back was ramrod-straight. “Yes, Mees Lanford.”
“Thank you. As I have told you before, Felice, you are a treasure. And if you wish to please me, you will cease scolding yourself because you were sleeping the night of the unfortunate incident with Lord Baddick. It is in the past, and I assure you, I never think of it.”
“You are very good, mees,” Felice responded with open admiration for the girl.
Henrietta handed her the pink tourmaline ring and returned to her bedchamber. She wondered how the duke would react to the news of the ring switch. She allowed herself to picture his handsome face regarding her with high esteem when she presented her discovery and the genuine ring to him. Smiling, she found herself hardly able to wait for the days to pass so she could see him again, and they could solve Lady Fuddlesby’s mishap with none being the wiser.
* * * *
In the duke’s bedchamber the evening of the dinner party, Tyler, very stiffly on his stiffs because of the appalling condition of the duke’s clothing after his adventures in the countryside, helped his master into an evening coat of darkest blue.<
br />
In a corner of the room, Sir Polly Grey gnawed with contentment on a branch placed inside his cage for this purpose. He paused in his task to mutter in the seventh Duke of Winterton’s voice, “Giles. An heir. Marriage.”
Tyler pursed his lips at the parrot, and asked the duke in an oppressive tone, “What shall we wear in our cravat this evening, Your Grace? The ruby or the diamond?”
“You decide, Tyler. I shall be eclipsed by Lady Mawbly whatever I wear.” The duke knew there was nothing that brought more satisfaction to the valet than when he deferred to his opinion on dress. It was the least Giles could do after the valet had fallen into a near faint at the sight of his soiled and scratched Hessians.
After selecting a large ruby pin and placing it artfully in the folds of the duke’s cravat, Tyler took advantage of his master’s complacent mood to offer another opinion. “I hear Lady Mawbly’s daughter, Lady Clorinda, is a suitable girl. Will she be one of the party this evening?”
Sir Polly Grey’s beak stilled. Black eyes alert, he cocked his head to one side in a listening manner.
The duke was not prepared to discuss the ladies of his acquaintance. “Yes, Lady Clorinda will be here with her parents. Where is the matching ruby ring, Tyler?”
While Tyler fussed with finishing touches, Winterton’s thoughts turned to Miss Henrietta Lanford. He hoped she had gained useful information. Lord Mawbly, still in possession of the paste ring with his wife none the wiser, grew more anxious by the day. Giles had seen him at White’s and had delivered his invitation to dine. The timid man had accepted, and beseeched him to bring the matter of the ring to a close before Lady Mawbly became suspicious.
Accepting a bottle of spicy scent from Tyler, the duke applied the lotion sparingly, then left the room to descend the stairs.
Arriving in the drawing room, he reflected the tedium he had experienced upon his arrival in Town had somehow vanished. He wondered what had occurred to bring new sparkle to his life, then brushed the puzzle aside.
His hand reached out to a bowl of red roses adorning a Chippendale table. Touching a soft petal, Giles looked forward to crossing swords with the intriguing Miss Lanford.
He did not connect his acquaintance with the girl to the disappearance of his boredom.
Chapter Twelve
The first of the guests to arrive at the Duke of Winterton’s dinner party were the Mawblys. Lady Mawbly, diamond and gold necklaces flashing against a bronze-colored dress, ushered her daughter into the drawing room.
The duke’s eyebrows rose at the sight of Lady Clorinda, dressed in virginal white. The neckline of the girl’s crepe gown rose to her throat. Her only jewelry was a proper set of pearl earbobs that peeked out from behind the demure golden curls arranged charmingly around her face.
Perhaps he had been too hasty in his conclusion that the lady was forward. Recalling his manners, Winterton greeted his guests while a footman offered glasses of wine. “Lady Mawbly, Lady Clorinda, I am happy to have you here this evening.”
Lady Clorinda sank into a smooth curtsy. “Thank you, your grace. I am honored to be invited and must compliment you on your exquisitely tasteful home.”
“Indeed, your grace. Everything is as it should be,” interposed Lady Mawbly, her rabbity face fairly twitching with curiosity while she examined the costly contents of the drawing room.
The duke suppressed a grimace. Lady Mawbly
was an odious woman, but one he would have to tolerate if he wed her daughter. Clorinda’s father, on the other hand, was a good sort of fellow, but in the duke’s opinion needed to assert himself with his wife.
“Ah, Lord Mawbly, for a moment I thought the ladies had arrived without you.”
Lord Mawbly trailed into the room looking hot and uncomfortable. “Good evening, your grace. If you please, I must speak—”
“Giles!” Matilda, Dowager Duchess of Winterton, interrupted, sailing into the room with Colonel Colchester. Dressed in regal purple, she served as the duke’s hostess for the evening. “I captured Owen coming downstairs from his apartments, and tried to scold him for his tardiness in welcoming our guests. But the maddening man pointed out I was equally at fault.”
The dowager duchess smiled teasingly at the handsome military man. Matilda had observed, with displeasure, the way the colonel had positively fawned over Clara Fuddlesby at Lady Chatterton’s musicale. She considered the colonel her own territory because he had been a close friend of her husband for many years. A strong competitive nature made her determine to redirect the colonel’s attention toward herself.
The colonel appeared puzzled over the lady’s flirtatious manner, but indulgently played along.
Winterton strolled over to her side, raised her gloved hand, and gave it a brief kiss. “You look attractive in purple, Mother. It suits you. Good evening, Colonel.”
“Going to be a deuced fine party, my boy. Hope we get that information we need,” his godfather responded with a significant look at his godson.
Matilda rapped the colonel’s arm with her fan. “Information? Pshaw! You gentlemen and your business dealings. This is a party. Remember we are here to enjoy ourselves.”
The duke’s elderly butler, Prestwich, shuffled into the room and announced in a feeble voice, “Lord Sebastian and Sir Thomas Martin.”
“Hallo, everyone,” the affable Sir Tommy called out. He bowed to the ladies.
The duke gave a brief nod to Lord Sebastian, who moved away to greet the dowager. Winterton shook hands with his friend Sir Tommy, giving him a reproachful glance over his arrival with the aging dandy, Lord Sebastian. “Tommy, I have not had the pleasure of seeing you since Almack’s opening night.”
Sir Tommy looked rueful. In low voice he said, “Sorry, old fellow, but your mother needed another gentleman to make up the numbers, and told me to bring a friend. Sebbie was the best I could do on short notice, especially when there’s a cyprians’ ball tonight.”
The duke chuckled. “Forgive me, Tommy, for keeping you from choosing your next chere amie.”
Ignoring the taunt, Sir Tommy said, “Don’t get on your high ropes over Sebbie. He may be a rattle, but he’s inoffensive enough, and besides, he’s togged out to the nines.”
Turning to Lord Sebastian, the duke saw he wore an exceptionally well cut cornflower-blue coat. The gentleman appeared acquainted with the Mawblys, and they had moved over by the fireplace and were chatting amiably.
Out of the corner of his eye Winterton thought he saw Lord Mawbly signal to him, but at that moment Prestwich announced, “Lady Fuddlesby and Miss Henrietta Lanford.”
All eyes turned to the new arrivals. Lady Fuddlesby, in burgundy silk, nodded to the company and made as if to join the colonel, who had smiled at her entrance.
Standing beside the colonel, Matilda gave Clara a chilly nod, then laid a possessive hand on the military man’s arm and resumed their conversation as if Lady Fuddlesby did not exist.
Lady Fuddlesby stopped short, a crestfallen expression on her round face. Perturbed at Matilda’s slight and hurt by the colonel’s seeming unconcern, her ladyship remained where she was, at her niece’s side.
Henrietta was dressed in an ivory satin gown trimmed with violets. White gloves covered her arms to just below the puffed sleeves of the gown. Violets adorned her dark, glossy curls, and a dainty necklace of amethysts circled her slim neck.
Henrietta hoped she was not staring. The duke’s town house was the epitome of elegance, the classically inspired furnishings done in blue and gold understated in their resplendence. The grandeur overwhelmed and intimidated Henrietta, but she squared her shoulders against the prying eyes of the gathering.
The duke excused himself to Sir Tommy and crossed the room to the ladies, unaware of Clorinda’s jealous gaze boring into his back. “Lady Fuddlesby, Miss Lanford, you both look lovely this evening.”
Dropping a deep curtsy, Henrietta said, “Thank you, your grace. My aunt and I are delighted to be your guests.” Surely she imagined
that he held her hand overlong when she rose from her curtsy.
The duke led them over to Sir Tommy and performed the introductions.
Lady Fuddlesby nodded at the young man distractedly, her attention riveted by the disgraceful way her old rival, Matilda, was flirting with the colonel.
Sir Tommy ran his gaze over Henrietta. “By Jupiter, Miss Lanford, I am pleased to meet you. Remember you from the opening night at Almack’s. Prettiest gel there in your silver gown. Wanted an introduction, but had to toddle off early.”
Henrietta liked the tall, friendly Sir Tommy at once, although the mention of Almack’s brought a blush to her cheeks as she remembered her embarrassing behavior that night. She was sure the congenial young man could have no notion her vouchers to Almack’s had been withdrawn after that night. “You are kind, Sir Tommy.”
Turning her head so she might address a remark to the duke, Henrietta was taken aback by the look of warning Winterton was giving his friend. Almost as if he thought Sir Tommy’s comments toward her overwarm. Looking back at Sir Tommy, Henrietta was further perplexed when she caught a wide, knowing grin on the gentleman’s face.
She had no time to contemplate the strange exchange between the men, for just then a footman opened one of the drawing room’s double doors holding a tray of glasses in his hand. Henrietta watched, astonished, when Sir Polly Grey flew over the servant’s head, into the room, to land on a Greek bust from where he peered at the company curiously.
“Giles!” Matilda shrieked, causing instant silence in the room. “Get that creature out of here at once.”
Lady Fuddlesby bristled. “Oh, Matilda, you always were a silly creature. ’Tis just the duke’s jolly little parrot, not a dragon come to breathe fire on you until you are burnt to ashes.”
Henrietta’s eyes opened wide at her aunt’s harsh statement, which almost sounded like her ladyship wished the dragon might appear. With a sniff, the dowager duchess ignored Lady Fuddlesby’s remarks, turning to the colonel for support.
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