Before she could utter the words, Helene said, "Now that you have settled matters so very neatly for Mina, perhaps you would like to try your luck, Julia." Her delicate eyebrows lifted in genteel challenge.
"Unless, of course, you fear that the snail will fail to make a letter?"
Failure to make a letter naturally indicated spinsterhood. And while it was true that Julia had no wish to wed at the moment, she hoped to do so someday-after her younger sisters were grown and free of their aunt Aurelia's tyranny.
"So?" Helene goaded, snapping her fingers at the nearby footmen, indicating that one was to remove the used snail, while the other brought a selection of fresh ones.
Not about to give Helene satisfaction by begging off, Julia took the silver tongs a footman offered and plucked a snail from the dozen or so on the presented salver. As she waited for it to do its magical duty, her mind again strayed to her aunt. The story of Aurelia and the folly that had led to her presence in their lives was one that Julia and her sisters had heard at least a hundred times, a dreary, cautionary tale that was repeated often in hopes that they would learn from their aunt's mistakes.
Once the toast of the ton, Aurelia, who Julia's father never failed to stress had been an exceedingly stubborn and headstrong chit, had eloped with a man her parents had forbade her to wed. Her parents had been justified in their prohibition, for the man had turned out be a complete scoundrel. He had been shot during their tenth year of marriage, while bedding another man's wife, thus leaving Aurelia a penniless widow. With nowhere else to turn, she had thrown herself on the mercy of her family.
Because Aurelia's parents had died in the interim, it had fallen to Julia's father, the new Marquess of Stanwell, to decide his wayward sister's fate. In the end he had consented to take her in on one
condition: that she serve as an example to his daughters to illustrate the wretchedness that came from defying one's parents. In order to do this effectively, she was reduced to the station of servant and charged with the duty of overseeing the girls' upbringing.
From the very beginning it had been clear that Aurelia loathed her position. Indeed, she made no bones about the fact that she despised children and often let her bitterness guide her in her dealings with Julia and her sisters. That was not to say that she beat her charges without reason, or that she hit them unduly hard when she deemed a switching necessary. Truth be told, she seldom raised her hand. Nor did she subject them to any other sort of maltreatment that would be readily apparent to the casual observer. No, her method was worse, far more insidious and damaging to their young lives: She deprived them of all love and joy, making their lives as grim as she had made her own.
At least she had done so until Julia had become old enough to defy her. Now a woman grown, it was within Julia's power to shield her sisters from their aunt's malice, and she did so with a fortitude that had made Aurelia back down from every confrontation they had had thus far. And she was determined to continue doing so until she could either convince her parents to rid them of Aurelia, or her sisters were grown. Exactly how she was going to evade her father's edict that she wed this Season, well-
"K? Or is that an H, do you suppose?" murmured Mina, interrupting Julia's rumination.
Caroline leaned over to examine the snail's handiwork, her forehead creasing beneath her face-framing tumble of chocolate-brown curls. After tipping her head this way and that, she pronounced, "It is an H. The outer lines are far too straight to be a K. Do you not agree, Julia?"
Julia, too, studied the plate before her. Though the lines were distorted, as they always were during snail experiments, it did look rather like an H. Nodding, she said, "I do believe that you are correct, Caro."
"An H, you say? Hmmm," Helene said, stroking her lyrically immortalized jaw in a contemplative manner. "I seem to remember you turning up an H when we played this game at Mary Montworth's picnic last week."
There was a pause of silence as everyone considered, and then Caro nodded. "Helene is correct. Do you not remember the awful time we had thinking of gentlemen whose names begin with an H?"
Julia did remember and it made her shudder to do so. Heaven help her if the game was as prophetic as it was alleged to be, and she ended up saddled with one of the three men in the ton whose names began with an H.
"Yes, now I remember as well," said Amy. "If I recall correctly, we settled on Clive Hartshorn, Earl of Wolton. He is younger than Augustus Hungate, Earl of Trendall, and ever so much richer than Viscount Huxham."
Lord Wolton-he of the mincing walk and affected lisp. Julia cringed at the mere thought of him. If he was the best that fate had to offer, she would take spinsterhood any day of the week.
"Lord Wolton? Perhaps," Helene mused, still stroking her jaw. "Or seeing as that it is Julia, who is set on a love match, it could be a commoner, someone we have never before considered."
The very notion of one of their illustrious number wedding a lowly commoner stunned the other women into silence. Caroline was the first to recover. "What a hateful thing to say, Helene!" she exclaimed, her cheeks flushing a dusky rose in her indignation. "Our Julia would never be brought to such a low pass."
Amy giggled, a sure sign that she was about to say something saucy. "Given the choice between a handsome and wealthy commoner, or Lord Wolton, I would take the commoner without a second thought. Especially if the commoner was someone like Mr. Gideon Harwood." Another giggle. "There is an idea. H as in Harwood."
Ever since the mysterious Mr. Harwood had deposited his enormous fortune in one of several banks owned by Amy's family, he had become a figure of much speculation among the ton -especially since he had shown no interest in entering their elite society. Not that they wished him to join them or that they would accept him should he try. It was just that they were used to the nabobs, as they referred to commoners who had made their fortunes in India, trying to gain eminence by infiltrating their ranks, and they were thus mystified that Mr. Harwood showed no inclination to follow suit. Truth be told, several ton members had actually voiced outrage at his behavior, interpreting his actions not as the wisdom to know his place, but as a snub of their society.
Mina frowned at the mention of the notorious Mr. Harwood. "A man like that would never do, Amy. We know nothing at all of his background and nobody seems quite certain as to how he came about his fortune. Indeed, it is rumored that he did not make it in India at all, as he claims, but as a pirate. In view of the fact that no one in polite Indian society has ever heard his name, at least according to Lady Waddell, and she is lately returned from Calcutta, it makes perfect sense to suspect that he acquired his wealth in a less-than-honorable fashion."
"Perhaps," Caro intoned. "Then again, India is an exceedingly large country. If his wealth were founded in diamond mines, as others say, he most probably spent his years out in the wilds and thus had no contact with English society."
Yet another giggle from Amy. "Whatever the case, you must admit that he cuts a most dashing figure."
"Does he?" This was from Mina, the only one among them who had never seen the object of their speculation. Her expression forlorn, as if she felt left out because of that fact, she begged, "Please. Do tell me what he is like."
"He is dark," Helene supplied with a disdainful sniff, "like a farm laborer. So dark, in fact, that I shall not be at all surprised if he turns out to be the half-Indian bastard of an unsavory English adventurer."
"He told Papa that he is from Yorkshire, which makes him as English as you or I," retorted Amy, visibly stung by Helene's criticism of her father's richest depositor. "And if Papa believes it to be true, then I do too. Besides, he is not so very dark as all that. His eyes are quite light-gray, I believe, and his hair is more brown than black."
Helene shrugged. "If you say so, dear." She couldn't have sounded more condescending.
Amy opened her mouth, no doubt to press her point, but Caro cut her off. "Whatever Mr. Harwood's nationality, we must all agree that he is exceedingly tall.
" Frowning first at Helene and then at Amy to remind them of their manners, she added, "If I do not miss my guess, he stands well over six feet tall."
"He is also well formed. You can be certain that he requires no padding in his shoulders or calves, and his waistline is quite trim," tossed in Amy, shooting Helene a mutinous look.
Another shrug from Helene. "You shall get no argument from me on that count."
Nor would they get one from Julia. Gideon Harwood did indeed possess an excellent figure, a fact that she had discovered for herself when she'd barreled into him at the Temple of the Muses, Mr. Lackington's fashionable bookshop in Finsbury Square.
Her cheeks burned at the mere remembrance of the mortifying incident. Though Mr. Harwood had done the gentlemanly thing and claimed all responsibility for their collision, they both knew that the fault was entirely hers. To be sure, she had been so elated at having finally found the third volume of Account of Voyages Undertaken by the order of His Present Majesty for Making Discoveries in the Southern Hemisphere, Mr. John Hawkworth's final entry in the thrilling chronicles of Captain Cook's travel adventures, that she had rushed headlong into the poor man, oblivious to everything but her eagerness to purchase her prize. No doubt she would have fallen onto her derriere from the impact had he not pulled her into his arms to steady her.
The burning in her cheeks intensified as she involuntarily relived the moment. Though he had held her only the briefest of seconds and in a most impersonal manner, she couldn't help but be aware of the body beneath his clothing. He felt so hard and powerful, so aggressively male-a far different creature from the pale, soft beings that squired her about the dance floor at every ball. To Julia's shame, she could still feel the solid warmth of his body and the sweet but oddly unsettling shock of excitement that had raced through her as she pressed against him.
"And how do you find Mr. Harwood, Julia, dear?" inquired Helene. "Given your . . . mmm . . . accident at Lackington's, you have had a much more-shall we say intimate?-view of him than the rest of us." By the archness of her voice, it was clear that she already knew the answer to her question.
Julia cursed her lapse of judgment in relating the incident to her circle. Blast! Wasn't it just her luck that Helene would somehow discern her unorthodox attraction to the man? Praying that the other women had not detected it as well, she cautiously replied, "He is tall and rather dark, yes. And his manner is civil enough." She shrugged one shoulder in a way that she hoped would convey nonchalance. "I cannot say that he made much of an impression."
"Indeed?" Helene murmured, her raised eyebrows challenging the lie.
Fortunately for Julia, Mina was blind to the subtle byplay between her and Helene and unwittingly came to her rescue by demanding to know, "But is he handsome?"
"Well? Is he, Julia?" purred Helene.
Is he? Julia thought. Odd, but she had never stopped to consider whether Mr. Harwood was handsome. He was intriguing, yes. Attractive? Undeniably so. But handsome? After mulling the question for several moments, she shook her head. "No. I do not think that I could call him handsome. He is far too"-she made a helpless hand gesture as she grappled for a term to describe her impression of him. Unable to find one that fit, she settled on-"bold. He is too bold looking to be handsome."
"Bold?" Mina looked genuinely perplexed. "Whatever do you mean by bold?"
"Yes. Please do explain yourself, dearest Julia," said Helene. Unlike Mina, Helene appeared to know precisely what Julia meant.
"It is just that he is so . . ." So what? The word virile instantly came to mind. Not about to share that particular observation, especially not with Helene, she changed the flow of her thoughts and weakly explained, "It is just that his features are a bit ... um . . . unrefined for my tastes."
"He may not be pretty, but I would hardly call his looks unrefined," contradicted Amy, who had actually been introduced to the man. "I would say that they are"-like Julia, she, too, had to pause to
search for a word to describe the hard-to-define Mr. Harwood. Unlike Julia, however, she did not flinch from stating her honest opinion-"manly," she finally concluded with a nod. "Yes, the word 'manly' fits Mr. Harwood to perfection. Unlike many men in the ton, his looks leave no doubt whatsoever as to which sex he belongs."
Always the innocent, Mina frowned and said, '"I have never had any trouble distinguishing between the men and the women. Which gentlemen do you find confusing?"
"I did not mean to say that I find the question of their sex confusing, rather that they appear to have some confusion about it themselves," Amy replied, grinning at her own naughtiness. When Mina continued to look uncomprehending, she sighed and explained, "Fops, dear. I was referring to fops like Lords Shipdam, Fiskerton, and Wolton, none of whom I find the least bit appealing." Heaven help them, she giggled again. "Unlike Julia, I happen to find manly men like Mr. Harwood far more attractive than fribbles like Lord Wolton."
"Oh, I did not say that I find Mr. Harwood unattractive," Julia blurted out before she could stop the words.
"No!" ejected Helene in mock surprise.
"Yes," Julia admitted, miserably aware that Helene would never let her live down her unwitting confession.
Mina's frown deepened in her consternation. "And Lord Wolton? Do you find him attractive as well?"
Again Julia's response just slipped out. "Good heavens, no!" The horror in her voice was unmistakable.
Helene chuckled. "Ah. Well, then perhaps it shall be H for Harwood after all."
Julia merely smiled. H for Harwood? Never. She would never choose such a man for herself, no matter how attractive she might find him, and her parents would most certainly never match her to a commoner. Not even to one as wealthy as Gideon Harwood.
Chapter 3
It could be H for Hartshorn after all, Julia reflected miserably as she strolled along the spectacularly lit Grand Walk of Vauxhall Gardens with Clive Hartshorn, Earl of Wolton. To her dismay, his foppish lordship was the latest selection in what had become her parents' endless parade of matrimonial prospects, an offering they seemed especially keen on her accepting. So keen, in fact, that they had lured her here tonight under the pretext of attending a concert by Mr. Donovan O'Keefe, an Irish tenor who was the current musical darling of the ton, well aware that she would have balked had she known that the outing was yet another of their matchmaking ploys. The perpetrators of the detestable plot presently followed close at her heels, now and again interjecting comments that were clearly contrived to further Lord Wolton's admiration of her.
Not that his lordship requires any prompting in that direction, Julia thought, slowing her already snail-like pace to accommodate her escort's mincing stride. Judging from the nature of what he no doubt considered his seductively whispered puffery, and the annoying but meaningful way he kept groping her elbow, it was apparent that he held her in the highest regard-heaven help her! If her parents were truly as set on having the popinjay for a son-in-law as they appeared to be, she might very well find herself being addressed as Lady Wolton by the end of summer.
More than a little alarmed by the prospect, Julia pasted a smile on her face and nodded as they passed several acquaintances. As dictated by fashion, her party now promenaded the main Vauxhall walkways, as one always did upon their arrival at the Gardens, where they could see and be seen by everyone who was anyone in London society. And it appeared that everyone of the first description was there tonight, milling about in a glittering sea of evening dress that stretched as far as the eye could see. The crush was due, of course, to the popularity of Mr. O'Keefe, a triumph on his part, to be sure.
Steeling herself for what was certain to be a tedious evening, despite the promise of fine music, Julia dutifully murmured, "Fascinating," to whatever conclusion Lord Wolton had just drawn from his comparison of the city's snuff shops, then turned her attention to the visual feast that was Vauxhall Gardens, seeking respite in its splendor.
It was like something out of a fairy tale, a veritable miracle of spar
kling waterfalls, fantasy grottos, lush lawns, and Gothic pavilions, all dotted with classical statues and illuminated by an infinite number of twinkling rainbow-hued globe lamps. Indeed, everywhere one looked was a spectacle to dazzle the eye. There were covered colonnades and secluded mazes of alleys in which one could take a leisurely stroll, and clearings sprinkled with temples and alcoves that begged a person to tarry. There was even a smuggler's cave, complete with a glittering treasure. And a row of charming booths that sold quaint fairings. Oh, and one must not forget the musical bushes, beneath which underground orchestras played fairy music. And then there were porticoes adorned with pillars and paintings, Chinese lanterns, and light cascades, and-
Snap! Snap! Lord Wolton snapped his fingers before her face, imperiously commanding her attention. "Lady Julia?" Snap! Snap! Snap! "I wealize that you, as a woman, have vewy limited mental facilities, but please do twy to follow my line of weasoning."
She? Possessed of limited mental facilities? Julia could only stare at him, rendered speechless by her outrage. How dare he, who could not so much as pronounce the letter R, presume to question her intellect? Why-why-! She was about to deliver a tart retort, when she felt a sharp jab in her lower back. It was a poke from her mother's fan, of course, a familiar warning from her parents, who were well aware of her unfortunate propensity to air her views when provoked. Too incensed to let his lordship's insult pass unchallenged, Julia shot her mother a mutinous glower.
Another jab, this one more urgent.
Again Julia glanced over her shoulder, mutely conveying her defiance.
By the threat on her parents' faces, it was clear that they would never let her hear the end of the matter if she said or did anything to discourage Lord Wolton's suit.
Scandal Page 3