Why?
She grimaced. Because she’d stupidly drawn attention to herself. She’d challenged him and he’d called her bluff. She’d counted on him feeling guilty about how he was using poor Dulcie, on his having some sort of conscience.
Only he had none. She’d tried to protect Dulcie and she’d failed.
When the carriage turned into her street, Hester let the curtain fall. Almost home.
Rather than fret over tonight’s disaster, she’d be better served counting her blessings. She had her independence, her work at the academy, and a pleasant little house in a respectable neighborhood. She had Mr. and Mrs. Dobbs to keep life comfortable, and the respect of the people she relied on to provide her a living. She even had a modest sum invested in the four percents.
Quite a feat for a girl with a background as notorious as hers. She shuddered to think what would have become of her had Verna DeLisle not taken her under her wing.
At the thought of Mrs. DeLisle, the frown lines between Hester’s brows began to ease. That’s what she needed, a visit with Mrs. DeLisle. She would lay out her problems, and her wise old friend would put it all into perspective.
Besides, she remembered as the coach stopped before her front door, Mr. Hawke was only in town temporarily, for his cousin’s wedding. She had only a few more weeks of his presence to endure.
Once he was gone, life would go back to normal.
CHAPTER 4
Hester arrived at the Ainsley townhouse at half past two. She and Dulcie had an appointment at the milliner’s at three. She was no sooner ushered into the foyer than the butler bade her follow him. “Lady Ainsley requests your presence.”
“Oh, wonderful,” Hester muttered under her breath. After yesterday evening’s debacle and the sleepless night that had followed, the last thing she needed was to spar with Dulcie’s overbearing mother.
For one brief moment, last night’s shakiness returned. But with ruthless self-will she banished it. She had to. Mrs. Bennett was undoubtedly not done blaming her for Dulcie’s dances with Adrian Hawke—Adrian Hawke whom she did not want to think about, let alone discuss.
But Hester had no intention of being Beatrice Bennett’s whipping boy.
In the back sitting room which functioned also as her office, Lady Ainsley sat at her elaborately inlaid Chinese desk. Dulcie’s mother did not trust either her housekeeper or the butler to be competent at their jobs. As a result the desktop was a series of stacked papers, one for each of the service areas she oversaw: housekeeping, kitchens, grounds, tradesmen.
She also kept a calendar with every social obligation marked on it. Events not to be missed were underlined, with the most important, the most elegant, written out in large capital letters as well. Lady Ainsley’s social life and how she could benefit from it were her sole concern. She was an utter incompetent when it came to her children, and she possessed not a smidgen of maternal instinct. Of course she was completely unaware of her failing.
With three more daughters to marry off in the next decade, Lady Ainsley was destined to have a long relationship with Hester and the Mayfair Academy—assuming, of course, that Hester could stomach dealing with her that long.
Lady Ainsley looked up and her eyes narrowed. “Good. You’re here.” She made a notation on the next day’s menu and handed it to the housekeeper, who bobbed and let herself out.
It was now or never. Hester chose to go on the offensive. “Lady Ainsley,” she began. “My time is short, so if you wish to complain about last night, we will have to discuss it another day. What I wanted to discuss with you now will only take a minute or two.”
“Now see here, Mrs. Poitevant.” The woman shoved her pen down into its silver and crystal inkwell. “I will have my say. I have not raised my child for some… some by-blow tradesman to ruin. I will not have another night like last night. That—”
“Nor will I,” Hester interrupted through gritted teeth. “That’s why I have some specific suggestions for your family outing this evening.”
Somewhat mollified, the woman tugged at the lace drapery at her chest. “Well, that’s more like it. That daughter of mine does better with specific suggestions. The more specific the better.”
“My instructions are for you.”
“For me?” Lady Ainsley’s stiffly coiffed head swiveled on her neck and she stared at Hester. Her eyes were as small and pale as the aquamarines that glinted at her throat, her ears, and on her fingers. “Instructions for me?”
“Indeed. It is essential that Dulcie be allowed to answer for herself tonight—and to not be corrected by you or anyone else.”
“Now see here—”
“You harangued her sufficiently last night. You must not do so again today. My work with Dulcie will be pointless if you cannot cooperate.” Resolved not to be intimidated by the self-important viscountess, Hester fixed the woman with a steady, expectant stare. She’d dealt with people like Mrs. Bennett in the past; she could do it again.
For one moment only the woman appeared inclined to argue. Her haughty brows lowered, her autocratic mouth opened. But when Hester arched her own brows and lifted her chin—just a fraction—the woman backed down. Her mouth closed. Her lips pursed. But she said nothing, only nodded.
Hester allowed herself a faint smile. So there. “Last night was a ball,” she continued on, as nonchalantly as if she hadn’t just trumped the woman. “Tonight is a more intimate gathering. It’s an opportunity for Dulcie to put into practice all we’ve been working on. She has two piano compositions prepared, no more. And she will be wearing another of her new gowns. You are not to remark on her in any way save with approval. But not so effusively as to make her self-conscious.”
“Are you saying I should not extol her virtues? My word, Mrs. Poitevant, it’s not as if she has that many.”
Hester’s mild expression turned instantly to steel. “Your daughter’s virtues are quite extensive, Lady Ainsley, and remarks such as that can only undermine her confidence. If you cannot manage even one evening allowing her to shine…” Again she arched her brows.
“No, no. I can manage,” the woman hastily replied. “You are perfectly correct.”
“Very good.” Though Hester did not by nature enjoy intimidating people, sometimes it was the only way she could bring herself to work for prigs like Lady Ainsley. By the time people like her made their way to the Mayfair Academy with their unmarriageable daughters, they needed Hester so badly they actually would pay to suffer her sometimes superior attitude.
But this was about Dulcie, Hester reminded herself. She might dislike the girl’s family, but she meant to complete the job she’d been hired to do, and well. So she tucked her true emotions away, and forced herself to be pleasant. Cool, but pleasant.
“If I might make a suggestion, Lady Ainsley. You will find it easier to abide by my instructions if you seat yourself on the same side of the table as Dulcie, as far down from her as the arrangement allows. That way you will not be tempted to cast any speaking looks her way, and she will not be so likely to defer to you.”
Lady Ainsley knotted her hands at her waist. “Yes. I see. You are… You are quite clever. I will do what I can about that.”
Hester gave an approving nod. “Very well then. We are off and I shall return her to you by four-thirty. If I do not see you then, I hope you have a lovely evening.”
Lady Ainsley managed a nod, obviously the nearest she could come to a civil response. But Hester didn’t care. As she made her way to the marble-floored foyer of the Ainsleys’ townhouse, with its marble niches everywhere holding marble-carved statuary, she decided the house was just as cold and rigid as the lady who presided over it.
At least she would not have to suffer the woman’s presence tonight, nor her unpleasant son’s.
Nor Adrian Hawke’s.
The same persistent shiver crawled up her spine, just as it did every time she thought of him. All morning she’d sternly suppressed those thoughts. She’d deal with him when the time came. Not befo
re.
But for a moment now she let herself remember him, and how he’d made her feel. Amid all the other emotions he’d provoked in her, the most memorable was that he’d made her feel desirable.
Desirable!
For one split second it had lasted, only to be overset by fear, then outrage. But that one split second had tortured her ever since.
He’d done the same for Dulcie, she reminded herself, and probably every other woman he met. She could put no more stock in those foolish feelings of hers than they should. The fact was, Adrian Hawke was trouble. He’d spawned a storm with Dulcie, with Lady Bennett and George, and also with her.
But she wasn’t going to think about him any longer. Tonight Dulcie would be safe from him, and that was good enough for her. Though Dulcie was certain to suffer paralyzing bouts of self-doubt, once she had her piano piece out of the way the girl should be all right. And maybe next time she could be convinced to sing as well.
Two evenings later Hester ducked behind a palm tree at Lady Dresden’s annual ball. She’d been jumpy all night, expecting at any moment to be accosted by the notorious Mr. Hawke.
It was utterly ridiculous, of course. But tell that to her overwrought nerves. She’d just begun to relax, assuming he must not be coming. That’s when she’d spied Horace Vasterling. That’s why she’d ducked behind the lush, potted palm.
Chiding herself for such foolishness, Hester edged back into the open. He doesn’t know who you are, she told herself. He might be her brother, but the man has never even laid eyes on her. Yet still she raised her cup of punch to her lips, half-hiding her face behind the overly sweetened, claret-hued drink she held.
Horace Vasterling did not know her face. For all she knew, he had no inkling she even existed. But she knew him very well. From his first venture from the far reaches of Cumbria into London society five years ago, she’d watched his every move with morbid curiosity.
She’d wondered if he would come to town this year. She had her answer now. From behind her cup she observed his progress across the crowded room.
She hated him. At least that’s what she’d been telling herself for the last twenty years. The truth, however, was that she wanted to hate him. She didn’t always succeed.
But she definitely hated the father who had sired them both, then proceeded blithely to forget that his daughter and wife had ever existed.
She studied the Honorable Horace Vasterling over the rim of her irksome spectacles, noting every detail of his appearance. He had their mother’s coloring, the sandy hair and blue eyes. Did that mean she had inherited her father’s? Her mother had never said. Certainly Horace and she looked nothing alike.
Her eyes narrowed, raking over him. He was still too stout, perhaps even more so than last season. The real problem, however, was that he still wore last year’s clothing. His waistcoat appeared a little shabby and it had begun to strain across his middle. One of the buttons looked about to pop loose. Didn’t his valet attend to him at all? Or was his father—their father—so tightfisted as to restrict payment to his tailor?
Hester pursed her lips in disapproval. If Horace’s intent was to make a good match, as surely it must be, since he was back in town yet again, then he ought to present a better appearance than he currently did. A baron’s son was perfectly acceptable in most cases. But the Vasterling estate was small and its income limited. She knew it and so did the rest of society. Barring some other outstanding virtue, that meant Horace’s prospects were limited as well.
She watched him shake hands with one fellow and share a joke with another. Had their father come to town with him this year?
“He’s not here.”
Caught up in her own thoughts, Hester blinked at the intrusion of that small, pouting voice. “What? How do you know?” Then as her wits returned, “Who?”
“Mr. Hawke,” Dulcie said, her face the very picture of dejection.
“Mr. Hawke,” Hester repeated, forcing herself into the present. Thank goodness he wasn’t here. “Now, Dulcie, have you already forgotten your mother’s instructions to you? It was just this morning. A viscount or higher, she said. Preferably an earl or his heir. That is the only sort of offer she will entertain for your hand.” Hester paused to let that sink in, though how anyone could forget Beatrice Bennett’s remark, she did not know. Lady Ainsley’s tone had been exceedingly loud and exceedingly unpleasant.
Trying now to be kinder than the mother, Hester added, “Did you see that Lord Tonleigh’s eldest son is here? Also, young Lord Aveshim. Have you spoken yet with either of them?”
Dulcie sighed, then answered as the dutiful young lady she’d been taught to be. “They have both approached me. I am to dance the quadrille with Lord Aveshim, and dine with Tonleigh’s heir. But I cannot imagine marrying either of them,” she finished in a burst of desperation. “Not either of them!”
Yes, and Hester understood why. Aveshim was the prissiest man in town while Tonleigh’s heir was surely the coarsest. Not that either of those facts presented a problem for Lady Ainsley.
“It’s not fair,” Dulcie went on. “Mama blames him for being baseborn.” She whispered that last. “But it could hardly be his fault. If you think about it, he should be Baron Hawke, not his uncle.”
“Even so, your mother would still rebuff him, Dulcie. A viscount, she said. Remember?”
“She cannot force me to wed against my will.”
No, Hester supposed she could not. Fortunately it was not likely to come to that. Soon enough Adrian Hawke would return to America. Then Dulcie would return to her normal sweet self. Hester had no doubt of that.
There were other gentlemen who would be acceptable to both mother and daughter. For now, however, with Dulcie fixated on Mr. Hawke, the girl was unlikely to notice them.
“Now, now, I’m sure you have other more acceptable dance partners.”
Dulcie sighed. Her shoulders slumped, her chin sagged. “Yes. Lots and lots of dance partners. But what purpose is there to any of this if I cannot dance with the one man I most want to dance with?”
Hester frowned. Were those tears in the poor girl’s eyes?
Witnessing Dulcie’s utter dejection and the total collapse of her budding self-confidence set all of Hester’s maternal urges in motion.
It was so unfair. Society had arranged its rules to protect and empower the great estates of England. But those unyielding rules left in the margins far too many unhappy lives.
Hester had managed to create a place for herself in society, not through marriage, but through her own hard work and ingenuity. She’d built on what she’d learned at her poor, misguided mother’s knee: how to charm anyone; how to create the impression of beauty; how to coax money from the wealthy.
Her mother, of course, had used her knowledge only on herself, to gain the attention she craved and never could get enough of. Hester used that knowledge on other people, to make a living for herself, and hopefully to help her clients find more contentment than they otherwise might. As confused as Hester’s emotions toward her mother were, at least Isabelle had left her some talent to fall back upon.
But what did Dulcie have to fall back on? Between her mother and brother, she would eventually be bullied into a terrible marriage, one arranged solely to consolidate wealth and breed yet another generation of bullies and victims. And so the cycle continued, season after season.
Hester fingered the line of buttons on her plain gray gloves. The truth was, she could hardly blame the girl for her emotional storm. After all, even she was not immune to Adrian Hawke’s appeal. He was so…
She sighed. He was so manly. So virile. Obscenely so, she decided, pursing her lips in disapproval. Not her sort at all.
But she certainly understood Dulcie’s infatuation. Just like herself, Dulcie chafed at the limitations society placed on her. She took Dulcie’s hand in hers, patted it, and for a moment allowed her imagination free rein. Would it be so awful if a girl like Dulcie should marry for love? Would it destroy some
great master plan if one awkward British miss should marry a baseborn American businessman?
The answer was a resounding no.
But no matter her own feelings on the subject, this particular baseborn American was not the right man for her Dulcie. She frowned, remembering that split second of awareness when he’d leaned over her in a towering rage and yet also… also…
She shook her head to erase the heart-stopping memory. The fact was, men like him were not the right sort for any woman. Too much charm. Too much money.
“Here now.” She offered Dulcie a handkerchief. “You’re bound to see Mr. Hawke again at some party or other. And I’m sure he’ll ask you to dance.” She could practically guarantee it.
“Oh, Mrs. Poitevant. Do you think so? Do you?”
“Yes, I do.” For he was unlikely to pay any heed to Hester’s request that he leave Dulcie alone. “Remember, though, that he is not here looking for a bride.”
“How can you be certain of that?”
“Because he has come here for his cousin’s wedding and to conduct what business he can. I’m told he’s returning to America long before the season is done.”
Again Dulcie’s shoulders drooped. Hester stared at her. Which was worse, to have Dulcie moping around for the next three weeks, or to have her smiling and enjoying herself? Either way the girl would be crushed when the man finally left. “Now, now,” Hester said, before she could prevent herself. “I have an idea.”
When Dulcie looked up Hester smiled encouragingly. “Since he will not be here long, why don’t you enjoy his company while you can?”
“You mean… go against Mama’s orders?” The girl gaped at her.
Hester felt a little dumbfounded herself. What heresy was this? She was hired to help her girls make the most advantageous matches according to the parents’ wishes. The parents, after all, were who paid Hester’s fees. To encourage Dulcie or any of her girls to ignore her family’s orders… well, that was courting disaster. That was risking everything she’d built for herself: her reputation; her business; her very livelihood.
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