A Code of Love (The Code Breakers 1)

by Jacki Delecki

  From that night forward, she had spent her first season avoiding Lord Rathbourne. She wasn’t sure if it was because of his insincerity or her own frightening fantasies. A few weeks later, her season ended prematurely. Her mother had fallen ill and, for the next years, she had no time for a young woman’s fancies about captivating lords and secret pleasures. Her time was spent tending to her dying mother.

  Chapter Eleven

  Henrietta stood with Mrs. Brompton at the top of the stairs. “Please remind Uncle Charles that I’ve gone to Lady Chadwick’s soiree this afternoon.”

  “A soiree? You’re going to a soiree?” Mrs. Brompton didn’t try to hide her surprise. The housekeeper didn’t hold back her feelings or opinions concerning the Harcourt children. Having grown up in the Harcourt household as a young maid and been with the children through the death of their parents, Mrs. Brompton acted more as an elder relative than a servant.

  “The soiree is to solicit support for the French émigré community.” Her mother had worked tirelessly for the émigrés and Henrietta had taken over the cause. If this were merely a frivolous social event, she wouldn’t have been attending

  “Ahh, the French émigrés.” Mrs. Brompton raised her eyebrows but chose not to comment.

  “The French émigrés are experiencing a backlash in England.” She channeled her frustration into her hands by waving them in the air. “The English fear Napoleon and project their anger onto anyone who is French.”

  “Napoleon is the devil, causing all those young men’s deaths.”

  “Why can’t the English people see that the émigrés aren’t at fault for Napoleon’s ambition to take over Europe?” Henrietta stooped to collect two partially gnawed sticks peeking out from under the heavy mahogany console in the hallway. “How is Gus able to unearth so many sticks from our garden?”

  “Our Gus is a retriever of the best sort,” Mrs. Brompton replied affectionately. Gus was held in the highest regard by all for his constant devotion to Edward after their mother’s death.

  “Uncle Charles may forget that I’m at Lady Chadwick’s and…” She paused.

  Mrs. Brompton patted Henrietta on the arm. “Don’t worry about your Uncle Charles. I’ll not let him get into a dither about your whereabouts.”

  “Uncle Charles and I’ve already discussed the plans for the afternoon. Edward and Mr. Marlow are planning to have tea with him. Military strategy will be the topic.”

  “Master Edward loves all the talk of guns and soldiers as much as Uncle Charles.”

  “It sounds as if Amelia has arrived.” Henrietta and Mrs. Brompton moved down the main steps toward the peals of laughter.

  “Brompton, I’m convinced you’ve discovered the tonic of youth,” Henrietta’s childhood friend teased the elderly man.

  “Thank you, my lady. It’s marriage to a fine woman that keeps me young.” Brompton spoke loudly, insuring his approaching wife would hear him.

  “Alfred, don’t try to sweet talk me.” Mrs. Brompton’s words were matter of fact, but the wrinkles around her eyes crinkled.

  Henrietta embraced Amelia. “What an interesting ensemble you’ve donned for the soiree.” Amelia wore a flowing, white gown with the fabric tied in knots at her shoulders.

  “Do you like it? I’ve been experimenting with less structure. Our clothes should enhance movement, not hinder it. I’ve taken inspiration from the talks I suffered through with you on ancient Greece.”

  “That you could be inspired to create this stunning gown from Professor Hardwick’s discussion of ancient Greek choruses is mind-boggling.”

  Amelia examined the modified pale green muslin that Henrietta wore. “What have you done to your beautiful dress?”

  She must have been crazy to believe for a minute that Amelia wouldn’t notice the changes she had made to her dress. “I had all the frippery removed. It was too much.” She had Alice, her maid, remove the large sash and bow in the back of the gown.

  “Sometimes I don’t believe you’re French. Even Michael shows appreciation for fashion. Has he sent you the silks from France? He promised me a daring shade of purple.”

  “He didn’t forget. They just arrived.” Hard as it was to hide her emotions from Amelia, Henrietta kept up the banter about Michael. “We’re late, but when we return I’ll give you the silk. I can’t wait to see what gown you’ll create from purple silk—not the color of choice for an unmarried woman.”

  “Exactly why I choose it.”

  As much as she wished to confide in Amelia, she couldn’t share her worries about Michael’s safety. Amelia had no idea of the secret work the Harcourt family did for the crown.

  Linking arms, the friends departed Kendal House.

  * * *

  Henrietta and Amelia entered the crowded ballroom, maneuvering their way to the hostess. The scent of blooming hothouse roses and freesia filled the air in the heavily decorated room. Crocodile-footed couches, columns, and statues of Egyptian goddesses crowded the space. It seemed she couldn’t escape the Egyptian madness.

  Lady Chadwick turned toward Henrietta, a huge smile encompassing her round face. With her arms outstretched, the portly woman gathered Henrietta close to her. “My darling girl, I’m so glad you’ve come. You’re as beautiful as your dear mama, with the same magnificent green eyes.”

  Henrietta curtsied to her mother’s friend. “Thank you, my lady. I’m honored by the comparison.”

  “Your mother would be very proud of your endeavors to carry on her cause,” Lady Chadwick said.

  Henrietta scanned the crowd of the stylish ton. “Congratulations, Lady Chadwick. It’s quite a crush.” A distinctive large male head with ebony hair stood above the crowd.

  “I’m pleased by today’s turnout.” Following Henrietta’s gaze, Lady Chadwick added, “And pleased that Lord Rathbourne has joined us. His presence gives our cause great credibility.”

  Henrietta was having the opposite reaction. Watching him carelessly run his fingers through his tousled hair caused warm sensations to flitter along her skin as if someone ran a feather along her arm.

  “Oh my goodness, another dashing gentleman. I must welcome him.” Lady Chadwick moved to greet Comte De Valmont who stood at the entrance to the ballroom.

  Henrietta turned toward Amelia. “I can’t believe he’s here. I hoped not to have to converse with him.”

  “Already tired of the wondrous blond deity’s devotion to you?”

  Henrietta did wonder about the comte’s interest in a bookish, non-stylish woman like herself. “Be serious, Amelia. Not Comte De Valmont. Why would Lord Rathbourne be at a soiree? I’m sure this isn’t his usual social fare.”

  “Have you forgotten that you invited his sister? Gwyneth said she and her aunt were going to be looking for a bride for him and he looks quite interested in the lady with whom he’s talking.”

  Lord Rathbourne’s broad shoulders blocked a view of the woman he was bent over. Henrietta refused to acknowledge that Lord Rathbourne or his behavior could upset her, but the heavy lump of her morning crumpet sat uneasily in her stomach as she watched his obvious interest in the unseen woman. “The man’s a reprobate. It’d be just like him to be courting a young innocent woman and still make an appearance at Hyde Park with his mistress. I feel sorry for the young woman.”

  “Really? You needn’t feel sorry for the young woman. I can see the lady. It’s Gwyneth. Let’s greet her.”

  “I’d love to visit with Gwyneth, but unfortunately it would mean speaking to her brother, and I’ve no need to speak with him.”

  “The lady doth protest too much.” Her friend couldn’t resist teasing her.

  “Lord Rathbourne isn’t a respectable gentleman.” She delivered her standard response about Lord Rathbourne. But neither Amelia nor she believed the words.

  “Pshaw. You’d be absolutely bored with a respectable gentleman. He seems to have seen you, Henrietta, and the scandalous gentleman is headed our way.”

  Lord Rathbourne with his
compelling opalescent eyes stared across the room at her, causing her body to tremble as if she were stricken with a mysterious malady. “I don’t want to speak with him.”

  Lord Rathbourne wound his way through the crowd. His progress was slowed by the admirers who stopped him to deliver greetings.

  “We can’t just run out of here,” Amelia said.

  She didn’t want to face Lord Rathbourne or the confusing, angry feelings she’d battled since seeing him with his mistress. Scanning the crowded room for an escape, she spotted the conservatory. She navigated through the crush, smiling on her route to the opposite side of the room, passing no one she immediately recognized. With the conservatory in sight, she began to relax. Amelia had deserted her to talk with Lady Mountlake.

  To her right, the shrill Lady Billingsworth called out to her.

  Not slowing down, Henrietta raised her hand, attempting a small wave. Her hand connected with the bottom of the tray held by a footman who was passing champagne. The flutes flew off the tray, spraying champagne over the ample Lady Billingsworth.

  The lady screamed and screamed. The cold liquid dripped down Lady Billingsworth’s thickset face onto her mauve dress, revealing her oversized bosom in a most unflattering manner. The unscathed footman stood frozen as if in tableau.

  “You idiot!” shrieked the lady at the hapless footman.

  The entire room, witness to the unfolding drama, became silent.

  Henrietta’s indignation at the treatment of the innocent footman made her speak. “Lady Billingsworth, I am at fault. I am truly sorry.”

  Lady Billingsworth ignored the apology and blustered about the stupid footman and her dress.

  The situation was growing into a comical farce when Comte De Valmont moved to Henrietta’s side. “Excuse me, Lady Billingsworth, may I be of assistance?” The perfectly formed man who resembled an archangel on a medieval icon, graced Lady Billingsworth with such a charming smile that the lady became befuddled and stopped shouting.

  The comte’s charming smile didn’t affect her as it did Lady Billingsworth.

  “Oh, Comte De Valmont, as always the perfect gentleman,” Lady Billingsworth crooned. “How delightful of you to come to my rescue.”

  “Shall I escort you to a retiring room so a maid can attend you?” offered the gentleman in the slightest French accent.

  “Lady Billingsworth, please allow me to help,” Henrietta said.

  “I’ll have my maid sponge my dress in a moment.” Lady Billingsworth, oblivious to the improper manner in which her dress was clinging to her breasts, moved closer to Comte De Valmont. “Tell me, Comte, have you been traveling? I haven’t seen you in society for a few days.”

  A flash of annoyance crossed Comte De Valmont’s face, but his full lips tightened into a smile. “I’m flattered that you’ve noticed my brief absence. I’ve been visiting friends in the country.

  He took Henrietta’s hand and kissed it, holding her hand longer than was proper. “Lady Henrietta, a pleasure.”

  She tried to pull her hand away.

  His bright eyes darkened and he squeezed her hand firmly before releasing her. “Lady Chadwick shared how you’ve taken it upon yourself to continue your mother’s unfailing commitment to our people. I hope you’ll allow me to help in your noble efforts.”

  Disarmed by De Valmont’s effusive compliments, Henrietta felt warmth move to her face and neck. Her passion for the cause of émigrés didn’t usually inspire a flood of praise.

  “Thank you. I’m one of many who support our displaced compatriots. My French mother was my inspiration.”

  Lady Billingsworth, distracted by the footman attending to her, leaned toward the comte, trying to hear the conversation. “I remember your dear mother,” Lady Billingsworth interrupted.

  “Your mother must have been a woman of great compassion and sympathy,” De Valmont continued.

  A delightful pleasure coursed through her. She didn’t often get to speak about her mother. “Our household was filled with French émigrés and my father would tease that one wouldn’t know by our home that we were English.”

  “Not English? By Jove, your father was a scion of English aristocrats. And your Uncle Charles, a renowned scholar and your brother. Not English?” Mrs. Billingsworth puffed up like a hen about to expel an egg. “What an absurd idea. The men in your family are the best of what England has to offer.”

  “Thank you, Lady Billingsworth.” Bemused, she looked at Comte De Valmont for a shared understanding. His face tensed in a calculating expression.

  “My heavens!” Lady Billingsworth bellowed when she stepped on a broken champagne flute. “Footman, sweep this mess up immediately.”

  “Lady Billingsworth, may I assist you to the retiring room?” Henrietta asked again.

  “Child, I don’t need your assistance. Footman!”

  De Valmont moved closer to Henrietta. “How’s your brother enjoying his days in France?”

  Henrietta stiffened. Although it wasn’t a secret, why did he probe about her brother?

  “Footman!” Another screech by Lady Billingsworth resounded in the space.

  “My brother is enjoying his holiday with our relatives now that we are able to visit France with the Treaty of Amiens,” Henrietta said.

  The comte’s light eyes examined her closely. “Your brother is a brilliant linguist.”

  Cold pinpricks scattered along the surface of her skin from his icy inspection. “You’re interested in linguistics?” She wasn’t going to share anything about her brother.

  “I dabble a bit. As I told your uncle, I’m interested in Ancient Egypt and hieroglyphics.

  What was the relationship between attractive men and hieroglyphics?

  “Everything Egyptian is passé,” Lady Billingsworth interjected.

  “Do you also share the talent in your family for linguistics?” He was standing uncomfortably close, studying her as if she were an exotic species.

  Since women weren’t supposed to acknowledge their intellectual pursuits, no one had ever asked about her abilities. Instead of being flattered, she found the comte’s question intrusive. Why his interest in her mother, her uncle, her brother, and now herself? She experienced the same disquiet in his questions as when she had first met him and when she had ridden with him in Hyde Park.

  Henrietta felt Lord Rathbourne’s approach behind her before she saw him or inhaled his distinctive masculine scent of lime and starch.

  Soaking wet, standing in broken glass, Lady Billingsworth wasn’t going to budge when the two most handsome, titled gentlemen in London converged. “Lord Rathbourne, how lovely to find you back in English society.”

  Lord Rathbourne maintained his usual arrogant hauteur, peering down at Lady Billingsworth’s less than decorous appearance.

  The older woman wasn’t deterred by Lord Rathbourne’s silence. “Your father would be pleased to see you taking your expected place in society.”

  Ignoring Lady Billingsworth, he turned to Henrietta and lifted one eyebrow. “Lady Henrietta, I’m glad to see that you are drier than Lady Billingsworth.” A true gentleman would never mention her mortifying dip in the Serpentine or her fall in the mud or the state of Lady Billingsworth’s dress.

  Lady Billingsworth gasped when she looked down. Her face became mottled. “I can’t believe the French idiots Lady Chadwick employs.” She swept past Lord Rathbourne, continuing her tirade about French servants.

  Henrietta was considering a scathing response when De Valmont spoke. “I didn’t think soirees—and ladies—were your usual afternoon pleasures, Rathbourne.” De Valmont’s emphasis on ladies obviously referred to Rathbourne’s new inamorata.

  Lord Rathbourne’s face flushed a bright crimson.

  Henrietta wasn’t sure if he was embarrassed or in a rage. It was hard to imagine Lord Rathbourne embarrassed by censure of his behavior.

  Lord Rathbourne answered in a soft, menacing tone, “I find it unusual, De Valmont, that you take an interest in my p
leasures.”

  She was missing part of the innuendoes that were being sallied between the two men. She didn’t think this was only over Isabelle de Villiers. “Gentlemen, please excuse me. Lady Chadwick is signaling me.”

  Whispering close to her ear, De Valmont intoned in French that the English had no sense of humor about love affairs.

  In a feigned whisper, she replied that some English didn’t possess a sense of humor. She turned to walk past Lord Rathbourne, still smiling at De Valmont.

  Lord Rathbourne gripped her elbow. His face was impassive but the clenched muscle in his right cheek ticked. “Humor is in the eye of the beholder,” he answered in a perfect French accent. “I shall escort you to our hostess, safeguarding you from any further disasters.”

  “I’m totally capable of walking without your assistance,” she said.

  His hand tightened on her elbow, guiding her away from De Valmont. “As you demonstrated in the rain or today with the champagne?”

  He turned her toward him, his back toward De Valmont.

  Lord Rathbourne believed he could steer her willy-nilly like a child.

  He loomed over her in his tightly-fit black morning coat. “Lady Henrietta.” He paused as if considering his words. His face was tight with suppressed emotions she couldn’t read.

  He stood close, too close. She could see the black prickly stubble growing on his chin when she stared at his cravat. She avoided looking into his eyes since she knew they would be steely gray.

  “De Valmont is not the type of man you should associate with.” He growled each enunciated word. “His reputation is well known.”

  Her entire body tightened in anger. She didn’t have any trouble looking at him now. “You’ve the audacity to speak to me about another gentleman’s reputation?” Her voice shook. “What about your reputation? What about your behavior at the park?” Her face was heating up from a fury she didn’t understand. People were turning to stare at them. She lowered her eyes as if she could hide the outrage pulsating into every cell of her fuming body.

  “I told you I’d call on you today,” he said between clenched teeth.