Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hetty was slumped in the chair toying with a piece of toast and strawberry jam when her aunt entered the breakfast room. “Try to eat a little more, Hetty. Cook says you sent back the buttered eggs untouched.”
Hetty shook her head. “I won’t, thank you, Aunt. I seem to have lost my appetite. Are you angry with me, too?”
“I’m dismayed, my dear. I have not been vigilant enough. And I believe your ardent nature has led you astray.”
“I hope Guy is all right,” Hetty whispered. “It was dreadful, Aunt.”
“Your father told me very little about what happened last night. I’m not sure I wish to learn the whole.”
Hetty firmed her lips. It wasn’t fair to draw her aunt into this when all she wanted was a quiet life. It occurred to Hetty that Aunt Emily would never have fought for her lover. Her aunt had a gentle nature evident in her contemplative poems, which lacked the spontaneity of Burns or the passion of Byron. Nor did she suffer Hetty’s impatience, which right now made her want to hire a hackney and go to Guy.
Eustace arrived before luncheon. He hurried in with a worried expression and gave Hetty a reassuring hug before her father ushered him, along with her aunt, into the small room she called her bookroom. The three of them had been closeted there for half an hour when Genevieve appeared at the door, her eyes wide with distress. “Those men sent me home. What happened?”
“Have you heard from Guy?” Hetty asked.
“Non!”
With an eye on the bookroom door, Hetty drew the duchess into the parlor. She gave Genevieve a potted version of the evening’s events, leaving out any mention of the pistol shot she’d heard.
Perhaps her voice had given her away, for Genevieve pursed her lips and frowned. “But Gee… Is he all right?”
“I hope so.” Hetty cast her eyes down. “Father is taking me back to the country in a few hours. I doubt I’ll be allowed to visit London again for years.”
“You are betrothed to Gee, are you not?” A look of horror tightened the duchess’s features. “Your father blames him for this?”
“No. Father is furious with me.”
“Pourquoi?”
“He saw how I was dressed. I had to tell him.”
“Oh. Then I am sorry.”
“It cannot be helped.” Hetty eyed her carefully. “Those men spoke of a Baroness Fortescue who lives in Paris.”
She looked puzzled. “Maman died many years ago.”
“No, Guy’s wife.”
Genevieve’s eyebrows rose. “But Gee has no wife.”
Hope took root in Hetty’s breast. “Might he have married and not told you?”
Genevieve glowered. “Non!”
“Then perhaps she is Vincent’s wife.”
“Then she is not the baroness,” Genevieve said with a fierce shake of her head. “Vincent lied to her.”
Hetty had always known in her heart it couldn’t be true. “She should be informed that her husband is dead.”
“Gee will write to her. And I will visit the poor woman when I return to France.”
At the rap on the door, the frazzled maid rushed along the passage to open it again. Hetty jumped up as her aunt emerged from the bookroom to greet the next visitor.
“Lord Fortescue!” her aunt exclaimed. Her heart racing, Hetty grinned at Genevieve, whose eyes danced with relief and anticipation. They both rushed to find Guy divesting himself of his hat and coat. He looked entirely whole, and his usual unflappable self.
Her first thought was to throw herself into his arms, but she held back. On closer inspection, he seemed reserved and rather distant. Had he not forgiven her for her interference? She wanted him to, desperately, even if they failed to marry.
Genevieve didn’t suffer any such hesitation. With a flood of incomprehensible French, she gripped her brother’s waistcoat and peered up at him. “I talked Hetty into following you last night, Gee. It was me. I brought the clothes.”
Guy winced and eased her away. “That was rash of you, Genevieve.”
Hetty saw the pain in his eyes. “Guy! You’re hurt,” she cried.
Before Guy could respond, Hetty’s father and Eustace entered the parlor.
“Might I have a word, my lord?” her father asked.
Hetty’s rush toward the bookroom was abruptly halted when her father held up his hand. “Alone!”
Hetty wished she could place her ear against the library door, but with Genevieve and Eustace beside her, she was forced to remain in her seat.
She suspected that when Genevieve put her mind to it, she could charm any male living. She sat beside Eustace and patted his hand while sympathizing with him about his gout in her Gallic manner. Eustace, who was on close speaking terms with the Regent no less, was flushed with a foolish smile.
At least the problem of Guy’s claim to the title had been put to rest with Genevieve’s arrival, Hetty thought, turning back to the library door. Her aunt had gone to consult the cook, expressing the notion that when everyone had said their piece, they would be hungry.
*
Disappointment was writ large on Colonel Cavendish’s face. Closeted in a room piled high with tomes, he was at pains to express his displeasure without offending Guy.
“I must apologize for what occurred, Colonel,” Guy said. “It was not my intention to involve your daughter.”
“I depended on my sister to take care of Horatia in my absence.” Cavendish shook his head. “I would never have allowed her to come to London had I known she would be placed in such danger.”
“I quite agree with you,” Guy said wearily. “But Horatia is quite spirited.”
The colonel grimaced. “Too true, my lord. I can hardly blame my sister, or indeed you, can I, when Horatia rode my stallion around the countryside without my knowledge? And goodness knows what else.”
Guy moved painfully on the seat as the gash over his ribs throbbed. A good thing that Hetty’s father didn’t know the whole of it.
The colonel’s fingers formed a steeple. “I wish to offer my condolences on the death of your brother. A tragic affair.”
Guy nodded. “I would like to discuss it further with you, Colonel. But not now, you understand.”
“But of course. Horatia mentioned some special mission for the government. I trust that is at an end?”
“My involvement certainly.”
“Good. Mr. Fennimore had expressed some doubt as to your claim to the title. I’m pleased that business is also now settled, as I’m sure you must be.”
“I’m eager to put my estates in order,” Guy said.
“Excellent. Quite right. Horatia is returning to Digswell with me today as Mrs. Illingworth and I are to marry in a week.”
“Congratulations to you both, sir,” Guy said.
Colonel Cavendish climbed to his feet. “Horatia is anxious to speak with you. I admit to being very angry when she came home dressed in that manner last night, without even shoes on her feet. I led her to believe I opposed your marriage. I do not.” He frowned. “She is impulsive, but a good girl, of whom I remain very proud. You must begin the way you wish to go forward, Baron. Lay down some rules.”
“I couldn’t have put it better myself, Colonel,” Guy said, shaking the Colonel’s hand. He suddenly felt lighter. He didn’t want a marriage governed by rules, but he and Hetty did need to talk.