Chapter Twelve
Guy accompanied John in his quest for a high stakes card game on Saturday evening. They entered a private house which was a gaming hell run by Lord Bromehurst. Guy did not share John’s interest, but as the earl’s houseguest, he was happy to keep him company. He drew the line at courtesans and opera dancers, however. John accepted it good-naturedly but expressed surprise. After all, Guy wasn’t married yet.
Guy was somewhat surprised himself. There was a time when he would have enjoyed such women’s company. His life was in such a state of flux, he had no intention of complicating it with courtesans. And the image of Hetty’s sweet face seemed to get in the way. He had no idea what was in store for him, but he needed her in his life. And that meant dealing as honestly with her as he could while withholding anything that might encourage her to leap to his defense. While he admired her loyalty and bravery, he wasn’t going to allow her to become his comrade-in-arms.
He followed John through the elegantly furnished rooms where a myriad of candles clustered on polished tables and a pair of fine Italian crystal chandeliers shone down. As they observed the play at the hazard, loo, and faro tables, ladies roamed the rooms in their evening gowns sipping champagne.
Strains of Handel swirled above the hubbub from a small orchestra as couples strolled to and from the adjoining supper room.
A dark-haired lady approached. “You are Baron Fortescue, no?”
Guy bowed. “Forgive me, I haven’t had the pleasure.”
The Frenchwoman gave him a flirtatious look and fluttered her fan beneath dancing dark eyes. She spoke to him in French. “Countess Forney, Lord Fortescue. My husband, Count Forney, wishes a word with you.” She took a card from her gold beaded reticule and held it out to him. “Would next Monday at twelve o’clock be suitable?”
“I don’t believe I know your husband, Countess.”
“That is true, but he knows of you, my lord.”
Guy bowed. “Merci.” He ran his thumb over the engraved lettering, considering whether to call on the Frenchman. Then he tucked the card into his pocket as she moved away.
John placed his hand on Guy’s arm. “It would be wise not to further the friendship with either Forney or his wife.”
“Can you tell me why I shouldn’t?”
John cocked a brow. “The count is mixed up in bad company.”
“I’m sure you offer good advice, John,” Guy said, but his curiosity was piqued. “Forney most likely seeks the company of another Frenchman.”
John looked back at the lovely woman who strolled about the tables dressed in a revealing gown. A pink garter at her knee showed through the embroidered cloth. “Perhaps it’s his wife who is interested to see more of you.”
Guy followed John’s gaze. Countess Forney countered with a knowing smile and placed a gloved hand to her throat, drawing attention to her shockingly low décolletage. Her bodice skimmed her nipples and the rounded globes of her breasts shimmered pearly white in the candlelight.
Guy nodded to her. “Shall we move on, John?”
They entered the inner chamber, the air stuffy with beeswax, the rancid sweat of excitement and possibly fear. In this room, the players spoke little, and the atmosphere fairly crackled with expectation.
“Fortunes can be won and lost in one night,” John said in an undertone. “Large estates signed away.”
“What is this game they play?” Guy asked.
“Twenty-One. Each player tries to beat the dealer by having two or more cards equaling twenty-one or better than the dealer’s hand without exceeding twenty-one.”
“Vingt-et-un. Played in France.”
“Care to join in?” John’s voice was soft, but his eyes glowed with interest.
“Not I.” Guy had no need for such excitement. “I prefer to control how I spend my money.”
“You’re a conservative fellow,” John said, with a grin. “Might we see you in the House?”
“When my life has settled down.” Guy was keen to involve himself in the state of the country and the people who relied upon him. At the green baize table, his attention was caught by a man leaning forward to place his bet. The candlelight brightened his rusty hair. Misgivings stirred Guy’s gut.
He walked over to the table. “Good evening, Eustace.”
Eustace slumped back in his chair, his eyes dull. A glass of whiskey at his elbow, he held the cards in a loose grasp. “Guy?” Losing the hand, he threw the cards down and pushed back his chair.
“Eustace, I don’t believe you know Lord Strathairn. My lord, this is my relative, Mr. Fennimore.”
Leaning on his cane, Eustace swayed into a bow, in danger of toppling. “How d’you do?” His gaze returned to Guy. “You’ve saved me the task of sending you an invitation. I’m holding a dinner party in a sennight. I should like you and Horatia to come.”
“We shall be pleased to.”
Eustace left the table and tottered toward the front door.
“You seem a trifle under the weather,” Guy said. “May I accompany you home?”
“Thank you, Guy. I’m done here.” Eustace shrugged. “Pockets to let, old fellow.”
Guy raised his eyebrows at John. “Forgive me, but I must leave you.”
Strathairn nodded. “Watch your back then, my friend. I shall take Mr. Fennimore’s place at the table.”
It had rained, and mist curled around the buildings. The narrow lane was lit only from the lights shining down from a few buildings, and no sign of a hackney.
“Best we walk to the corner. Footpads wait for those with plump pockets in this dark place,” Eustace murmured.
Guy offered his arm after Eustace stumbled over the slick cobbles.
They reached the lamp-lit main thoroughfare. Moments later, a hackney swung around the corner. Guy hailed it and helped Eustace inside. He leapt in to join him.
“I am pleased about the marriage.” Eustace lay back against the squabs and closed his eyes. “I am very fond of my goddaughter. She has a good deal of resolve, and it’s been a bone of contention between her father and me that he’s kept her in the country.”
Eustace eased himself into a corner, folded his arms and began to snore.
The hackney rocked through Pall Mall. Guy stroked his tight jaw as suspicion took root.
*
Hetty stood on a stool while the voluble French modiste, Madame Bernard, draped and pinned materials around her while all the time arguing with Aunt Emily.
“While my niece is past the age of a debutante and may wear color, it must be subtle. Peach, primrose, pale pink, and apple green will suit,” her aunt said testily after the modiste suggested eau-de-nil and tangerine.
“This bolt of silver net is pretty,” Hetty remarked with a wistful smile, when she was able to get a word in.
“Non! Frost will not suit your complexion!” Madame Bernard cried, taking down a bolt of primrose sprigged muslin from the shelf.
Aunt Emily shook her head vigorously. “Madame is quite correct! You have golden tones to your skin, Hetty.”
Hetty sighed, at least they agreed about something. “Ouch!” She flinched as one of Madame’s pins found her derriere. It was going to be a very long morning.
Several hours later, Hetty followed her aunt into the house. While Aunt Emily spoke to the cook about luncheon, Hetty wandered into the bookroom. On a shelf was a likeness in a small silver frame of a young man with a pleasant open countenance and light-colored hair. Her aunt came to the door. “What do you have there?”
Afraid she was intruding, Hetty swung around, the likeness in her hand. “Who is this?”
Aunt Emily took it from her and gazed at the likeness fondly. “That was my betrothed, Robert Falkner. He was a naval officer. He died at sea.”
So, what she’d heard was true. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Aunt.”
“I was eighteen.” Aunt Emily smiled mistily. “A long time ago now. I did wish…”
“What, Aunt?”
“That I’d defied convention and been with him before he went to sea. I would like to have more precious memories of him than the few I have.” Her aunt replaced the image.
She kissed Aunt’s cheek fondly, rendered silent by the sadness and regret in her eyes.
When Guy arrived, Hetty was happy to see him as always, but today his big, unruffled presence so soothed her soul she wanted to throw herself into his arms.
Dressed in a multi-caped greatcoat, a black hat at a jaunty angle on his dark hair, he assisted her into Lord Strathairn’s phaeton. The magnificent matched pair of chestnuts stamped their hooves, impatient to be gone.
“Has something happened?” Guy asked, when he’d told the horses to walk on. “You’re unusually quiet today.”
Hetty opened her new frilly parasol. Her aunt’s romance was too personal to discuss with him. “Between the modiste and my aunt, I’ve been pummeled to death,” she said. “They could not agree on anything, and I shan’t have the gowns I wished for.”
Guy laughed as he skillfully executed a three-point-turn in King Street. “Never mind, Hetty. You shall have your pick of fine dresses one day.”
“I don’t know about that, but I would like to wear them while I’m still young enough to enjoy them.”
“I trust an evening gown was ordered?”
“Yes. Why?”
“We have received some invitations.”
“Oh?” Her heart thudded.
“Lord Strathairn’s married sister is holding a soiree this Friday. And Eustace plans a dinner party the following week.”
After dealing with feelings of inadequacy brought on by the thought of an elegant soiree, she turned to study him. “And you accepted his invitation?”
“I did.”
“Why the change of heart?”
“I consider it to be judicious. I need to learn more about Eustace.”
“You may even get to like him.” She gripped the handle of the lemon-colored parasol as excitement threaded through her. “That’s less than a week. I don’t expect my gown to be ready by then.” She frowned. “I shall have to wear my old one.”
“Perhaps if the dressmaker is offered an inducement?”
“I can’t ask that of Papa. I doubt he can afford it, and he’s already been most generous.” Unusually so, she thought.
Guy’s brows met in a puzzled frown. “I understood your father to be comfortably off. Your dowry is most generous.”
Hetty had not queried the amount, afraid she would embarrass her father. “Is it?”
“He didn’t advise you of it?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t see that it should be kept secret. It’s twenty thousand pounds.”
Hetty’s mouth dropped open. Poor father! It must be every penny he had in the world. A good thing perhaps that he’d never have to pay it.
“I’d be happy to pay for your gown.”
“No, Guy, I won’t let you.”
“And why not? As your fiancé…”
“But you aren’t. I mean, not really.”
“To all intents and purposes, I am.”
“I shall never be able to repay you.”
He gave her a quick look, his expression warm, before returning to watch the road. “How am I ever to repay you for saving my life?”
There he goes again! Hetty wasn’t sure why she found his gratitude so disconcerting. Was that all he felt for her? “It was nothing, really.”
“Well, that’s all very well for you,” he said with a grin. “But I happen to value my life.”
They joined a line of carriages and traveled down the South Carriage Drive. Hetty became engrossed in viewing the fashionable set, the ladies in their spring bonnets and apparel. They craned their necks to view her, making her cringe and wish she wore something better than her old muslin. At least her aunt had lent her a stylish Italian straw bonnet adorned with cherries and red ribbons to match her red velvet spencer.
Several couples ambled through the park, enjoying the unusually warm day, and a rider cantered down Rotten Row.
Hetty sighed. “I should love to ride. My aunt is to take me to a tailor for a new habit.”
“And when you have it, we shall ride. I can’t leave the horses today or we could walk. Shall we come back next week?”
“Yes, I should like that.” Her mind was already on the soiree, apart from the theatre where she’d been safely ensconced within a small party, this was her first experience of the ton. What would they make of her?