Chapter Thirteen
The modiste had triumphed, delivering the gown by Thursday afternoon. Hetty adored the cream silk evening gown, lavishly decorated with silk gauze and floral work. On Friday evening, Aunt Emily’s maid, Sarah, did wonders with Hetty’s hair, confining her curls with a stylish bandeau. Hetty wore white satin slippers, white French kid gloves, and the pearl necklace and earrings which had been her mother’s. She carried her aunt’s ivory fan and a white silk reticule decorated with silver spangles and tassels. Never having been dressed in the first stare of fashion, she quite looked forward to Guy’s reaction.
She stood when his carriage stopped in the street, patted her hair, and smoothed her skirts. He walked into the parlor and stopped, his gaze was like a physical touch, and her heart jolted. “You look beautiful, Hetty.” He kissed her trembling fingers and turned to compliment her aunt before whisking her away.
Hetty studied him in the dim glow of the carriage lamps. How handsome he looked in his dark evening clothes, his crisp cravat white against his throat. “We’ve hardly seen you this week. Did you find a house?”
“No. I’ve been hiring staff for the hall. I now have a decent steward who will take some of the weight off my shoulders.”
“Oh, that is good. Who will be there tonight?” she asked, willing herself to relax. She felt as if she was about to be thrown to the wolves.
“Apart from the earl and his sisters, I have no idea.” He patted her hand. “Everyone will approve of you. You have no need to worry.”
Hetty opened her mouth, then closed it. Why would they approve of her? She was a country girl, she didn’t know much about society or the rules they lived by. Etiquette came as naturally to them as breathing.
Berkley Square consisted of huge mansions built around a private park. When a liveried footman came to take the reins from Guy, she stepped down with trepidation.
Guy took her arm and led her into the long drawing room, filled with exquisitely dressed guests who all turned to look at her.
Lady Eleanor came to greet them. “How nice to see you again, Miss Cavendish.”
Hetty curtsied. “It was good of you to invite me.”
“I should like you to meet some of my guests. Lord Fortescue is not known to some.”
They were then taken around the room and introduced. The guests were coolly polite, for as a guest of the earl’s sister, they would never risk offense. But Hetty saw through the veneer to the condescension beneath.
She was presented to an elderly dowager duchess who blinked at her, then peered at her through her lorgnette. “A Cavendish, eh? A descendent of William Cavendish?”
Hetty swallowed. “William? ah, that is, I am not sure.”
The lady touched her old-fashioned wig with a hand. “I refer to the Duke of Devonshire who lived in Berkley Square at one time.”
“Then no, I don’t believe so,” Hetty said, yearning to move on.
The dowager duchess nodded. “Then it must be Henry Cavendish, 2nd Duke of Newcastle-upon-Tyne’s side of the family.”
“No, I’m afraid not.” Hetty cast an anguished glance around for Guy.
The lady frowned. “Lady Margaret Cavendish, who married John Holles Earl of Clare?”
Hetty lifted her chin. “The Digswell Cavendishes, actually.”
“The Digswell Cavendishes?” Lady Wotherspoon lowered her lorgnette and raised her thin brows.
Lady Eleanor placed a hand on Hetty’s arm. “You must excuse us, Lady Wotherspoon. Miss Cavendish has many guests yet to meet.”
Hetty’s nape felt moist as she was led around the room and finally left with Lady Georgina. “You look all in,” she said, and gestured to a satin sofa by the window.
Hetty gratefully sat after Lady Georgina told Guy to go away, quite rudely Hetty thought. The earl’s younger sister sat beside her, smoothing her dainty muslin skirts. She was a beautiful and elegant young lady, very much at home in her surroundings. And this setting took one’s breath away. Huge oil paintings dressed the burgundy papered walls, and glorious painted landscapes edged with gilt molding on the ceiling.
“You must tell me all about yourself,” Lady Georgina said.
As she tried to order her thoughts, Lady Eleanor joined them. “What have you enjoyed most in London, Miss Cavendish?”
“I have yet to see it,” Hetty confessed. “I have been busy having a new wardrobe made.”
“That is very pretty,” Georgina said, eyeing Hetty’s gown. “I should be happy to introduce you to Madame Celeste if you wish to have more gowns and hats made. Eleanor and I won’t step out of the door without something fashioned by the Frenchwoman.”
“Thank you,” Hetty said weakly, acknowledging the criticism. It seemed her gown was pretty but not quite up to the mark.
Eleanor frowned at her younger sister. “Have you known Lord Fortescue long?”
“No. Only since he came to Digswell.”
“It has been a fast courtship, then,” Georgina said. Her eyes filled with light. “Love at first sight?”
“You are such a romantic Georgina,” Lady Eleanor said. “And it is really none of your business.”
Georgina pouted. “Then I shall take myself off.”
Hetty drew in a deep breath, relieved when she flounced away.
Lady Eleanor put a hand on Hetty’s arm. “She means well. She’s young and impulsive. Were you not the same at seventeen?”
Hetty smiled and nodded, but she doubted she had ever been like Lady Georgina. Left alone with Lady Eleanor, their conversation turned to poetry and the hour passed more pleasurably.
Then Guy returned to her side and stayed for the rest of the evening.
“Well, how was it?” he asked as they drove home.
“I was utterly terrified.”
He laughed. “You had no need to be. Lady Eleanor sang your praises before we left.”
“I like her very much. Where is her husband?”
“He is an invalid. We don’t see much of him.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
The coach drew up outside her aunt’s in King Street.
Guy took her chin in his hand and pressed his lips to hers as Lord Strathairn’s footman opened the door.
At her door, Guy bowed. “Sleep well, Hetty.”
The maid opened the door, and Hetty walked into the front hall where her aunt lurked. “Well, how was it?”
“Very pleasant,” Hetty said, following her up the stairs. “The mansion was beautiful, and Lady Eleanor and I enjoyed a lively conversation about Keats’ poems.”
“Oh. You must tell me all about it at breakfast.”
In bed, Hetty put her arm under her head. She didn’t fit into that world, but it was an exciting one. She feared returning to the farm would be very hard indeed.
*
When the hackney stopped outside Count Forney’s palatial home, Guy paid the jarvie and stepped up to the door. He presented his card to the butler.
“You are expected, my lord.”
Guy followed the butler to an impressive salon decorated in the extravagant Napoleonic style the Regent had adopted at Carlton House, the furniture a combination of oak, ebony, gilt, painted bronze, and marble. The walls were papered in a chinoiserie pattern of birds. It was a showcase for a beautiful woman like the countess, perhaps, but too ornate for Guy’s taste.
The count was not one of those French émigrés who had arrived with barely the shirt on their backs and found it hard to survive. They flocked together at Grillon’s Hotel in Albemarle Street where the Constitutional Monarch of France, Louis XVIII, had stayed in ’14.
Count Forney was wealthy and openly displayed his penchant for Bonaparte, which, while unpalatable to the English, wasn’t a crime. The Regent himself was known to have a deep respect for Bonaparte although he’d refused the general’s invitation to meet with him when aboard the Bellerophon in Plymouth Sound. Guy suspected it was because Prinny had never stepped onto a battlefield and believed he would not present well beside the famous general.
A gilt-paneled door opened, and Count Forney, a narrow-faced, swarthy Corsican entered. He bowed with an exaggerated flourish. “Lord Fortescue. I must apologize for keeping you waiting.”
He spoke in French with a slight accent Guy couldn’t place. “Not at all, Count,” Guy said in English. “You wished to see me?”
“Oui, please be seated, Baron.” Forney waved Guy to a Louis Quinze chair. The count was dressed more elaborately than Englishmen favored these days, with lace at his cuffs and a waistcoat embroidered in a pattern of golden bees.
The count’s eyes were yellowish-brown which lent him a wolfish air. “You wish to speak in the English?”
“We live in England now.”
“Oui! England. I prefer it in the autumn when the shadows in the wood grow long.” He paused for a long moment and studied Guy. “May I offer you a fine French brandy?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“A rumor has reached my ears that you were a confidant of Bonaparte’s, Lord Fortescue.”
Guy stared at him. “You are mistaken. I’ve never met him.”
The count poured liberal portions of brandy into two balloon glasses and placed them on the marble and gilt table. He sat opposite Guy, crossed his legs, and gave a tight-lipped smile. “How odd.”
Guy shifted in his chair. “Rumors are often false, is that not so?”
The count swilled the golden liquid in his glass and put it to his lips while Guy, with growing uneasiness, left his untouched on the table. “I have it on good authority you were part of a group of men instrumental in Bonaparte’s escape from Elba.”
Guy leaped up. “Absurd!”
“You wish to deny it?”
“I do.”
The count banged his glass down on the table, spilling its contents. He threw back his chair and strode to a pier table. He returned with a document he held out to Guy.
Guy took it from him and read the French words, which included his name and an accurate description of him, along with a detailed list of activities in which he never took part. What the French government accused him of would be considered treason by the British. His gut roiled in anger as he stared into Forney’s strange eyes. “This is all a tissue of lies!”
Forney’s thin lips stretched into a contemptuous smile. “It is not I who wrote it. As you see, it comes from a very reliable source.”
Guy flicked the paper. “How did this document fall into your hands?”
“I have not the least intention of telling you how I got it. I had hoped you’d be honest with me. After all, we are on the same side.”
Guy swallowed, the bile rising in his throat. Like his father, he believed in the sacredness of the hereditary monarchial government and wished to see the monarchy restored in France. The Revolution, which began with the good intentions of idealists, ended with the death of hundreds of thousands of innocent people. It had robbed him of his brother, and he’d witnessed firsthand the awful consequences of Bonaparte’s ambition. The past still gave him nightmares. He read The French Foreign Office heading once more. “This can’t be genuine. It is a forgery.”
“It describes you perfectly. See…” He pointed. “Guy Truesdale, Baron Fortescue of Rosecroft Hall, born in Paris on…”
“There’s no need to continue, I can read.” Guy thrust the document back at him. “But it’s a mistake, I tell you. Who is behind this? Name the person who gave you this.”
“That I cannot do.”
“You hand me that abomination of a document and won’t tell me who accuses me?”
Count Forney adjusted his cuffs. “Très bien. I see that we have nothing more to discuss.” He reached for the bell and summoned a servant. He and Guy eyed each other without attempting further conversation until the liveried footman entered.
“Show the baron out.”
The countess hovered, a splash of vivid emerald in the gray marble entrance hall. It appeared she was adept at listening at keyholes. “I had hoped we might see more of you, Lord Fortescue. It seems you have chosen to put your past behind you, which may prove to be the wrong decision.”
“I am not ashamed of my past, Countess Forney. You might examine your own more closely, as well as your loyalty to the country you’ve made your home.” Guy bowed and put on his hat, noting the angry downturn of her mouth as the butler opened the door for him.
Was he to be accused of sedition? His name besmirched before he could begin his life here? It was outlandish. Rage and frustration twisted inside him as he stepped out onto the road in search of a passing hackney.
When one stopped, he climbed in with a grimace of distaste. The straw on the floor was soiled, and the carriage smelled of stale sweat. He leaned back, crossed his arms trying to deal with his anger and frustration over what had just happened. Could he confide in Strathairn? The English government must be aware of this. Guy no longer considered it a coincidence when John came across him in that alleyway and rescued him from footpads. He needed time to think, to find out more before he could act upon it.
At Berkley Square the next day, Guy received a note from the constabulary at Bow Street. It advised him the man who attacked him was to appear before the magistrate on the morrow. Odd that he had been brought to London and not dealt with in the assizes. Guy read the brief missive again, in case he’d missed something, then crumpled it in his fist. Now that Forney had shown him the French document, it was even more imperative that he learn who was behind the attacks on his life. Were they connected? Perhaps, the man might be persuaded to say who put him up to it when placed before the magistrate. Then Guy could begin to make sense of all that had happened to him since he came to England.
Guy decided to confide in Strathairn. The next morning, he awaited John to return from his morning ride. The library was as well stocked as any he had seen. John’s father had been a keen reader of the classics.
Strathairn was a different beast to his scholarly father. He was a strong vigorous man of action who preferred to drink, gamble, and enjoy women rather than read. He strode into the library in riding clothes smelling of horse and threw himself down in one of a pair of oxblood leather chairs flanking the fireplace.
Guy wasted no time recalling his conversation with the count.
John’s eyes lit up with interest. He tapped his boot with his riding crop. “Did he reveal any more information? Any names?”
“Nothing. He clammed up.”
“A slippery figure, Forney is a known Bonapartist. He has been suspected of spying for the general during the war, but nothing was ever proven. Whitehall will be interested to learn of this.”
“Naturally, I’m anxious to get this matter sorted out. These attacks may be connected.”
John nodded. “You will visit Bow Street today?
“Oui.”
“You’ve heard from your sister?”
Guy nodded. “She has decided to come to England.”
“Go to Bow Street,” John said. “I will visit Horse Guards. My old regiment, the Seventh Hussars may have heard a whisper or two.”
Despite his anguish, Guy had to laugh. A whisper was a slight understatement. The Horse Guards housed the Grenadier Guards who guarded the Royal family. Frederick, the Duke of York, was their Commander-in-Chief. The most powerful men in England would seek information from them when they wished to learn of sub rosa activities. “I often wonder what you did during the war, John. Might you have been one of Wellington’s spies?”
“Spies are not well-regarded by society.” John crossed his legs and grasped a polished riding boot with his broad hand. “You have your secrets, too, Guy.”
“Not so many, mon ami. I hope to have few secrets between Hetty and me when we wed.”
“A noble plan, although somewhat difficult to achieve. But why wait? Why not marry the lady now?”
“I need first to satisfy the Committee of Privileges that I am the baron.” Guy balled his hand into a fist and banged the arm of the chair. “And it now appears that I must clear my name with Home Office if I wish to remain in England.”
“A challenging task, but not an impossible one.”
“Time is of the essence. I’ll see what can be learnt at Bow Street. This brigand may be persuaded to speak the truth.”
“I’ll accompany you.”
“You might ask this question of your colleagues. If I am considered a French spy, working to free Bonaparte, why haven’t I been arrested?”
John gave him an enigmatic look. “Perhaps you have an influential friend.”
Guy bowed his head. “If that is the case, then I am indebted to him.” He studied his friend’s face, but John’s expression was shuttered. Guy leapt to his feet in frustration. “Can’t you tell me more?”
Guy turned as the door opened and Lady Georgina entered in a swirl of white muslin. “I need you both to escort me to a ball on the twentieth at the home of Lord and Lady Taylor.”
Her brother frowned. “Guy is betrothed to Miss Cavendish, as you well know.”
Georgina’s gaze settled on Guy, considering him to be the softer option. “You will escort me won’t you, Guy? Eleanor is my sponsor, but she’ll tell me to ask Lady Mary because Gordon is ill again.” She grinned. “What better introduction than with a handsome man on each arm?”
“Eleanor is right. Aunt Mary must be asked to chaperone you.”
Georgina giggled. “Don’t glower at me, John. Aunt Mary is so dreadfully old fashioned. You don’t care for her company any more than I do.”
John stood. “We must leave, Guy. I’ll drop you off at Bow Street on my way to Whitehall.”
“Bow Street? Why must you go there?” Georgina asked.
“Nothing to trouble your head over, my sweet.” John patted her cheek.
Georgina pouted in disgust. “You treat women like idiots, John.”
Her elder brother folded his arms. “Not if they have proved themselves to be otherwise.”
“But will you escort me? I won’t have to ask Aunt Mary?”
“Although I might prefer to have a tooth pulled, I see that I shall have to.” John turned to Guy. “I’d appreciate your company. But I must warn you, there’ll be a dearth of decent entertainment.”
“Delighted.” Guy bowed. “It will be my pleasure to escort you, Lady Georgina.”
“It is settled, then.” John attempted a frown, but a smile pulled at his lips. “And we have no need of Aunt Mary.”
She squealed and rushed to hug him. John gave in to the embrace with a laugh.
“I shall hug you, too, Guy,” Georgina said with a speculative look at her brother.
“You most certainly will not,” John said. “And it’s Lord Fortescue to you.”
“I consider myself hugged,” Guy said, backing off with a laugh.
An evening away from the gambling tables at White’s was always an attractive prospect, although he suspected John wished him to come so that he could keep an eye on him.
Guy wasn’t keen to go, because Hetty was not an invited guest, but he relished any opportunity to repay John for his generosity. He sighed inwardly. He had more than enough worries to plague him for this business with Forney must be kept from Hetty.