Chapter Fourteen
As he feared, Guy learned a frustratingly small amount at Bow Street. His attacker, whose name was Leonard Stack, appeared before the sitting magistrate, along with the usual sad array of prostitutes, thieves, and pickpockets. He’d given evidence that he was a victim. A Frenchman had threatened to murder him if he did not carry out his request. But he knew not his name and had not seen him well enough to describe him, for the man had pulled his hat low over his forehead and hidden most of his lower face with a scarf. The magistrate, unmoved by the man’s pleas, bound him over for trial at the Old Bailey.
Was this something to do with Forney? Relying on the sparse details Stack had provided, Guy employed a Bow Street Runner to trace the Frenchman. It was possible that his portmanteau had fallen into the wrong hands. He’d spent hours searching the ground between where he and the horse had parted company and Rosecroft Hall. If he found out who this Frenchman was, he might be able to retrieve the evidence of his birthright. When Genevieve arrived from Paris, she would identify him, but he wasn’t sure when that would be. Familiar with his sister’s love for her children, plus her inability to travel anywhere without a huge retinue in train, he doubted she’d appear in London any time soon.
Guy left Bow Street and walked to the corner of Russell Street, searching for the carriage. The sunny day brought all manner of people out into the streets from nearby Covent Garden. Vendors, errand boys making deliveries, and ladies intent on perusing the shops. A street girl sidled up to him. “Lookin’ for luv, sweeting?”
Guy smelled gin on her breath. She looked painfully thin and very young. He reached into his waistcoat pocket. “Have a drink on me.” He tipped a handful of coins into her waiting palms. “Better still, have something to eat.”
“A real pity, sweeting, I’d be happy to oblige you.”
Guy raised his hat and smiled. When the carriage pulled up nearby, he ran for it.
The carriage stopped in Whitehall, outside Horse Guards where John was kicking his heels in the street. Guy noted his solemn expression as he climbed inside.
Guy told him the little he’d learned. “And you, John?”
“Not much more than I’ve already been told.”
So, it was true. John had known of this all along. Guy wrestled with his anger. “And what is that precisely?” he asked through clenched teeth.
John stared at him fixedly. “That you’re to be watched as you are suspected of being a French spy.”
“Ridiculous!” Guy grabbed the door handle as the carriage swung around a corner. He fought the temptation to leap out and run away. He pulled his hand from the door and leaned back, casting John a cool glance.
“I don’t distrust you, Guy. I found this hard to believe from the first,” John said with a shrug of apology. “But I was instructed to follow you. I saved you from your attackers in that alley because I was ordered to keep you alive and away from harm until you led us to a nest of saboteurs known to be in England.” He leaned over and placed his hand on Guy’s sleeve. “But the more I got to know you, the more convinced I became that you were innocent of such a charge. It’s a puzzling business. But I would bet my life on it.”
Guy pulled off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “What the bloody hell’s going on, John? I’ve never met Bonaparte, let alone arranged his escape from Elba. And yet, Count Forney has shown me a document from the French foreign office which confirms it.” A moment passed as he searched his friend’s smoky, gray-blue eyes, which revealed little. “You are under orders.” Guy shrugged. “I wonder what you plan to do with me.”
John released a sigh. “You might say I’m keeping you under observation. But that also means I’m watching your back, my friend.”
Guy bowed his head. “Thank you.”
“Until I’m instructed otherwise,” John added, looking grim.
Guy nodded. “I understand.”
Tomorrow he would take Hetty to the park and lose himself for a while in her charming company.
*
“Shall we walk to the lake?” Guy pulled the phaeton over to the side. He tossed the reins to the tiger who had accompanied them today, and after instructing him to walk the horses, helped her down.
With her hand tucked in his arm, they strolled along a path through the trees. Early spring wild flowers added color to the scene while birds fluttered above building nests among the leafy branches.
They entered a copse of silver birch trees where dappled sun sparkled through a filigree of leaves. “Aunt Emily has a visitor this afternoon. The poet, Mr. Wordsworth.”
“William Wordsworth? I met him in Paris.”
“You met the poet?” Another new thing to learn about him.
“He was there to visit his daughter, Caroline. We discussed his interest in exploring the relationship between the human mind and nature and he allowed me to read some of his poetry. Tintern Abbey is quite remarkable. A deeply thoughtful poem.”
Delighted, Hetty was eager to discuss it. “The lyrical ballad is remarkable. The lines “The still, sad music of humanity…” She gasped. “What are you doing?”
After a quick glance around, Guy had drawn her off the path and deeper into the shadowy copse. He removed her parasol from her hand and put it down, then tugged at her bonnets strings. “I’m going to kiss you,” he murmured, and pulled off her bonnet. The look in his eyes was so intense that her pulse fluttered, and she caught her breath.
Guy lowered his head and covered her mouth with his. The intense pleasure of his closeness wrapped around her, and abandoning her demand for propriety, she looped her arms around his neck and kissed him back. His tongue teased at the seam of her lips, and she opened to him. When he dove inside, she melted and clutched onto his coat. Their breaths quickened as he pressed her against him. Taking in deep breaths of him, his fresh manly smell, she suffered a strong urge to lie down on the grass and pull him with her. She moaned against his mouth.
“Mon dieu!” Guy groaned and thrust away from her.
Suddenly aware that she’d forgotten her intention to keep him at arm’s length, Hetty pushed at him. “Guy! What is this about?”
He removed his curly-brimmed beaver and ran a hand through his dark locks with a distracted look. “I didn’t intend it to go that far.” He smiled, charmingly apologetic. “I desire you, Hetty.”
She took a deep breath. He was so utterly disarming. “You do?”
“Why do you think I’ve arranged this engagement?”
“Because of Eustace. Because you were in danger.”
“I should have left you safely in Digswell.” Guy shook his head. “But I wanted to get you away from that bean pole.”
“Mr. Oakley?” Hetty was stunned. “But I told you I refused him.”
“We’d best walk.” Guy offered her his arm.
Thrilled as she was to learn how he felt, she told herself sternly that Guy could never marry her. The newspapers would have a field day. She must not forget that she was not one of the Cavendishes that mattered, she was the daughter of a retired army man of modest means. Even her aunt had been astonished at their engagement although Hetty found her abrupt change in attitude difficult to fathom. Aunt Emily did appear quite shrewd when she allowed herself to focus on something other than poetry.
Ahead, sunlight danced on the Serpentine. “Shall we walk to the water?” Guy asked.
“Yes, lets.”
He seemed intent on his own thoughts, and she returned to hers. Had either of them considered what effect a broken engagement would have on her life when the news reached Digswell? They’d hardly been discreet, openly revealing their relationship before the ton. Perhaps these things were done differently in France. The French were so much more relaxed about matters of the heart. It was second nature to them, while the English… Hetty gazed into Guy’s troubled face, a face she’d grown to love. She wanted more of his kisses. Desperately, because soon she would lose him.
If a scandal was to follow her home, why not have a good reason for it? Guy would know how to protect her, and they could both gain much from it. After all, once back in Digswell, she would never marry.
They paused at the riverbank to watch a man propelling a rowboat over the water with strong strokes of the oars. “I quite like the idea of an affair,” Hetty said, testing him.
“Quoi!” Guy swiveled to stare at her.
If she hoped he would fall at her feet with delight, she was mistaken. Although this was hardly the place. As excitement built within her like a fire fanned into a roaring blaze, Hetty continued to stroll along the bank. “I prefer never to marry,” she said bravely. “You must agree I will write far better poetry with some experience of life.”
Guy’s hand on her arm swung her around to face him. His eyes flashed. “So, if not me, then Mr. Beanpole will provide your life experience?”
“Good heavens, no.” Hetty laughed at his description. “You’re not jealous of Mr. Oakley?”
He pressed a kiss on her gloved palm, which produced a cry of encouragement from an elderly gentleman sitting on a seat nearby. “I will be the only one to make love to you.”
“You?” Hetty’s eyes widened. She took a deep breath. “Oh, Guy, I want that, too.” She stared over at the man, thankful he was out of earshot. “But where?”
Guy pulled her by the hand. “Come on.”
Thrilled, she gasped. “Where are you taking me?”
“Back to your aunt.”
“What? Why?” Guy’s stride was so much longer than hers. He dragged her along. Her bonnet fell back onto her shoulders, suspended by its cherry ribbons, and she almost dropped her parasol.
“Because if I ever climb out of this mess I’m in, I intend to do the thing properly.”
Hetty wasn’t quite sure what he meant by “the thing”, but she was more than keen to find out, as her intention to keep her heart safe from hurt evaporated.
She was not to learn of it today, however. Guy, tight-lipped, escorted her to the phaeton and drove her directly home. He answered her questions in monosyllables, and she eventually gave up trying. Then he left her with her aunt with a bow and his apologies, murmuring that something had called him away.
Her aunt frowned. “Did you have an argument?”
“No. At least I don’t think so,” Hetty said, bemused.
“A business concern, perhaps?” Aunt Emily suggested with a hopeful lift of her brows. “Never mind, Mr. Wordsworth is to arrive soon. You’ll enjoy meeting him, I’m sure.”
In normal circumstances, Hetty would have enjoyed it immensely, but her own concerns intruded. When Guy had thought her to be Simon, he had confessed to all sorts of amorous adventures. Had she shocked him? Was it possible to shock a rake? Her mind whirled, and when introduced to the slim, brown-haired man of some forty-five years who would once have thrilled her to the core, she offered him an abstracted smile.
All through Mr. Wordsworth’s scholarly conversation and her aunt’s animated replies, Hetty pondered Guy’s behavior. He waged a war within himself. The passionate rake was a conventional man at heart. She wondered which would win where she was concerned.
The week proved busy with trips to the mantua maker and the modiste for further fittings, in between sojourns with her aunt to the museum and the Tower. She saw little of Guy, who came to take tea with them on only one occasion. He was busy searching for a suitable London house. But on Saturday, they were to attend Eustace’s dinner party.