Chapter Twenty-Three
Guy was relieved when Count Forney’s butler admitted him. At least he wouldn’t fall at the first fence. And with time to consider, he was eager to succeed in his mission.
He was shown into the grand salon where the count greeted him in surprise. “I did not expect to see you again, Lord Fortescue.”
“It is my practice to be careful, Count.”
Guy pulled back his coat to better display the bronze eagle pin nestled in the folds of his cravat. “The days grow long, and I find I miss the countryside, the charm of the wood.”
Forney’s eyes widened when he caught sight of the pin. He gave an oily smile and shook Guy’s hand. “Then I wasn’t wrong. You are one of us.”
“I had to be sure about you, Count. You understand?”
“Oui, indeed I do. We cannot be too careful.”
“The stakes are too high to be careless.”
“Bon. I shall take you this evening to meet the others. They have long since wished to meet you. Your exploits are legendary.”
Guy bowed. “You are too gracious.”
“We require your expertise in our quest to rescue Bonaparte. We must act with great speed before the English have him killed.”
“I should be happy to offer all the assistance I can. Where do we go to meet them?”
“My carriage will call for you. Where do you stay?”
“At Grillon’s Hotel in Albemarle Street,” Guy said.
“At ten of the clock, then.”
Guy emerged into the square. He glanced at the two women in the park who chatted beneath their parasols and continued. He must report to John. Tonight would put an end to the whole infernal scheme. He had no real faith in these so-called spies, for they appeared more like mischief makers. A plan to free Napoleon was bizarre. Their idolatry of Vincent seemed amateurish to him. Had the Home Secretary been ill informed? Yet, he surmised, amateurs they might be, but obsessed and determined they were, nonetheless.
He crossed the juncture of Henrietta and Margaret Streets and began to walk down Holles Street, making his way to Oxford Street, where he had a better chance of finding another hackney. The streets were busy with horsemen, and vehicles of all kinds. Many people walked the pavements visiting the shops. Guy cursed and stopped suddenly causing a peddler selling pies to give him a hopeful glance as he wandered past. A grand aqua carriage waited on the next corner, the four matched gray horses held by a liveried groom. Not only did this fit Hetty’s description of his sister’s carriage perfectly, it was surely the purple and blue of the duke’s livery. He was sure of it. He walked up to it. “Where is the Duchesse la Châteaudunn?”
Learning of her direction, Guy swiveled abruptly. The two women in the park, hidden behind parasols… Could it be? “Zut!” he muttered and strode back to the square. Had he not been so angry, he would have laughed at their stricken expressions. It was one thing for him to be in danger, but he would not have two of his favorite people in all the world drawn into the arena.
“And what might you be doing here?” he asked in glacial tones.
“I took the duchess to meet a friend of mine, but she is not at home.” Hetty’s face flushed crimson, and she refused to meet his gaze.
“You are a very bad liar, Hetty,” Guy said. He raised his brows at his sister. “Who is behind this absurd notion?”
“I am,” Hetty blurted.
“Non. ’Twas I.” Genevieve revealed a sisterly lack of fear at his wrath. “You are in trouble. We wish to help.”
He ground his teeth. “You can help enormously.”
Two sets of pretty eyes looked at him in fascination. “How?” Hetty asked in a breathless voice.
“By going home and staying there.”
“Oh.” She looked at Genevieve, who made a moue with her lips.
“Then you don’t deny you are in trouble?” Genevieve asked.
“I do deny it. You are being absurd. Allow me to escort you both to your carriage.”
“But where do you go? Why don’t you come with us now?”
“Because I have a prior engagement. You are both outrageous. Must I tell you every detail of my life?”
When his sister began to object in a flood of voluble French, Guy held up his hand. “Assez!”
The unmanageable pair climbed into the carriage. “Can we give you a lift somewhere?” Hetty asked with a sweet smile.
“No!” He slammed the door. “I shall call on you both tomorrow.”
“Why not call this evening, Gee?”
Guy ignored Genevieve’s question. He instructed the coachman to take them directly home.
Hetty stared back at him from the window with a worried expression as the carriage trundled away down the street.
*
Hetty watched Guy stride away. “He’s very angry,” she said. “Will he ever forgive us?”
“Pooh! He was bluffing. I know my brother.”
“But you believe him to be in danger?”
“Oui. His eyes are evasive. When he was a boy and up to no good, he looked just like that. And what other reason would he have for not coming to visit one of us this evening?”
Hetty studied Genevieve. She had no way of knowing if the duchess’s opinion could be relied upon. Guy had been very angry. She shivered, his eyes had pinned her in place. But… He was worried and tense, otherwise he would have recovered his good humor, laughed, and joined them. She recognized the way he’d clenched his jaw, and he had avoided her eyes when questioned. “There is nothing we can do.”
“We shall follow him again this evening.”
“He may not be going out this evening,” Hetty reasoned.
“He must be, otherwise he would call on us,” Genevieve said with French practicality.
“But, he’ll be on the alert for us now.”
“We’ll dress in costume,” the duchess said promptly.
“What kind of costume?”
“Men’s attire, and we’ll hire a hackney.”
“Where will we get… Oh!” Hetty bit her lip. “I do wish I’d brought them to London.”
Her Grace stared at her. “Quoi?”
Distracted by the sudden likeness to her brother, Hetty muttered, “It is nothing. I’ll explain later.”
“I can borrow some clothes from my staff. The footmen are huge, but the younger servants aren’t so big. No one visits before nine in London. I’ll come to you at eight of the clock.”
An alarming thought struck Hetty. “W-what if Guy is visiting a woman?”
“A mistress?” Genevieve asked, in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Yes.” Hetty swallowed a lump in her throat. Had she driven Guy into the arms of a Cyprian?
His sister shook her head. “She would not keep him from me for days at a time. And he is in love. A man in love does not visit a courtesan. Not Gee. I may not have seen much of him for years, but I remember him as a loving son and a kind brother. He rescued our Maman and me when our chateau was burning, and my papa had gone to find Vincent. Gee fought a man much bigger than he, who tried to attack us. I don’t know where he found the strength, but he punched him to the ground and he led us to safety.”
That was the man Hetty knew.
“Gee wrote to me when he could,” Genevieve continued. “As a child he was honorable. Vincent never was. The twins were opposites. The light and the dark. This does not change.”
The coach drew to a stop in King Street. Hetty alighted as another problem faced her. What on earth was she to tell her aunt?
Hetty walked in and found the house in upheaval. A maid scurried past with her arms full of linen. “What has happened, Sarah?”
“Your father has arrived,” Sarah said. “Your aunt has put him in the guest bedchamber next to yours.”
“Papa?” Hetty’s voice quavered.
Aunt Emily bustled out of the parlor. “He has news.” She gave a conspiratorial smile. “I shall let him tell you himself.”
As she trudged up the stairs, Hetty searched her mind for an appropriate reason to be absent this evening. She knocked on her father’s door with the hope that a suitable excuse would spring from somewhere when the need arose.
Her father stood before the mirror adjusting his neckcloth. He turned as she entered, and she was struck by how lively he appeared. His beaming face looked years younger.
“My dear.” He kissed her cheek. “I had to come and tell you the news. I have asked Marina Illingworth to be my wife, and she has accepted.”
Pleasure for him threaded through her. His future with Mrs. Illingworth was sure to be a happy and fulfilling one. “Papa, that’s wonderful news. I’m so pleased for you.”
“Are you really, my dear? I hoped you would be.”
“I like Mrs. Illingworth very much.”
“She is a sensible woman.”
“Indeed, she is.”
“I thought we might have a small celebration this evening. If you are not otherwise engaged?”
“I’m afraid I do have an engagement tonight,” Hetty said cautiously. “I received an invitation from the Duchess Châteaudunn, Guy’s sister.”
Her father’s face fell. He considered her words and recovered a little. “The Duchess Châteaudunn, you say?”
“Yes, she has come from France for a visit. Will tomorrow night serve? We can invite her and Guy.”
“Well, yes, I should like that. I should have written, but I wanted to tell you the news myself.”
She hugged him with a fresh flush of guilt. “I’m glad you did. I’m pleased to see you’re in excellent health. When is the wedding?”
“Come and sit down.” He took her hand and steered her to the sofa. “I thought it safe to proceed and have the Banns read.” He frowned. “Has the date for your wedding been set? I’ve been expecting a letter from you.”
“Not as yet. Guy has other matters to attend to. He plans to obtain a special license and arrange for the wedding to take place at St. Georges in Hanover Square.”
His eyes widened. “St. Georges? The vicar and I had expected… Well of course, that is fitting for a baron.”
Hetty clasped her shaking hands together. Marrying before the eyes of the haute ton terrified her. She could hear the talk now. Cavendish? A branch of the family live in Digswell?
“I’ll learn more about it when Fortescue calls for you tonight.”
“I’m afraid not. Guy has another engagement.”
“An engagement that does not include his betrothed?” He studied her. “You are happy, Horatia? I judged him to be a good man.”
“Guy’s the very best of men, Papa.” The words almost stuck in Hetty’s throat, her guilt overlaid with uneasiness. Was Genevieve right to follow Guy when this matter was surely none of their concern? It was most unlike Hetty not to act on a premonition, but the duchess depended on her, so she would not let her down.
“Good.” Her father rubbed his hands together. “Let’s go downstairs. I have yet to enjoy a good chat with your aunt.”
After dinner, Genevieve called for Hetty in her carriage at the appointed time. She was introduced to Hetty’s father, who was immediately charmed by her.
When she climbed into the coach, Genevieve thrust some clothes into Hetty’s hands. “Put these on.”
“Here?”
“Oui.” She lowered the blinds.
As the carriage rocked along the street, they removed their gowns. Hetty struggled into the ill-fitting clothes that reeked of horse.
“I’m sorry. They belong to the stable boy,” Genevieve said. “They were the only ones that would fit you.” She gave an apologetic shrug. “You are so tall and slim.” She held out a pair of scuffed shoes. “These will be too large for you. You’ll need to stuff the toes with paper.”
Hetty admired Genevieve’s nimble fingers as she tied a credible cravat without a mirror. Her clothes were more suited to the gentry. She wondered whom the duchess had coerced into giving them up and had a ridiculous vision of her ordering a local clerk to remove his clothes. She stifled a nervous giggle, tugging on her black tricorn as Genevieve tucked her dark hair beneath the hat.
A watchman called, to whoever would listen, that the weather remained fine. The coach halted for them to alight at the stand in New Bond Street beside the water trough. A night coach passed them, and link boys lit the way for a chair carrying some important personage.
The bare wisp of smoky cloud hiding the crescent moon slowly drifted away. A cool breeze stirred the trees and fanned the stench of fresh horse manure, stinging Hetty’s nostrils. She shivered in the thin clothing, more from apprehension than cold.
No available hackneys were waiting at the stand. A peddler strolled up to them with a box of clocks strapped around his neck. Hetty waved him away as her frustration grew. She and Genevieve walked up and down. The minutes turned into half an hour.
“It’s growing late. We will have missed him.” Hetty rubbed her arms.
“I see one!” Genevieve darted out to wave it down. Hetty followed, unable to move very fast as the shoes slid off her heels.
“Don’t have smallpox or the plague, do you?” the jarvie asked before they climbed in.
“Certainly not,” Hetty growled. “Berkley Square, if you please.”
“Toffy kind o’ place for the likes of you, ain’t it?”
Hetty squared her shoulders. “Mind your manners, my man, or you won’t get a tip.”
“No offense meant.” The jarvie pushed his hat back and drew his whip.
They rattled past elegant stone and brick houses as they approached Berkley Square.
“There he is!” Guy walked up Brutton Street, a tall hat on his head, his long dark coat flowing about his ankles. “Follow that man!” she called to the jarvie.
“What kind o’ smoky business is this?” he asked.
“Nothing for you to worry about,” Hetty said. “Just think about the extra money you’ll earn.”
The jarvie turned the hackney and drove after Guy, who had disappeared into New Bond Street. An empty hackney passed him and slowed. Guy waved it on, content to go on foot to his destination. They caught sight of him again as he turned from Grafton Street into Albemarle Street. He walked past the grand façade of the Royal Institution and disappeared into the Grillion Hotel.
“What do we do now?” Hetty asked as the jarvie pulled up outside the hotel. “He’ll be here to meet a friend and may be there for hours.”
Suddenly, the hackney doors were flung open, and a man thrust a pistol into their faces. “Out.”