Chapter Five
Despite Hetty’s wish that Saturday never come, it arrived to deepen her anguish. In the afternoon, Fanny Kemble came to visit in her carriage. She hurried into the house wearing a fur-trimmed blue pelisse and bonnet, a hand thrust into a matching fur muff.
“Fanny, how nice you look. Come into the parlor. I’ll ring for tea.”
“I had to promise to be home by four, otherwise, Mother would not have let me come. But I couldn’t wait to tell you the news,” Fanny said. “Lord Fortescue called on us yesterday, and Mama’s invited him for dinner and there’s to be dancing afterward.”
Sarah brought the tea tray in.
Hetty poured the tea into cups. She wanted to share her secret with Fanny, but, dear practical Fanny would think her mad, and she couldn’t always be relied on to keep a secret. Not that she would deliberately hurt a living soul, but her inherently honest nature made it impossible to keep things to herself.
She often wished she was more like Fanny who knew exactly what she wanted from the moment she left the schoolroom. A home and a family. Fanny was bound to marry soon as her Aunt Caroline was to chaperone Fanny for the London season.
“Oh, Hetty, the baron is so handsome.” Fanny clasped her hands to her breast. “And so very charming. What is it about a French accent? It makes even the simplest sentence sound romantic. Everyone in the village talks of nothing but the prosperity the Baron’s return will bring to Digswell. Lord Fortescue told us of his plans to improve the house and grounds. I was rather shocked that Rosecroft Hall had become so shabby when Mama and I were last there. It is most exciting.” She trilled with laughter. “Mama is beside herself!”
“That will liven up Digswell society,” Hetty said, dismayed at being forced to keep secrets.
Fanny widened her eyes. “Is that all you can say? Dear Hetty, if you won’t take your nose out of a book, I declare you’ll end up a spinster. And you are far too pretty to be one of those poor wretches.”
“Not every woman who fails to marry is a poor wretch,” Hetty said. “I prefer my independence. Husbands have complete power over their wives. As a single woman, I may inherit, buy, sell, and own my own property. If I marry, I must relinquish it to my husband.”
“Oh, pooh.” Fanny gestured with a currant bun. “No woman would pass up someone like the baron for spinsterhood. And why would you want to worry about all that when a husband takes care of it for you?”
“To become devoted to the idle graces? Married to a nobleman, my days would consist of visits to the dressmaker, carding, and formal visits. Unlike my grandmother who lived a useful life and managed my grandfather’s estate after he died. Why, today, noblemen even have a means to prevent women bearing children once they have their heir and a spare.”
Fanny’s eyes widened. “My goodness, Hetty. You put me to the blush. Where do you learn of such things?”
“On a hot night in India, after a long-drawn-out dinner, and much wine, many topics were discussed by the guests, and I admit I eavesdropped.” Hetty laughed. “I learned far more from listening to the women in the drawing room after they’d left the men to their port.”
Fanny giggled. “How fascinating. You must tell me more. But your poetry won’t warm you at night, Hetty. And I’m sure the baron would.”
“He might be half-English, but not all the villagers will put out the welcome mat for him.” She sounded like a meanspirited old spinster. What was wrong with her?
“He’s an English nobleman by birth. And Mama has learned on good authority that, although his father’s French properties were seized during the Revolution, he continues to be wealthy.”
“Then he will be of great benefit to the district,” Hetty said grudgingly.
“Oh my, you are like a bear with a sore head today. What has happened?” Fanny didn’t wait for a reply before rushing on. “What are you wearing tonight? I have the most exquisite new gown. It has been made especially for my come-out, but Mama told me to wear it.”
“Father wants me to wear the bronze with the figured lace.”
“What? That old thing? Buttoned up to your chin? Finish your tea and let’s go up to your chamber. You must have something better.”
“If I had something better, I would wear it.” Hetty wished her father’s economizing didn’t extend to her wardrobe.
Fanny put down her napkin and rose, brushing her skirts. “We have hours to spare. Come, let’s see.”
In the bedchamber, Fanny pulled out all Hetty’s dresses and threw them on the bed. None were particularly alluring. There hadn’t been much call for glamour in this quiet place, but Hetty had a sudden urge for it.
“All right, it’s the russet silk,” Fanny said with a moue of distaste. “We might lower the neckline. Do you have any spare lace?”
“I do as it happens. It came from India. I’ll fetch my sewing box.”
Several hours later, Hetty tried the gown on again. Fanny had cut the neckline into a deep scoop and edged it with a border of fine old lace that Hetty had been keeping for a special occasion. What better occasion than now? There was enough lace left to embellish the hem, shortened to give a glimpse of the ankle. Fanny was an enthusiastic seamstress but had little chance to enjoy it, for her mother had all her gowns made.
Hetty gave her a hug. “You are the best of friends, Fanny.” She gazed in the mirror, and her hand fluttered over her chest. “But it is barely decent. Perhaps I should add a fichu.”
Fanny gasped. “You know they aren’t worn any more, especially in the evening. Why, Mrs. Braithwaite at the lending library might wear one, but she’s in her dotage and might have need of it. Someone young, like you, does not.” She took the scissors and cut a thread. “The neckline is perfect. You have lovely skin, Hetty. And the gown is quite modest, really.”
That evening, Hetty took an unconscionable amount of time with her appearance, and when she came downstairs, her father remarked on how well she looked.
“That gown complements your fine brown eyes, my dear. I don’t remember it being so…” He waved a hand across his chest. “Perhaps a shawl? We wouldn’t want you to catch a chill. Those curls frame your face so becomingly. I’m pleased you took my advice.”
More ringlets clustered about Hetty’s ears than she cared for, preferring smooth braids. Aware that Fanny would hate it, she had added a little black net to cover the crown of her head, like a dowager in mourning, in the faint hope it might disguise more of her appearance. The low neckline of the gown afforded her figure some womanly curves, and she trusted she now bore no resemblance whatsoever to the groom Lord Fortescue spent the night with. She bit her bottom lip in dismay. What a reckless fool she’d been! If their night together was discovered, the ramifications would spread far wider than she’d envisaged. But surely the baron would be too distracted by Fanny’s loveliness to notice her.
The carriage passed through the gates at Kemble Court and approached the three-story, symmetrical building of stucco brick. It pulled up in front of the porch flanked by two pillars.
The property was situated farther from the town than Malforth Manor and enjoyed a much larger park. However, it paled into insignificance beside the magnificent Rosecroft Hall. Lady Kemble had mentioned on more than one occasion that, although smaller, her property was far better laid out, with very little wasted space. Hetty thought her a fearful snob and considered it fortunate that her attitude had failed to rub off on Fanny.
A footman assisted Hetty down from the carriage. She eased her tight shoulders, sure that an awkward and disconcerting evening awaited her.
She entered the hall on her father’s arm where a maid took her evening mantle and her father’s coat.
Lord Kemble now deceased, had gained his knighthood for his service in the navy. His widow stood waiting in the entry hall, eager to present her special guest.
“So rarely are we honored with a visitor of this stature to our community,” she gushed. “And to think that he plans to remain among us.”
Lord Fortescue stood beside her, handsome in beautifully tailored dark evening clothes, his linens white against his olive skin. “And such a prepossessing personage,” Lady Kemble added with a flirtatious glance in his direction. She introduced Hetty’s father to the baron. Then Lady Kemble’s glance alighted on her, and her features took on a disgruntled expression. “Miss Horatia Cavendish.”
Hetty forced her knees into a curtsy after taking note of the small bruise on his forehead and the cut which had almost healed.
“My pleasure, Miss Cavendish.” He bowed. His gaze flickered over her from her hair to her chest and back to her eyes. She had not forgotten those blue eyes. She searched them for a sign he recognized her but saw nothing beyond politeness.
He moved on to greet Mr. and Mrs. Shelton, who had arrived after them. Hetty might have been an aged dowager for all the interest he showed in her. Perhaps it was that cursed bit of net. After the first studied glance, he’d looked right through her. And he a practiced rake! She fumed, ignoring the fact she should be relieved. Her breasts suddenly seemed pale and exposed, and she pulled her shawl closer.
Hetty entered the salon on her father’s arm. Beside the fireplace, her godfather, Eustace, held court, and her father went to greet him.
Apparently, Lady Kemble had cast her net wide, bringing suitable personages from the surrounding towns. Some twenty guests milled about in the long room and several had brought their daughters. The three young ladies watched Lord Fortescue in frank admiration.
Eustace left her father and came to kiss her hand. She noticed his limp. “My dear, you are the belle of the ball this evening.”
“You flatter me, Eustace. I hardly compare with some beautifully gowned ladies here tonight,” Hetty countered with a brief smile. “Is your gout bothering you very much?”
“It has been troublesome, my dear. Thank you for noticing.”
“I’m so sorry. Have you tried that remedy the apothecary suggested?”
“I try everything, but little seems to help, save laudanum.”
“Are you pleased to have your relative returned?” Hetty was surprised he had not mentioned the possibility of an heir when he’d come to dinner last.
He smiled. “But of course. Handsome is he not?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
Curious as to what Eustace might make of him, she said, “Do you think him a good man?”
His brows rose. “Good? I pray it is so. He has been unable to supply me with proof that he is Baron Fortescue.”
“But surely, he’s the baron.” Hetty had never doubted it herself. He knew the Fortescue history and could describe the estate as if he’d lived there.
“He might have been a servant of the baron’s,” Eustace said with a frown. “After all, this time, I require evidence as does the Committee of Privileges.”
Hetty eyed Lord Fortescue doubtfully as he moved gracefully through the room. He looked every inch the aristocrat. “Could a servant be so at ease in society?”
“There are upstarts everywhere, my dear.”
“But the family likeness…”
Eustace shrugged. “His father’s hair was brown. Not coal-black.”
“But his mother was French,” Hetty said. “What about his eyes? Are they not unusual?”
“The family does produce blue-eyed children, but they are common enough.”
Hetty didn’t find the color of his eyes at all common. “He would most likely tell you more about his family should you ask him.”
Eustace raised his ginger eyebrows. “I’m surprised that you defend him on such short acquaintance. I cannot afford to be so trusting.”
Hetty gave a start. “I heard he has a sister who lives in Paris.”
“Oh? And where did you hear that?”
“He told Fanny, or her mother.” Hetty blushed at the lie.
“I have written to the Duchess Châteaudunn who will be able to confirm or deny he is who he says he is.” Eustace gave a sad smile. “Poor girl, this whole business has concerned you more than it ought to. You are wasted stuck away here in the countryside. Your father must be persuaded to let you go to London.”
“He refuses to consider it.”
“He doesn’t trust your aunt’s ability to care for you, believes her to be a bit of a flibbertigibbet. Too wrapped up in her literary society. But I shall also be in London. Perhaps that might sway his opinion?”
Hetty doubted it. It would be wonderful to stay with her aunt, especially while Eustace was there, but her father had been adamant, and she saw no reason why he would change his mind. She snuffed out the faint hope before it burst into flames. Watching her godfather greet guests, she marveled at how he put others at ease. Even Sophie, the doctor’s shy daughter, blossomed under his attention.
The guests laughed and chatted, more than was usual. Lady Kemble had been right, the village of Digswell had never seen Lord Fortescue’s like, at least not since his father had lived here, and few could remember those scandalous times. At twenty-two, Hetty certainly didn’t.
The baron moved among the guests, bowing gracefully, and, after a brief conversation, left spellbound expressions behind him. He approached the small group where her father stood chatting. She held her breath, fearful that he intended to mention Simon to her father. If she could speak to the baron, she might find a way to prevent it.
Fanny rushed up to her, dainty in a gown of jonquil satin with an overdress of spider-gauze, her blonde ringlets bouncing. “How lovely you look, Hetty.” She peered and frowned. “But what’s that thing on your head?”
“Net. You’re like an angel, Fanny. That gown is perfect for you.”
“Mama had it made by a dressmaker in London,” Fanny said, hitching a glove up her arm.
Hetty smiled fondly at Fanny, then her gaze swept the room, searching for an opportunity to speak to the baron alone.
Lady Kemble sailed toward them like one of Nelson’s frigates, on which her husband had once served. She gave her daughter some unspoken direction with a lift of her eyebrows and a jerk of her head.
“It appears your mother wants you to mingle,” Hetty said. “We must compare notes later.”
Fanny grinned and moved away.
The chatter around the room centered on Lord Fortescue’s encounter with the highwaymen. Digswell in Hertfordshire was some twenty-two miles from London. It lacked a toll road, the closest being at Ayot Green, and nothing so dangerous had happened within the environs for some years. It was as though his lordship brought trouble with him, riding into their midst wreaking havoc, especially for her. She appeared to be of no special interest to him, but an appeal to his better nature might work. Apart from his rakish ways, he’d shown himself to be trustworthy.
“Have you summoned the magistrate?” Lady Kemble asked Lord Fortescue with an exaggerated shiver. “And given him a good description of the rascals?”
“But of course. I expect they will be miles away from here by now.” He glanced at Hetty, and a tiny frown puckered his brow.
Hetty lowered her eyes and busied herself with smoothing her gloves. When she looked up again, his gaze still rested on her. Was that a speculative look in his eye? She could not allow the conversation she’d intended having to take place in her father’s presence. As soon as a waiter approached with a tray of champagne flutes, she backed against the wall and dropped her fan into an urn.
“Oh dear,” she said to her father. “I must have dropped my fan as we came in, and it is close in here with all the candles lit. Shall I go and see?”
“No, my dear,” her father said. “I’ll tell a servant to find it.”
As he moved toward the door, someone claimed Lady Kemble’s attention. Hetty seized her moment and stepped closer to the baron. “My lord, I’m sorry to see you have suffered an injury. As it occurred a few miles from our home, I am anxious to learn more of your dangerous encounter.”
A dark brow peaked above his amused eyes. “Enchanté, Miss Cavendish, although it has been blown out of all proportion, I assure you.”
He offered his arm, and they strolled away from the throng. Everyone watched them, and no doubt thought her extremely forward when they walked out of earshot to the far end of the long salon.
Hetty said, “I have a favor to ask of you, my lord.”
“A favor?” He smiled. “When so charming a lady asks such a thing of me, how can I refuse?”
Hetty frowned. So, he switched the charm on and off when required? “Please do not mention your acquaintance with our groom, Simon, to my father. Papa was away from home that night, and I am the only one who knows Simon rode his horse.” She searched his face for a sign he might have discovered her ruse. If he had, he hid it well.
“I see.” A gleam brightened his eyes. “We shall share your secret, no?”
“If you wish to put it like that,” she said, growing cross.
“You obviously have a close friendship with your groom, Miss Cavendish.”
“No, I… He has been with us for some time and does confide in me, yes.”
“You find him attractive, your groom?” He lifted that black eyebrow again. So imperious.
“I hadn’t noticed.” Annoyed, Hetty wished she had her fan to use as some kind of barrier to hide from his astute gaze.
He moved closer and dropped his voice. “You share this secret with your groom?” He made a tsk noise with his tongue and shook his head.
Caught by the shape of his mouth, she raised her head to find laughter in his eyes. She firmed her lips. He was toying with her. “I dislike the implication, my lord.” Frustrated, and unsure where she stood, Hetty adopted her most effective stony expression.
“Why don’t you order him to stop?” he asked, refusing to be deterred. “I’m sure Simon is eager to please his delightful mistress.”
If he hadn’t recognized her, he was flirting shamelessly, and no doubt would do the same with every woman in the room under forty. The French were known to be terrible flirts. She’d preferred his lordship when he believed her to be a man. “Simon is a very capable groom. Surely you would not wish him to be discharged for helping you?”
He held up his hands, palms toward her. “Trust that I will say nothing.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Relieved the matter was now well in hand, she turned and walked back with him to the guests clustered closer to the fire.
“My lord, ladies, and gentleman, dinner is served,” Lady Kemble’s long-faced butler announced in a grave voice. One might suspect a tribunal awaited them instead of a meal.
Lady Kemble tucked her hand through Lord Fortescue’s arm while managing to send a scowl in Hetty’s direction. “Mr. Oakley is to escort you, Miss Cavendish.”
When Frederick Oakley, a rejected suitor of Hetty’s, offered his arm, it caused an embarrassing moment to pass between them. He managed a faint smile that spoke of deep regret, and they proceeded at a stately pace through the doorway. Once seated at the long dining table, Hetty found herself between Mr. Oakley and the vicar, at some distance from the baron who sat at Lady Kemble’s right. Eustace sat on her ladyship’s left with her father across the table next to an attractive widow in a gown of deep violet silk. Mrs. Illingworth had just emerged from her period of mourning.
While Mr. Oakley paused to draw breath during his account of the abundance of vegetables produced by his new hot house, Hetty picked up her glass and sipped the light, fruity wine. Her conversation with Lord Fortescue had not turned out as she hoped. His flippant attitude failed to reassure her. She remained on tenterhooks. She drew her lower lip between her teeth. Well, you wished for excitement and now you’ve got it.
The footman served the soup, which was followed by halibut in cream sauce and a variety of vegetables. Hetty tucked in, finding her appetite unimpaired when the delicate, buttery aromas reminded her of how little she’d eaten all day.
The vicar talked of the weather, the babies christened in the last month, and last Sunday’s sermon, where he’d discussed dealing with disappointments. Then, to Hetty’s relief, having been in attendance last Sunday and suffered through it, he turned his attention to dissecting the fish. From the other end of the table, Lady Kemble begged Lord Fortescue to describe his ordeal once again in more detail.
That the baron didn’t wish to discuss it was clear to Hetty despite everyone leaning forward eagerly to better hear him.
“There’s very little to tell,” he said almost apologetically. “I do not wish to scare the ladies. The worst thing to happen was that I rode into the branch of a tree and lost my seat.” He laughed and put his hand to his forehead. “Then after almost losing my head, I lost my horse.”
Hetty noted he withheld his suspicion that they were not highwaymen. His gaze sought hers, as if to conspire with her, and she almost choked on a mouthful of fish.
“And did you find your horse again?” asked the vicar who preferred all the threads of a story tied up.
“Fortunately, the animal had more sense than me. It turned up at Rosecroft Hall before I did.”
At his words, a concerned murmur went around the table but faded as the third course–a dressed goose, roast beef, and a loin of pork–were brought in. The baron’s gaze sought Hetty’s again, and his eyes twinkled wickedly. We have a secret, he seemed to say. Did he know? She shivered, and her knife slipped from her nerveless fingers.
The conversation turned to other matters. Hetty motioned to the footman to pour her another glass of wine and earned a disapproving glance from the matron across the table. As she sipped her second glass, warmth spread through her limbs along with a much-needed boost of confidence. If he intended to torture her, he was succeeding. She clung to the hope that her imagination had got the better of her. He could not possibly have recognized her. She would emerge from this escapade unscathed.
After everyone rose from the table and returned to the salon, Lady Kemble made an announcement. “In honor of the Prince Regent, who some months ago introduced a new dance into society, the musicians are to play a Viennese waltz. All those who feel brave enough to attempt the dance are invited to participate. But I warn you, those in poor health should watch!”
With a murmur of delight, they filed into the ballroom where the local members of a string quartet tuned their instruments.
Hetty was immediately claimed by twenty-year-old, Henry Farr, whom she considered barely out of short trousers. Lord Fortescue escorted Miss Emma Broadhurst, the vicar’s daughter onto the floor, and they formed part of the set for the country dance. The wine had banished Hetty’s nerves. She met the baron’s eyes over Emily’s head as they moved toward the end of the line, and she flirted with Henry as the dance progressed. At first surprised by this unforeseen event, Henry needed little encouragement. By the time the dance was completed, he had become a clown, turning the wrong way on purpose, and making everyone laugh.
Henry returned Hetty to her chair and seemed inclined to remain by her side. Hetty batted her eyelashes at him as he hovered over her. “Could you see if they’ve found my fan, please, Henry?” She smiled sweetly at him. “It is so dreadfully hot.”
Henry hurried from the room. Almost as soon as he disappeared out the door, a waltz was struck up. Lord Fortescue appeared at her side, beating Frederick Oakley, who approached her with the same intention, by a whisker.
Lord Fortescue bowed. “May I have the pleasure of this dance, Miss Cavendish?”
Hetty baulked at the thought. When news of the waltz had first reached them, lessons had been held at the assembly rooms in St Albans. Despite Henry partnering her and treading heavily on her toes, she’d enjoyed the dance but felt far from confident that she’d mastered it with any degree of grace. Manners dictated she must accept, although she feared it was the baron’s intention to further torment her about Simon. She murmured a polite response and accompanied him onto the floor. There would be no doubt in his mind when he got this closer look at her. She almost welcomed it, for she wished to bring the whole charade to an end.
“This is a dance with which I’m familiar,” he said, drawing her into his arms. “We danced it in Paris long before it came to England.”
She supposed he considered England far behind Paris in most things fashionable. His arms tightened as he swung her into the dance. Her breath caught. “We do not dance this close in England, my lord.”
He eased back in feigned surprise and left a space between them. “Merci. I did not know. You have saved me from making a faux pas.”
She suspected he knew quite well, for the devilry in his eyes betrayed him. “You might learn by observing others, my lord,” she admonished him.
At least now she could breathe. But this was so different to the night they’d spent together in the hut when her disguise had protected her. Did he find her attractive? She had no idea if his charm was merely part of his personality. It shouldn’t matter, for he would choose a bride from the aristocracy, but somehow it did. His hand at her waist, guiding her, made her recall his indecent revelations of lovemaking. Her breath quickened at the thought of such an act perpetrated by him on a woman, or even possibly her. His proximity and the strength and pure maleness of him almost overwhelmed her. She breathed in the familiar woody Bergamot scent, intermingled with starched linens, and closed her eyes, but that made her dizzy. After examining his masterfully tied cravat adorned with a sapphire pin the color of his eyes, she raised her eyes to his. “I have not seen a cravat tied in that way before. Does it have a name?”
He smiled down at her. “The Trone d’Armour.” The style hailed from France most likely. He was different to the English in other ways, too, which made him all the more intriguing.
He reversed her expertly, and as she gained confidence in his arms, she began to enjoy the dance.
She tried not to respond to his charm but when he smiled she had to smile back. She cautioned herself. Was he the real Baron Fortescue or an impostor? His familiarity with the Fortescue family seemed authentic. He’d talked so lovingly about them.
While she counted the steps, he spun her over the floor. Gasping, she fixed her gaze on the cleft in his chin. His full under lip might be a sign of a generous nature. A passionate one? Annoyed, she sought to silence her thoughts. “Is there a chance Napoleon might escape from St Helena?”
His mouth twitched up at one corner. Did he find her naïve? Amusing? He shook his head. “Bonaparte is a beaten man. The world will not see him, or indeed, his like, again.”
Were they his true feelings for the French general? He must care deeply for the country of his birth. Despite his inheritance, could England ever mean as much to him?
“You dance divinely, Miss Cavendish.” His hand at her waist tightened. “I am not making you breathless?”
It was not the exercise that made her gasp. “I’m hardly in my dotage, sir.” She looked down to the swell of her bosom, pale in the candlelight. Her chest gave her feelings away, rising and falling as if she’d run a mile.
“I should never have known.” He chuckled. “Why, you must be well past twenty. If I can be allowed to guess.”
“You are not allowed, my lord. I’m shocked you would mention it.” She wished she could whip the offending bit of net off her hair.
“I do apologize; I seem to have an aptitude for annoying you.”
“Not at all.”
It was his graceful moves that made her dance so well. They spun around and around. Her head, already a trifle woozy from the wine, spun a little. Their bodies were close again, too close for propriety’s sake and her peace of mind. There was nothing she could do about it, so she gave herself up to the sensation. She lifted her gaze to his and found his expression had become earnest.
“If you permit, I shall call on you and your father.” He paused as they reversed. “I desire to see Simon again. To thank him,” he added, sotto voce. “I worry he may get into difficulty on my account.”
Hetty’s heart sank to her dancing slippers. At this precise moment, she had no idea how to deal with such a request. To refuse him would be considered bad mannered, and in his arms, the urge to fight him deserted her. Her wits lost, she scrambled for some excuse. “Simon is a modest fellow. I doubt he would wish you to pursue this further. You will embarrass him.”
“Tiens! That is not my intention.” He sought her gaze and held it. “I promise to take care. I shall call on Monday at two o’clock.”
“Of course,” Hetty said in a high voice, her mind blank with horror.
The dance ended, and he escorted her from the floor. “Would you care for a refreshment?” he asked. “Dancing does make one warm.”
She settled herself into a chair aware her cheeks must be pink from the exercise. “Thank you, my lord.”
“I see you do not have your fan.”
Suspicious, she slanted a glance at him and caught his sympathetic smile. Somehow, she didn’t trust it. Hot and extremely bothered, she determined to rescue her fan at the first opportunity.
He signaled to a waiter and returned with a glass of Madeira. “I see the musicians are threatening to play again.” His eyes danced with amusement, and she wondered if he found them all terribly parochial. “If you’ll excuse me, I must ask another lady to dance.”
He bowed before Fanny. She curtsied and blushed prettily as he led her onto the floor as squares formed for the quadrille. What a handsome couple they made, but she wished Fanny would not giggle so.
With a quick glance around for rivals, Mr. Oakley hurried over. She suppressed a sigh as she rose to take his arm. His eyes, filled with hope, met hers as the dance commenced.
As soon as the dance ended, Hetty excused herself and slipped from the room. The salon was deserted. She plunged her hand into the urn and straightened with the fan in her hand.
A deep voice came from the doorway. “Ah, you have found it.”
She spun around. “Why yes, it must have fallen into this vase.”
“How extraordinary you thought to look there.” The baron leaned against the doorframe.
“Yes, wasn’t it?” She snapped it open and glared at him from over the top.
He gave a benign smile and offered her his arm. “Shall we join the others in the ballroom?”
With a stiff nod, Hetty accepted. He stepped beside her, and she rested her hand on his sleeve, aware of the sensual slide of fine cloth under her gloved fingers. Her skirts rustled against his leg as they walked down the long passage with the beeswax candles burning in their sconces scenting the air.
“Do you know, Miss Cavendish, I found your groom most remarkable.”
Hetty swallowed and wished she could go home. “You did?”
“The way he cares for animals, particularly.”
“Yes, he has a gift with them,” she added, warming to her subject. Simon was a master with horses after all.
“I’ve heard it said that Englishmen love their horses more than their women.”
“Indeed?” She removed her hand. “You should not believe all you hear, my lord. Why, I’ve heard it said, that the French are overdressed flirts? Most unfair I feel sure.” She offered a regretful smile.
A grin turned up the corners of his mouth and sparked in his eyes. “Most unfair. But as I require staff for the Hall, I must warn you, I may try to steal Simon from you.”
So that was what this was about. She must stop them from meeting. “Simon will never agree. He is very loyal. I would advise you not to bother.”
He smiled with an apologetic shrug. “At least I have been honest.”
“Honesty does not necessarily guarantee good manners, my lord.” They had reached the ballroom. Relieved, she saw her father approaching. “Ah, here is Father. It must be time to leave.”
Her father thanked their hostess and excused himself to organize the carriage.
“I advise you to accept Mr. Oakley’s offer, my dear.” Lady Kemble pinched her lips. “He is more than acceptable, and your unfashionable height will bring few opportunities your way.”
“Thank you for your advice, Lady Kemble.” Hetty tried to ignore the sting of her words. “’Tis of no consequence, as I never intend to marry.”
Lady Kemble’s titter died away when the baron approached.
“How can you be sure of that, Miss Cavendish?” he asked. “You might meet your perfect match.”
“It is my wish to pursue literary endeavors like my aunt.” She now not only looked like a spinster, she sounded like one. It was his fault. His amused gaze unsettled her. It was unfair, one didn’t insult a baron, and it would be all around Digswell tomorrow. “Aunt Emily has a remarkable circle of friends and acquaintances in London.”
“A remarkable endeavor.”
She curtsied. Did he find her foolish or worse, dull?
He bowed before returning to speak to his hostess.
Some hours later, when Hetty had settled in bed, her uneasy thoughts refused to allow her to sleep. She stared into the dark, recalling her conversation with the baron and their dance. It appeared he hadn’t recognized her, and this unfortunate business would be at an end once she’d dealt with his wish to meet Simon, and a plan emerged. She would send Simon away on an errand. Then she would don the groom’s attire and waylay Lord Fortescue before he arrived at the house. Her disguise would be safe in the shadowy stables. Once she’d assured him that he need not pursue the matter and refused any offer of employment he might make her, she could whip up the back stairs and slip into a morning gown. A lace cap would hide her hair. Convinced she could make it work she yawned, and closed her eyes, drifting off.