A Crime of Manners (15 page)

Henrietta’s mind sped her directly back to the duke’s arms. The memory of his lips pressed to hers was pure and clear and made her shiver with an urgent need to repeat the experience.

Unbidden, Winterton’s humiliating apology sounded in her brain, and her eyes closed in anguish. How could he express remorse at what had been, for her, a beautiful token of love?

Henrietta’s eyes snapped open as the truth struck her like a hammerblow. She loved the Duke of Winterton!

Hard on the heels of this discovery came the crushing conviction he did not love her. Was he not all but betrothed to Lady Clorinda? Confusion caused a crease in her brow. Why had the duke kissed her if he was to marry Clorinda?

As she lay in the darkness, Henrietta felt achy and exhausted. How was she to bear the long remainder of the London Season? Could she not simply cut her parents’ losses and go home to Hamilton Cross?

Settling onto her side, she realized the futility of running back to her parents. She must marry, and she was more likely to find a husband she could tolerate here in London. Not that it mattered whom she married when she could only love the duke.

Before sleep overtook her, a vision of a plain but kindly gentleman presented itself. One who would treat her considerately, not lecture her like a brother and then maddeningly kiss her like a lover.

* * * *

Lady Fuddlesby’s pink skirts rustled as she opened the door to her bedchamber. She had been downstairs supervising the returning servants while they secured the broken window in the drawing room. Satisfied the house was prepared for the night, Lady Fuddlesby sought her bed.

“There you are, my darling boy!” she exclaimed, observing Knight.

In the manner of one completely exhausted, the cat sprawled out on his back across the bed’s pink coverlet. He opened one green eye in his black mask and looked at her.

“I am so proud of my precious, dearest Knight!” she reached out a hand to rub his oversized belly affectionately. “It is a good thing Henrietta and I smuggled you home some ham earlier today so your strength was up to fight that awful man.”

Giving the cat a last scratch behind his ears, Lady Fuddlesby moved away to sit at her toilet table. Deep in thought, she began removing her earbobs as the cat on the bed lazily licked a spot on his shoulder.

“I hold myself responsible for what happened tonight, you know.” Lady Fuddlesby’s voice was low, and Knight ceased his ministrations to look at his mistress in surprise. “Now that Henrietta is with me, I stand in the place of her parents. It is my responsibility to see no harm comes to her. And only see how I have failed in my duty!” Tears gently fell down her ladyship’s plump cheeks.

Knight crossed the room and jumped in her lap. He raised a tentative paw to her face, his whiskers twitching with concern.

Lady Fuddlesby’s tears lessened and she hugged her pet close. A final pat seemed to reassure Knight she had control of herself. He left her lap to watch her from the floor.

Her ladyship sat with her fingers pressed to her temples, pondering the problem of her niece’s Season. Events were not progressing quite as she would want. The Duke of Winterton and Henrietta were not betrothed, and if the duke was foolish enough to make Clorinda his duchess, Henrietta would have to settle for someone else. The girl needed an event that would show her in a good light. One where she might be the center of the admiring attention of many gentlemen.

At last Lady Fuddlesby clapped her hands together and said, “I know the very thing, Knight. We shall give a ball in Henrietta’s honor! The poor dear looked moped to death tonight, and who could blame her? She needs something to look forward to, and every miss making her come-out should have her own ball.”

Knight’s tail twitched, as though he understood. The cat hated having groups of people in the house, not taking well to strangers. He was fond of Henrietta, and was grudgingly tolerant of Colonel Colchester now that the gentleman paid him homage with gastronomic treats. But crowds, even when they included his favorite people, were sure to aggravate him.

Oblivious to the cat’s soon-to-be displeasure, Lady Fuddlesby continued planning. “We shall have masses of hothouse flowers, in pink perhaps, and an orchestra and champagne and lobster patties....”

Green eyes brightened at the word “lobster.”

Lady Fuddlesby’s chatter stopped, and she sat with a suddenly troubled expression. “There is only one problem. I dare not ask the tradesmen for the large amount of credit I will need to do things properly. They have not pressed me before, but I cannot place myself in the position of being dunned.”

She began removing the rest of her jewelry, and the difficulty perplexed her. Then she looked down at the pink tourmaline ring she was putting away in a small velvet box.

“Of course! I shall agree to sell this ring to Lord Mawbly. He offered to pay me whatever sum I named.” A mental image of the odious Lady Mawbly wearing the ring caused Lady Fuddlesby to purse her lips. “I cannot like it, but it is the only thing that will answer. Henrietta must have her ball.”

Lady Fuddlesby gazed at the ring fondly, not really seeing it, but instead seeing the Viscount Fuddlesby when he had given it to her all those years ago. Her eyes misted at the memory.

Then another memory intruded. That of her old friend Lady Lushington. The lady and her husband had left England for the continent long ago. Lord Lushington had a penchant for drinking and gaming, and his combination of the two had resulted in their reaching point non plus. Lady Fuddlesby remembered how, before the couple were forced to

flee their creditors, Lord Lushington had often sold his wife’s jewels, providing her with paste copies so she might still hold her head up amongst the ton.

Lady Fuddlesby thought she would enjoy having a paste copy of the pink tourmaline ring. Not to wear in company. Merely to keep and bring out on occasion to remind her of her husband’s kindness.

But how did one go about these things? Surely she would be too embarrassed to make such a request of Rundell and Bridge, even if they did that sort of work, which she was not at all sure they did. Weren’t these things handled by disreputable, smarmy sorts?

Lady Fuddlesby’s imagination conjured a picture of an odious, greasy man behind a counter in a dingy establishment. He was probably French.

Her ladyship’s eyes opened wide. French! Felice! Felice would know how to go about having a paste copy made. Tomorrow she would charge the maid with the task. It was the least the woman could do after sleeping through the attack on Henrietta!

A scratch on the door signaled the arrival of a housemaid to help her ladyship into her nightdress. The girl made up the fire before leaving with instructions for Felice to present herself in her mistress’s bedchamber the very moment her ladyship rang in the morning.

Lady Fuddlesby went to bed satisfied with her scheme.

With a cavernous yawn, Knight joined her, drifting off to sleep immediately to dream of lobster patties.

* * * *

The next morning when the plan was put to her, a guilt-ridden Felice was only too happy to comply with her ladyship’s request. She knew the very man who could do the work and would go to him without delay.

Lady Fuddlesby decided not to tell Henrietta her plans for the ball until after she had secured the paste ring, sold the genuine to Lord Mawbly, and received the money.

She almost changed her mind when she entered the small dining room for breakfast and saw a downcast Henrietta absently crumbling a piece of toast in her hand while staring out the window.

“Good morning, my dear,” Lady Fuddlesby began cheerfully. “It looks perfectly lovely outside, does it not?”

Henrietta straightened in her chair and brushed the crumbs from her fingers over her plate. “Yes, my lady. I was just thinking that if I were in the country, I would go for a long walk.”

Just the thing to encourage her to brood, thought Lady Fuddlesby. “Thank goodness London provides us with better amusements! You must change your gown and come with me this afternoon. Last night at the opera I told Lady Chatterton we would call on her today.”

Henrietta sighed but made no comment, and her aunt talked lightly of what gown she should choose, the latest
on dits
, and what she and the colonel had partaken of at Grillons.

That afternoon the warm breeze ruffled the skirts of Henrietta’s soft yellow muslin gown when she stepped out of the carriage in front of Lady Chatterton’s house in Curzon Street. She and her aunt, who was clad in a vibrant pink, were ushered into the gloomy drawing room by an ancient butler.

Sitting amongst the dark, massive furniture was tiny Lady Chatterton. Dressed in a gown of burnt orange, she clashed violently with the heavy deep

purple draperies drawn against the sunlight. The effect of these colors against Lady Chatterton’s corpselike skin was most alarming, but Henrietta noted her aunt seemed to find nothing amiss.

“Nelda, how are you today, dear? Is it not glorious outside?” Lady Fuddlesby asked blithely in spite of her hostess’s obvious aversion to sunny weather. “You know my dear niece Henrietta, of course.”

Lady Chatterton, who had witnessed her friend’s charge’s unbecoming behavior at the Denbys’ ball and Almack’s, but liked the girl nonetheless, greeted Henrietta warmly.

Turning back to Lady Fuddlesby, Lady Chatter-ton spoke in her rapid whispery voice, “Clara, I have a surprise for you. My nephew is here from the country. May I present Mr. Edmund Shire? Edmund, this is Lady Fuddlesby and her niece, Miss Lanford.”

Henrietta observed the large man with the kind face bowing before them. He was tall and barrel-chested with a long Roman nose. He wore an olive-green coat, which looked more serviceable than fashionable, over dun-colored breeches. His hair was a nondescript brown and cut shorter than the current fashion.

The company sat around the tea tray and Lady Chatterton poured.

“I say, Miss Lanford,” Mr. Shire said with interest, “you wouldn’t happen to be related to Squire Lanford of Hamilton Cross, would you?”

“Why, yes, sir, he is my father,” Henrietta answered, accepting a cup from Lady Chatterton.

“By George!” Mr. Shire responded, striking his knee with the palm of his hand and letting out a loud guffaw. “Your papa breeds the best Thoroughbreds in all England! I had the pleasure of visiting his stables once. Found myself amazed at the gentleman’s knowledge of horses, a subject dear to my own heart.”

Henrietta smiled at Mr. Shire’s unchecked enthusiasms. “He would be happy to hear such compliments, sir, having devoted his life’s work to perfecting the racehorse.”

Mr. Shire looked over Henrietta’s becoming appearance with obvious approval and beamed. He seemed much struck. “I say, Miss Lanford, I’d be vastly pleased to take you up behind my matched grays. Not the type of horseflesh you’re used to, I fear, but a deuced fine team.”

Henrietta’s mind flashed a picture of a fine pair of gray eyes, but she quickly banished the vision.

With a torrent of words, Lady Chatterton jumped into this break in the conversation, saying proudly, “My nephew is a fine driver, Miss Lanford. You will not have to be afraid of overturning with him holding the ribbons. Why, if Edmund had a mind to, he could cut a dash in the Four in Hand Club! But he spends all his time finding ways to improve his lands.”

“Is that so, Mr. Shire?” Henrietta asked with what she hoped was an appropriate show of interest.

Mr. Shire’s complexion turned an uncomplementary shade of red. Clearing his throat, he said, “A man must know what’s important in life, and keeping one’s land in good heart is of primary concern to me. Can’t abide these Town bucks spending their days in pursuit of one pleasure after another.”

Lady Fuddlesby thought the easy-natured Mr. Shire was just what her niece needed at the moment to bring her out of the doldrums. Lady Chatterton had quickly whispered an aside that her nephew had torn himself away from his estate in order to find a wife.

Unmoved from her determination to have the Duke of Winterton as a husband for her niece, Lady Fuddlesby reasoned it would do the duke no harm to see Henrietta on the arm of another. And if the duke did prove impossible, Mr. Shire was a country gentleman and rich. “Henrietta, I am persuaded some fresh air would be beneficial to you. Do accept Mr. Shire’s kind offer. Lady Chatterton and I will wait here for you while you take a turn around the park.”

Henrietta stole a glance at the clock on the mantel. She saw it was well before the fashionable hour and was gratified. Encountering the Duke of Winterton would be unlikely.

Then guilt at these wayward thoughts made her smile brightly at Mr. Shire. “I should like it above all things, sir.”

Throughout the ride in the park, Mr. Shire proved himself to be considerate and undemanding company. Never did he treat her to an excess of civility or flowery compliments as Lord Baddick had. Nor was his manner puffed up with his own consequence as the duke’s was. He was a levelheaded man; trickery or arrogance seemed foreign to his nature. Henrietta judged him an altogether suitable gentleman. She told herself he was not boring. It was only her persistent, unfair comparison of him to the Duke of Winterton that made him seem so.

When Mr. Shire returned her to Lady Fuddlesby and asked if he might call on her the next day, Henrietta smiled her acceptance with a determined cheerfulness.

Throughout the following days, Mr. Shire could frequently be seen at Lady Fuddlesby’s town house in Grosvenor Square. He escorted the ladies to the playhouse, where he sat uncomfortably out of place while Henrietta watched the actors with enraptured concentration.

As the weather was sunny and warm, Mr. Shire took Henrietta for drives in his open carriage and for ices at Gunter’s, where he sat awkwardly in his chair trying to enjoy the frivolous confection.

In between these outings, Henrietta would often curl up in the window seat of the morning room with an improving book. No more novels for her.

Even so, her mind would frequently drift off to memories of the Duke of Winterton’s never-to-be-forgotten kiss. Her eyes closed, and once again she could feel the touch of his lips on hers. The strength of his strong shoulders underneath her hands. The clean, masculine smell of him.