Autumn Glory and Other Stories (14 page)

“No, I’ve never met the man.”

“I’m surprised. I’d heard he’d gone to Paris for the peace talks with the rest of his fast set. I assumed you’d encountered Fredenham there.”

“I was a tad too busy for much socializing, even before my leg became reinfected. But do you know his direction?”

“He had rooms at the Albany, I am quite sure, but he gave them up when he went abroad. And didn’t pay his rent there, either, I’d wager. I think I heard he left Paris with some foreigners, most likely hoping to make a match with a female who hadn’t heard of his debts. If he returns now that all the celebrations and all the marriageable misses have moved here, you cannot want me to invite such a mushroom, Arthur, can you?”

“Assuredly not. We wouldn’t want such scurvy scum sniffing around Elizabeth, would we?”

Devil take it, Arthur thought on his way back to the hotel, how was he going to tell Miss Thurstfield that her intended was in debt? Sir Malcolm, it seemed, was so badly dipped that Hope’s dowry would not be enough to tow him out of River Tick. Either that or the baronet knew Hope’s father would find out he was below hatches when they discussed settlements. The baron would have gone after him with a horsewhip. That’s what Arthur intended to do, if the muckworm dared show his face in London. In fact, Arthur was looking forward to such an encounter. Telling a woman that her lover was a fortune hunter, however, was not a chore Arthur was anticipating with any degree of pleasure.

He donned his dress uniform as fast as possible without Browne’s help, breathing a sigh of relief that he could put the other task off for a few hours. Standing firm in the line of fire was one thing; shattering a woman’s heart was quite another. With any luck, he thought, she would discover her almost-afianced’s treachery on her own. One of the other hotel guests might have heard of the dastard and informed her of his unprincipled intentions. Or his name might have been mentioned in the gossip columns along with his latest deep-pocketed prey. Or else he might just show up at the hotel and betray himself. Hah! If Arthur was that lucky, he wouldn’t be limping.

*

Browne was an excellent escort, Hope and Nancy agreed. He made sure that they saw all the sights, that no one accosted them, that their packages were gathered for delivery to the hotel. He took them to Hatchard’s for books and to Gunter’s for ices. He waited patiently with the hired carriage outside the shops.

He was not, however, forthcoming. When Hope asked why he was not in the hotel’s uniform, Browne muttered that he was employed directly by the cap’n.

“The captain?” Hope asked.

“That’s St. George’s up ahead, miss. Where the swells get hitched.”

Later, when she asked if he had been with Mr. Arthur for long, Browne had wiped his damp forehead. “Too long, by thunder, if he’s getting up to these queer starts.”

“Queer?”

“Queen’s Park is to t’other side of Town, but we could drive by there.”

Browne also failed at getting them close to the reviewing stand for the parade. The roads were too congested, he said, and they’d left it for too late. But he had the driver park their coach in a shady spot, where they could get down to watch the marchers and listen to the military bands. Noticing that he stood at attention and saluted when the colors were carried past, Hope asked if he’d been in the army.

“Aye, and proud of it, miss.”

“Was Mr. Arthur there with you?”

“Do you hear the bagpipes? Scots Grays must be marching next. The Ladies, they were called, on account of their kilts.”

Hope thought about Mr. Arthur’s air of command—and his injured leg—and decided that he must have been in the military. How fortunate that he and Browne had found employment, unlike so many other returning veterans.

They were too far away to hear the speeches, and Nancy was disappointed they could not catch a glimpse of the Austrian princess everyone was talking about. She was supposed to be a grandiose beauty and fabulously wealthy. Rumor had it that Princess Henrika Hafkesprinke was being considered as a match for one of the royal dukes, to provide an heir to the throne.

“But she is staying at our hotel, Nancy, so I’m sure you’ll get to see her sooner or later. She might even take her meals in the dining room.”

“And how the cap’n thinks to squeak through that is beyond me,” Browne mumbled. “That is, the Twenty-third squeaked through old Boney’s lines.”

*

Hope dressed with special care for dinner that evening in her new jonquil silk. In case her highness put in an appearance, she told herself, certainly not to impress any mustered-out hotel manager.

He was sitting alone at his usual table nearest the entrance, making sure the dining room ran as efficiently as the rest of his hotel, Hope supposed. He, too, had taken extra pains with his toilette this evening, for his hair was still damp from his bath, and his neckcloth was tied as intricately as a dandy’s. The
midnight-blue superfine made his eyes seem bluer in
the candlelight, and his coat fit him perfectly, stretching across his broad shoulders. He did not stand as they walked past. He did not smile and he did not invite them to sup with him, either, as Hope half expected. And half hoped. Dining with the staff could not be proper, of course, so she nodded and proceeded to her own table. The leek soup tasted like pond scum and the prawns in dill tasted like dust. The waiter anxiously asked if anything was wrong, and begged her to try the veal roulades, lest Monsieur DuPré feel unappreciated. So Hope moved the food around on her plate some more, feeling unappreciated. Nancy was eating enough for both of them, anyway, going into ecstasy over every dish.

Midway through the third course a hush fell over the dining room, and all eyes turned to the doorway. A woman was poised there, almost as if she were waiting for everyone in the room to stand and bow. Half of the diners did just that. One of the waiters bowed so low he spilled the contents of his tray. Princess Henrika had arrived.

Her highness was more beautiful than rumor had allowed, and taller. Majestically proportioned, she had hair so pale it was almost white, braided into a coronet that was woven through with diamonds and pearls, as if the princess needed more sparkle. Hope touched the yellow rosebuds Nancy had helped twine into her own plain brown locks, and sighed.

The princess had a magnificent bosom, too, though most of it was covered by more diamonds. The ruby pendant that hung in the vee between her breasts was just slightly smaller than one of Miss Thurstfield’s—her breasts, not her jewels. Hope sighed again. Princess Henrika would never have to worry over a straying suitor, or winning a smile from a grim-faced concierge. She had everything.

As her large party moved toward the bank of tables reserved for them, her highness hung on the arm of her escort, laughing up at him, pinching his cheek, rubbing against his silk sleeve like a friendly cat.

“Scandalous,” Nancy whispered. But Hope was not listening and she was not pondering the princess’s morals. She was doing her best not to swoon right into her haricots. The princess had everything, all right. Including Sir Malcolm Fredenham.

7

That guests do not throw slops from the windows.

She would
not
faint. She definitely would not cry, at least not until later. Hope might throw the contents of her wineglass— No, she was a lady, and a lady did not cause public scenes. Visiting royalty appeared to have its own standards, though, judging from the blatantly sexual display that had every eye in the room focused on the Hafkesprinke heiress, and on Hope’s husband-to-be. Miss Thurstfield clenched her hands in her lap, to make sure she did not shame her mother’s memory. Her fingernails were making indentations in her palms.

“My saints and salvation, isn’t that…? Well, I never!”

No, neither had Hope, and now she never would.

Nancy clucked her tongue. “I did not even know Sir Malcolm spoke German.”

“They likely converse in French.” When they spoke at all. The baronet was presently kissing the Brobdingnagian beauty’s nearly bare shoulder. Nancy gasped again. So did Sir Malcolm when he raised his eyes, to see his erstwhile intended staring at him across a platter of artichoke-stuffed pheasant. He stumbled, then his face lost all color. He could not have looked more guilty if he had canary feathers stuck in his teeth. He whispered something in the princess’s ear, almost having to stand on tiptoe to do it, Hope noted, and then he left his party and headed toward Hope’s table.

He was between her and the door; otherwise Hope would have bolted. Instead, she was forced to paste a smile on her lips for the benefit of all the curious diners and waiters. Nancy mumbled something about snakes and sinners, and swallowed the rest of her wine. Hope swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth.

She did not raise her hands from her lap, so he could only bow at the waist, in exaggerated homage. “Hope, dearest, what a wonderful surprise to see you in London. I am amazed you got my letter so quickly, telling you I was back in the country.”

“There was no letter, Malcolm.”

“You must have set out from home before it had a chance to reach you. Silly puss, you could have missed me, for I was on my way north in a few days.”

“How is your uncle?”

“My uncle? Oh, that uncle. He recovered so well that he decided to take a jaunt to the Continent. He needed me along, don’t you know, to make the arrangements, and in case he had a relapse. I wrote you all about it.”

“There was no letter.”

“Dashed foreign mails. I, ah, do not see the good baron. Is your father not with you?” Looking around as if he feared an irate papa with a blunderbuss, Sir Malcolm seemed relieved when Hope explained that her father had stayed behind. “Then I will have to write to him, won’t I?”

There would not
be
any letter. “That’s not necessary, sir. I cannot imagine what you would have to correspond with Papa about.”

“Ah, I can see I am in your black books, dearest, but I can explain everything. You see—”

Just then the princess called out from halfway across the vast room, “Malska, I vant to make the order.” Malska? Hope reached for her wineglass. She needed a drink, or two.

Like a dog being called to heel, Sir Malcolm edged away, but he latched on to her hand first and raised it to his lips. “We’ll talk another time, my dear. How fortunate you are staying in the very same hotel. Right now I have commitments, you see. It would never do to offend the visiting crowns, would it? The whole peace treaty might fall apart.”

As soon as his back was turned, Hope wiped her hand on her napkin. The she picked up her glass with trembling fingers but did not drink, merely staring into its depths, numb with the shock.

“My lands and liver! Did you hear him? He ought to be in Drury Lane. An oily customer as that one could play the villain in any number of farces.”

“Hush, Nancy. People are staring. Are you nearly finished with your dinner? Would you mind leaving?” Nancy stared longingly at the food still on her plate, but she dutifully started to gather up her shawl and reticule.

“No, you cannot leave,” came a deep voice behind Hope. Strong fingers pried hers from the stem of the wineglass. “If you run away, he’ll have won, and you’ll know yourself as craven till the end of your days.” Mr. Arthur had come to her rescue once more. Hope looked up at him and attempted a smile. She was proud her voice only quavered slightly as she declared, “I am not a coward.”

He squeezed her hand for a moment, then stepped back from the table, resting his weight on the lion’s-head cane. “Of course you are not, Miss Thurstfield. That’s why you shall stay and have the rest of DuPré’s magnificent dinner, so no one can gossip about you and the princess’s paramour.”

His words removed any doubt she might have had, and any appetite. “No, I could not eat another bite.”

“Of course you can. Otherwise monsieur will think his cooking is faulty. He’ll throw a fit and resign, which will lose the hotel a great deal of business.”

“And you would be out of a job.”

“Something like that.” His blue eyes twinkled at her, inviting her to laugh at his silliness.

Hope could not quite manage another smile, but she did pick up her fork.

“That’s the ticket,” he said, nodding, then lowered his voice. “It has nothing to do with you, you know. Never think that. Fredenham needs money desperately.”

“You knew?”

“I found out earlier this afternoon how deeply in debt he is. By the time I discovered that the dirty dish would be staying here, as part of the Hafkesprinke entourage, I had no chance to warn you.” And he’d decided that if she saw the truth with her own brown velvet eyes, she’d believe it that much faster. Better a bullet to the heart than a knife in the back, he’d always believed. Besides, this way she could not blame the messenger. “From what I could gather, he was hanging out for an heiress all last Season, but his unsavory reputation followed him. Gambling debts, don’t you know.”

“No, I knew nothing, it seems. What a fool I was.”

“Never! You just believed everyone was as good and honest as yourself.”

Warmth flowed back into Hope’s chilled fingers, down to her feet. “Do you look after every guest so kindly, Mr. Arthur?” He just smiled and gave her a roguish wink. Yes, she might live through her mortification. It was not as if her heart were broken or that she was a public laughingstock. Quite the contrary. She could see all the speculative gleams from the other dining-room patrons that she had caught the attention of two such dashing gentlemen. Yes, two gentlemen, for Mr. Arthur looked complete to a shade in his formal evening wear, despite his low standing.