A Crime of Manners (27 page)

A second later he reported with some heat, “This is not the same ring I saw a moment ago. I know jewelry. What sort of game are you playing here?”

Lady Mawbly grabbed the ring from his fingers.

Once again, the duke commanded the room’s attention. “This is something Lady Fuddlesby and the Mawblys can settle in private. In my opinion, it is a simple misunderstanding, easily righted. I am surprised you are all so interested in such a trivial matter, when I am about to announce my engagement,” he ended haughtily.

Silence reigned in the room. No one cared about the ring any longer. Everyone wanted to hear what the Duke of Winterton had to say.

Standing several feet away, Henrietta felt her blood run cold. Oh, no, he was going to announce his betrothal to Lady Clorinda. She prayed she would not disgrace herself by bursting into tears.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the future Duchess of Winterton.”

All held their breath.

Lady Clorinda’s face broke into a brilliant smile.

“Miss Henrietta Lanford,” the duke intoned.

A collective gasp sounded.

Winterton walked unerringly to Henrietta’s side and raised her hand to his lips.

For Henrietta, the minutes passed as if in a dream. She was vaguely aware of Clorinda’s strangled scream of fury, and the surge of excited talk about the room. It seemed the duke’s mother had fainted.

The music began again, sounding far away. All she was really conscious of was the sound of the duke’s voice saying her name over and over again in her brain.

Then Lady Fuddlesby and the colonel were at her side. The duke’s arm steadied her while they all walked to the library, the Mawbly’s, minus Lady Clorinda, trailing behind.

Henrietta felt in a daze. She looked up at the duke, and he pressed his gloved fingers against her lips. “First we must settle the situation with the rings, then we can talk.”

The door to the library stood ajar. Pushing it open, the duke entered the room, and the company turned as one to look at the large desk at one side of the room.

Sitting upon the far corner of its gleaming surface, a startled Knight stared back at them, a large lobster patty clamped in his jaws. The cat quickly began devouring the treat as if someone would take it from him at any moment.

Lady Mawbly began her tirade. “I demand to be told what is going on here. I tell you, Clara Fuddlesby, I shall have you in court if you think you can hoodwink me.”

“Shut up, Hester,” Lord Mawbly bellowed at his wife, shocking her as well as the rest of the gathering.

“Silias,” Lady Mawbly said awfully. “How dare you speak to me in that tone?”

“I am your husband, damme! It’s high time I took you in hand.” Ignoring his wife’s mutinous face, he proclaimed, “You’ve caused all of us a deal of trouble with your greed, but it ends here. It’s true the ring you had was paste, but the stone you now hold is genuine.”

Lady Fuddlesby paled. “Oh, dear, oh dear, how can this have happened?”

Standing next to the desk, the duke held up the paste copy. “The rings were somehow switched, my lady. You inadvertently sold the paste copy to Lord Mawbly.” He turned and placed the paste copy on the desk.

The colonel supported Lady Fuddlesby when she swayed under the weight of this information.

The duke continued the story. “Lord Mawbly came to me with the problem, and with Miss Lanford’s help, I was about to make things right this evening when Lord Sebastian unfortunately discovered the truth about the paste ring.”

Henrietta found her voice. “I daresay he would not have been so vehement about his findings had you not been so cruel about his peacock pin the other night, Lady Mawbly.”

“Well, I only wish to take my ring and leave this house at once,” Lady Mawbly declared with a sniff.

Colonel Colchester said, “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Lady Fuddlesby agreed to sell her ring under duress. Now that she is to be my wife, she will not be selling the ring. I shall give you a draft on my account to return your money, Lord Mawbly.”

“Oh, Owen, you are generous,” Lady Fuddlesby chirped.

Lord Mawbly seized the genuine ring from a groaning Lady Mawbly and handed it to Colonel Colchester, saying, “An excellent plan, sir.”

Colonel Colchester took the ring and laid it on the desk next to the paste copy. “I shall give you my vowel—”

“No, indeed, Colonel. You are a gentlemen of your word. It is not necessary,” Lord Mawbly assured him. “Come along, Hester. We’re going home. And when we get there I’ll have something to say to Clorinda about her gowns as well.”

They left the room, Lady Mawbly accompanying her husband with an unaccustomed meekness.

Lady Fuddlesby pressed her fingers to her temples. “Oh, I do not know what I would have done without you tonight, Owen. And you as well, your grace.”

Colonel Colchester placed an arm about Lady

Fuddlesby and gave her a squeeze. “I’ll always be there for you,” he told her gruffly.

Abruptly everyone’s attention was drawn to the desk. With a devious look on his masked face, Knight pushed the rings about the desk with a clever paw.

Henrietta’s gaze flew to the duke’s. A gurgle of laughter escaped her lips.

With a gasp, Lady Fuddlesby hurried over to the desk and collected her rings. She spoke sternly to her pet. “Knight, you never did such a thing. I will not believe it of you.”

Knight looked up at his mistress, the picture of innocence.

“Clara,” the colonel said, and cleared his throat. “I believe we should leave the newly betrothed pair alone for a few minutes.”

Henrietta twisted her hands together in front of her.

Lady Fuddlesby came to her side with a swirl of pink skirts. “Oh, my dear, I do wish you happy. And now that you will spend at least part of the year in London, we shall see one another often.”

“Thank you, Aunt,” Henrietta managed.

“Come along, my brave soldier,” the colonel called to the cat from the doorway. “Let’s see if we can find you another lobster patty.”

Knight sprang from the desk and bounded out the door. He had his priorities in order.

While the colonel closed the door, Lady Fuddlesby could be heard admonishing him. “Owen, the way you spoil dear Knight, I daresay he will be the size of a cow within three months of our marriage.”

Alone with the duke, Henrietta felt her heart lurch madly. “I ... I understand you only announced our betrothal in order to direct attention away from the contretemps with the ring—”

Henrietta broke off when the duke reached out and pulled her into his arms. In a deep voice he muttered, “If you believe that, I must recant what I said about your superior intelligence.”

Staring up into his silvery eyes, Henrietta dared to hope.

The duke traced his finger down her cheek. “I love you, Henrietta. I know I made a mull of it earlier, but I am asking you now to be my wife.” His steady gaze bored into hers in silent expectation.

“Oh, yes, Giles, please,” Henrietta cried just before he crushed his lips to hers.

Raising his dark head a few minutes later he murmured, “You do love me, Henrietta? I could not bear it if you did not.”

Staring up at him dizzily, she said, “I love you very much, Giles. But what of the difference in our stations?”

The Duke of Winterton used his lips to show her how little the matter meant to him.

* * * *

After a grand wedding at St. George’s, the newly wed couple returned to the town house in Park Lane. Carrying his wife into his bedchamber, the duke placed Henrietta across the red velvet bedspread and lovingly began removing her clothes.

From the corner of the room, Sir Polly Grey spoke in the seventh Duke of Winterton’s voice. “Giles. Marriage.”

The duke turned his head toward the bird and shouted, “I am married, you fool, and all I want is to bed my wife.”

In
Giles’s
voice Sir Polly Grey repeated gleefully, “All I want is to bed my wife.”

But the two on the bed paid no attention.

With love for my family—Tommy, Rachel, and Alana

With special thanks to: Paula Tanner Girard, Jerry Lynn Smith, and Melissa Lynn Jones

Copyright © 1996 by Rosemary Stevens

Originally published by Fawcett Crest

Electronically published in 2010 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.