Miss Darby's Duenna (15 page)

Olivia nodded, recognizing the threat in the seemingly innocuous quotation. “I—I shall be there.”

“Until Monday, then,” said the marquess. Taking her hand in his, he turned it over and pressed a kiss into her palm.

She made no farewells, but summoned her maid and quickly departed, too shaken to notice the fashionable young man loitering near the gates behind a concealing hedge.

But he saw her, and it took every ounce of strength he possessed not to call out to her. For Sir Harry, it seemed, had just been dealt a terrible blow. Olivia—his Livvy, whom he loved more than life, was seeing Lord Mannerly on the sly! He would not have credited it had he not seen it himself, the way Mannerly kissed her hand, the way Olivia looked demurely away, too overcome to meet her lover’s eye.

He thought of her as she had appeared that morning, with her pale face and her hollow eyes. It had been he, not Mannerly, who had put that look there. Good God! Did she find the prospect of marriage to him so intolerable? Had she been pressured to accept his suit? No, he could not credit it. Something had happened since her arrival in London to make her change her mind. And he knew, all too well, what that something was. He knew, because it had happened to him, too. Olivia had fallen in love.

It was his own fault; that was the worst of it. He’d had more than twenty years to fix his interest with her, twenty years to win her love, but he hadn’t even bothered to make the attempt. Small wonder, then, that she had succumbed so easily to Lord Mannerly’s practiced lovemaking.

Of course, an honorable man would let her go. An honorable man would release her so that she might marry according to the dictates of her heart. And if it were some other man—
any
other man—he would do it, no matter how much it tore him apart. Unfortunately, he had only to think of his Livvy lying in Mannerly’s arms to realize just how dishonorable he could be.

Sunk in despondence, he returned to his Stratton Street lodgings to resume his disguise, and found his valet in a rare taking.

“Oh, sir, it is too dreadful to be borne,” fretted Higgins, wringing his hands.

“Good Lord, what is it now?” groaned Sir Harry, tossing his hat and gloves onto a small side table.

“I’m afraid I’ve been found out, sir,” Higgins confessed as he helped his master out of his coat.   “The talk belowstairs is that you—Lady Hawthorne, that is—are keeping a lover in your, er, her pocket by dressing him—that would be myself, sir—as a woman.”

Having delivered himself of this alarming disclosure, Higgins braced himself for the expected storm, but to his amazement, Sir Harry’s lips twitched. Then his master chuckled, and finally laughed out loud.

“My grandmother, keeping a lover?” he said when his mirth had subsided sufficiently to permit coherent speech. “And you’re supposed to be the man? Thank you, Higgins, you’ll never know how badly I needed a laugh just now. Poor fellow! Have they been giving you a difficult time of it?”

“No one has accused me in so many words, sir, although the veiled hints of the footmen can be a bit difficult to take at times.”

“Well, rub along as best you can for now. It should not be long before Mrs. Darby returns, and then I shall send ‘Lady Hawthorne’ back to Bath, where she belongs. Then, I promise, your sufferings will not go unrewarded.”

“I know, I know,” said the valet with a sigh. “On the day you wed Miss Darby, my wages will be doubled.”

Sir Harry’s laughter died, and the amusement which had lit his eyes a moment earlier gave way to a bleakness that the servant could not recall seeing there before. “As to that, Higgins, I shouldn’t count my money just yet if I were you.”

* * * *

After leaving Kensington Gardens, Lord Mannerly charted a direct course for the business establishment of one Madame Franchot, a fashionable modiste from whom he had occasionally purchased gifts of an intimate nature for the various barques of frailty who had enjoyed his protection over the years.  Madame Franchot (who in spite of her Continental surname originally hailed from Manchester) was delighted to see the marquess, for his tastes were always unerring and usually expensive.  Upon discovering that his lordship required a domino, Madame produced for his inspection a bolt of her best black satin.

“Here I have just the thing,” pronounced the modiste. “Look, if you will, at the quality of the weave. Cheaper satins may be found, but none with this texture. Is it not exquisite, milord?”

“Yes, yes, very nice, but the color is all wrong,” said milord, dismissing Madame Franchot’s finest stock with a wave. “Have you anything in white?”

“A white domino? How beautiful, and how unique! She will break hearts, yes?”

“Only one,” replied the marquess with a mysterious smile.

Madame Franchot submitted a second bolt for his approval and, this finding favor, asked her noble patron for the lady’s measurements. Mannerly conjured up a mental image of Miss Darby’s trim figure and offered an estimate, the accuracy of which would have mortified Olivia and enraged Sir Harry. He then requested writing paper and a quill pen, and scrawled a short note which he desired to be delivered along with the domino as quickly as possible to Miss Darby at 27 Curzon Street. The bill, he added as an afterthought, might be sent to his Park Lane address.

Having finished his business, Lord Mannerly turned his steps toward home. Everything, it seemed, was progressing nicely, and in a scant four days his revenge would be complete. He scowled at his own indifference to this knowledge. He should be delighted that the long-anticipated
denouement
was at hand; yet he was no more enthralled by the imminent consummation of his scheme than he would be at the conclusion of any protracted yet necessary business transaction.

Certainly, the fault did not lie with Miss Darby. The young woman was exquisite, and any man would be more than pleased to initiate her into life’s sweeter mysteries; in this sentiment, he and Sir Harry Hawthorne were in complete agreement, although he doubted Sir Harry would appreciate the comparison. No, Miss Darby’s physical attributes were far from repellent. He thought, instead, that it was her lack of response to his overtures which he found rather daunting.   Even resistance on her part would have been preferable, as it would have given him the challenge of overcoming her scruples. But what could any man do in the face of martyr-like resignation?

Unexpectedly, Sir Harry’s younger sister, the flame-haired evangelist, came to mind. Lord Mannerly’s scowl became a grin. Now
that,
he thought, would be a seduction scene well worth remembering. And for a moment, Lord Mannerly, noted
bon vivant,
almost found himself envying an unknown country vicar.

Chapter Thirteen

Something between a hindrance and a help.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH,
Michael

Unmindful of the goggle-eyed maid at her heels, Olivia trudged back to Curzon Street, her mind in a state of numbness which could only be considered a blessing. It was settled. In four days, she would surrender her virtue to the marquess of Mannerly, and he in return would forget Sir Harry’s ill-advised impersonation. Or would he? Perhaps Lord Mannerly would return periodically, like a bad dream, making ever-increasing demands. Perhaps she would never be free of him.

But it was best not to think of that possibility. For now, she must persuade Harry to let her attend the masquerade at Vauxhall Gardens. Indeed, it would likely require all her powers of prevarication to express eagerness at the prospect of visiting a place upon which she never wanted to set eyes again.   She wished she could share Lord Mannerly’s confidence in her success.
You must know that Sir Harry will deny you nothing.
... If only that were true, she would beg Harry to spirit her off to Gretna and marry her out of hand, so that they need never set foot in London again.

It was with a sense of relief that she entered the Curzon Street house to discover that “Lady Hawthorne” had not yet returned. Thankfully, they were promised to attend Mrs. Brandemere’s intimate dinner party that night, and Olivia’s social calendar was sufficiently filled to allow little time to see Sir Harry alone. For this she was grateful, as she did not trust herself to spend the next four days in his company without breaking down and confessing the whole.

As it turned out, Mrs. Brandemere’s intimate dinner, had it been held in Leicestershire, would have been a major social event. No less than forty people sat down to supper, and Olivia was treated to the ludicrous spectacle of Sir Harry, resplendent in ruby-red satin and gold net, escorted to the dining room on the arm of the pompous Duke of Worrell. One might have supposed this sight to be amusing enough that Olivia could forget, at least for a short time, the unhappy event which loomed before her. On the contrary, she cast frequent glances down the table at Sir Harry, on pins and needles lest he should at any moment betray himself. Never mind that over the last few weeks he had attended innumerable functions as Lady Hawthorne without anyone, including herself, being the wiser; she found it well nigh impossible to make idle conversation through seven courses while, at the opposite end of the table, the man she loved flirted, quite literally, with disaster.

At last Mrs. Brandemere rose from the table, signaling the ladies’ withdrawal, and Olivia held her breath when Sir Harry did not immediately follow. However, he made a quick recovery, and the ladies of the party repaired to the drawing room, where Olivia surprised and gratified Sir Harry by taking a seat beside him and tucking her hand through the crook of his arm in a manner that could almost be called possessive.

Alas, Sir Harry’s pleasure was short-lived, for soon after the ladies were seated and the tea tray sent for, Mrs. Brandemere begged Georgina to favor the company with a song, and she, in turn, asked Olivia to accompany her.   As Olivia seated herself at the pianoforte, Mrs. Brandemere took the seat she had just vacated beside Sir Harry.

“I must say. Lady Hawthorne, your charge is not enjoying her usual blooming health,” observed Mrs. Brandemere under cover of the music. “Why, when I saw her Wednesday night at Almack’s, the girl looked positively hag-ridden.”

Sir Harry forbore to take the bait, but only through a supreme act of will. “My dear Mrs. Brandemere, in that heat, everyone looked hagridden—including, if I may be so bold, your Sylvia.”

“Yes, well, that’s as may be, but whereas my Sylvia is fully recovered, your Miss Darby still looks rather peaked. It seems the rigors of the Season have worn her quite thin.”

“How true,” said Sir Harry with a soulful sigh. “She is much sought after, you know, and we receive so many invitations, we cannot possibly accept them all.”

“Perhaps she should remain quietly at home more often,” suggested Mrs. Brandemere. “My Sylvia, now, could dance until dawn and never appear the worse for wear. Why, I daresay after she marries, her husband will be hard pressed to find her at home!”

Sir Harry nodded in agreement. “I am sure her husband will be a most fortunate man.”

“Just so,” said his hostess, puzzling over this seeming
non sequitur.
“Still, I am concerned about Miss Darby. It has been my observation that gentlemen shy away from delicate females. Sir Harry will want to be sure his wife can give him an heir, you know.”

“Perhaps Sir Harry looks for more than fecundity in his wife,” suggested Sir Harry through clenched teeth. “If he wished to acquire a brood mare, he would have tried Tattersall’s.”

Olivia, perhaps mercifully, was unaware of this conversation. That part of her brain which was not intent upon her performance was given over to considering how to broach the subject of the approaching masquerade. This problem, at least, was solved through the unexpected intervention of Miss Brandemere.

“I hear there is to be a masquerade at Vauxhall on Monday,” she informed the assembled ladies. “Tell me, Miss Darby, do you plan to attend?”

“A masquerade!” echoed Olivia, feigning surprise. “How delightful that sounds! Please, ma’am, may we go?” She cast eager eyes upon her duenna, hoping that Sir Harry would find it awkward to refuse such a public request.

“I hear these masked frolics are not at all the thing,” asserted dour Lady Greenaway, provoking in at least one of her hearers the sudden urge to throttle her. “People will do things incognito that they would never do, were their identities known.”

“Oh, but it sounds so romantic and mysterious,” said Miss Brandemere on a rapturous sigh. “Just like living in a Gothic novel! Do say you will join our party, Miss Darby, and Miss Hawthorne, too.”

“I cannot allow it,” insisted
the faux
Lady Hawthorne. “I should be failing in my duty were I to allow my charges to attend such a disreputable gathering.”

“Quite right, Lady Hawthorne,” murmured Mrs. Brandemere, nodding her approval. “A quiet evening at home will do much toward setting Miss Darby’s ravaged looks to rights.”

“On the other hand,” continued Sir Harry with a tight smile, “I am sure our dear Mrs. Brandemere would not permit her lovely daughter to attend such a function if it were not quite
comme il faut.
So long as you, ma’am, act as chaperone, my girls may go to Vauxhall with my blessing.”

Olivia, amazed at having achieved her objective so easily, was not quite sure whether to be sorry or glad.

* * * *

The following afternoon, a knock was heard on the service entrance to Sir Harry’s London town house. Since Cook was already well into preparations for the salmon in shrimp sauce which was to form the centerpiece for the evening meal, she commanded the scullery maid to answer the door. Obediently, young Peg left off paring potatoes to follow these new orders, knowing all the while that Cook would later scold her for not having finished the potatoes quickly enough. However, she soon decided a scold was a small price to pay, for upon opening the door, she beheld a handsome young delivery boy bearing a bandbox from a very prestigious (and very expensive) Bruton Street modiste.

“Package for Miss Darby,” said the lad, favoring Peg with an appraising stare.