A Crime of Manners (17 page)

They were the first to arrive, Lady Chatterton meeting them in the hallway and indicating, in her whispery way, for them to go upstairs while she and her nephew received the other guests.

Entering the drawing room with Lady Fuddlesby, Henrietta stopped and blinked her eyes, attempting to adjust them to the dim lighting. Her previous assumption that Lady Chatterton held light in aversion was confirmed. The large drawing room with its dark, heavy furniture contained only a few branches of candles, casting most of the room in shadows. Evidently it was to be a small affair, since a mere six rows of chairs were set up in addition to the existing settees and wing chairs.

Soon other people were announced, and footmen circulated, passing glasses of ratafia and champagne. Absently accepting the ratafia, Henrietta looked up each time a new party arrived, hoping to see the duke.

She sensed her aunt waited for Colonel Colchester, and the two ladies talked lightly until the Duke of Winterton, his mother, and godfather walked in. They were followed by the Mawblys and Lady Clorinda.

Lady Fuddlesby started at the sight of her old rival, Matilda, conversing amiably with Colonel Colchester.

Seeing her dismay, Henrietta gently turned her aunt away, and said, “Come Aunt, let us take our seats. Lady Chatterton and Mr. Shire are here now, so the musicale will most likely begin.”

Walking to the end of one row of chairs, they sat down, and it was not long before Colonel Colchester hurried over to sit on the other side of Lady Fuddlesby.

“Good evening, Miss Lanford,” he said, and then immediately addressed her aunt. “Lady Fuddlesby, I must beg your forgiveness. I intended to ask to escort you this evening. Indeed, I have a treat at home for my brave soldier, Knight. But Giles invited Matilda to dine, and I felt it would be rude to leave them with just one another’s company.”

The tension drained from Lady Fuddlesby’s face. “Oh, dear sir, ’tis of no consequence. Goodness, I must tell you our glad news. We are to hold a ball!”

Henrietta barely heard any of the conversation that followed between the two older people. Discreetly she watched the duke conversing with his

mother and the Mawblys. How very agreeable he appeared in his slate-colored coat and black breeches. His dove-gray waistcoat must match his eyes, she believed, unable to see for certain in the room’s low light.

Then her view of him was blocked by Lady Chatterton, who joined the group and appeared to be furiously whispering something to Lady Mawbly and Clorinda. Whatever it was resulted in an adorable case of dimpling on Lady Clorinda’s part.

The duke strolled away from them, and he and the dowager came to sit on the other side of Colonel Colchester. Henrietta’s gaze never left the duke when he paused before he sat down to rake her body with a knowing eye. “Your servant, Miss Lanford,” he said in arctic tones.

Henrietta blushed scarlet and merely nodded to him. She was robbed of speech for the moment. How dare he speak to her in that cold way after the kiss they shared? And that look. She quite felt he knew exactly what she looked like without her clothes. And that was not possible from one embrace. Was it?

By the massive fireplace, Lady Chatterton attempted to quiet the room, without much success. Shocking the assembly, she finally shouted, “By God, be quiet, you great bunch of bacon-brained gudgeons!”

Barely concealed titters followed, as Society saved this
on dit
to be repeated over the teacups tomorrow. The
beau monde
loved being insulted, by one of their own, of course.

Henrietta noticed an indulgent smile on her aunt’s face, but Mr. Shire had turned the same shade of purple Henrietta had heretofore only seen on Papa’s face, when he was upset over his horses.

In her usual voice, Lady Chatterton announced, “The diva has not yet arrived, but I have persuaded Lady Clorinda Eden to sing for us.”

A smattering of applause greeted Lady Clorinda, who stood in front of the gathering, lovely in a revealing peach gown decorated with blond lace. In a clear voice, she sang a haunting ballad of love.

As she performed the song, Clorinda’s Venus-like body dipped and swayed gracefully. The gentlemen in the audience leaned forward as one in their seats, attempting to better view her magnificent bosom. Clorinda appeared to enjoy every moment of the attention she was receiving.

The Duke of Winterton sat with his arms folded across his chest and his lips pursed in a grim line. The girl was calling too much vulgar attention to herself, he decided. It would never do, if he decided to settle for Clorinda, for the future Duchess of Winterton to be the subject of distasteful notice.

Casually he glanced sidelong at Miss Lanford. The amber-colored gown she wore was vastly fetching. Her cheeks were rosy, and she appeared to be studying her gloved hands, which were folded in her lap. He reflected that she had a certain quiet dignity about her.

Her innocence was unnerving. Without warning, his mind dragged him down into the memory of her sweet-tasting lips. The way her tiny hands had rested on his shoulders evoked a protective feeling in him no other lady had stirred.

He remembered with satisfaction that she had not pushed him away. On the contrary, Miss Lanford seemed to have savored the meeting of their lips as much as he.

Good God, he wanted her. It could not be denied.

A disdainful look crossed his aristocratic features. Naturally, he could only have her in the marriage bed. In the past, when picturing his bride-to-be, she was always nameless and faceless, just a female form. Now, inexplicably, Miss Henrietta Lanford’s demure countenance appeared in the vision. What would it be like to hold her naked body in his arms every night in their bed?

Giles forced his thoughts to those of a more practical matter. More to the point, what would it be like to converse with her during meals and at the end of every day? They seemed to come to cuffs frequently.

Would she be able to oversee the running of his households? He shrewdly guessed it was she who handled such things commendably at the squire’s. But she would have no experience in dealing with a staff the size of his at Perrywood.

He had to admit, though, she had shown remarkable courage the night of Baddick’s attack. Any other Society lady he knew would have swooned or had strong hysterics. Miss Lanford had been understandably overset, but still in admirable control of herself.

His father’s voice sounded in his brain, reminding him of his duty. Sighing, the duke asked himself about the undeniable fact that he owed more to his name than a mere squire’s daughter.

On the subject of marriage, why had Miss Lanford agreed to marry a philandering miscreant like Baddick in the first place? This question had plagued him the most since the fateful night at the opera. Although he had not thought it at the time, he now wondered if she had loved the viscount before he had shown himself to be a blackguard.

A sensation of intense jealousy, normally an emotion foreign to him, swept over the duke. Frustrated, he ran a hand through his dark hair and ordered his mind to cease its haranguing inquisition. He was only able to do so after vowing to interrogate Miss Lanford at the first opportunity.

He had no chance to put this plan into action, however, as the diva arrived, and Lady Clorinda finished her song. Smiling angelically under hearty applause, she went to sit next to her parents, directly in front of him.

Lady Mawbly twisted around in her seat to face Winterton. The sudden bright light of her diamond brooch almost blinded him in the darkened room.

“Your grace, has not my Clorinda the loveliest voice you have ever heard? Her stitchery is un-equaled as well,” Lady Mawbly began, and went on endlessly in a conversation that centered on her daughter’s many accomplishments.

Lady Clorinda sat quietly by, giving him a view of her beautiful profile, as her mother shamelessly commended her, causing the duke to form the impression the girl thought the praise was her due.

Good manners, and the fact he was trapped in his seat since no one had risen in the interval between Clorinda’s singing and the diva’s appearance, prevented him from rudely telling Lady Mawbly to stubble it.

Fortunately, just when he reached the end of his tether, a hush fell over the room.

In front of the assembled guests, two pillars, formerly holding Grecian busts, now each held a branch of candles. The diva, a large, dark-haired woman in a severe black gown, stood between the columns and began her performance. Her wide mouth stretched open to the limit as she bellowed out an indecipherable aria.

The darkness of the room, combined with the

woman’s black hair and clothing, resulted in only her white, lead-painted face being visible. Thus, a ghostlike head, seemingly suspended midair, roared out over the assembly.

Winterton’s lips twitched at the sight, and he turned to see the expression on Miss Lanford’s face. At that moment she looked his way, and he saw the laughter brimming in her eyes. They smiled at each other in silent communication.

After the singing, the duke rose, meaning to speak to Miss Lanford, but a hand on his arm stayed him. Lord Mawbly, his gaze darting nervously back and forth, said, “Your grace, I beg a few minutes of your time.”

Winterton stiffened. Could the man be impertinent enough to press him regarding Clorinda? His voice haughty, the duke inquired, “What is it, Mawbly?”

Glancing desperately at his wife, Lord Mawbly pleaded, “Over there, by the draperies, where we can be private.”

Wary, the duke went along with the timid little man. When they were quite concealed in the shadows, Winterton demanded an explanation.

Lord Mawbly held a glass of wine in one hand, and he downed the contents before speaking. “Lady Mawbly insisted I approach Lady Fuddlesby about her pink tourmaline ring. Wants it. And let me tell you, your grace, Hester don’t rest until she gets whatever jewel it is she desires.”

“What is this to do with me, Mawbly?” Winterton responded impatiently.

Lord Mawbly went on with his story, without answering the duke’s question. “Well, at first Lady Fuddlesby says no, she won’t sell the ring. Put Hester in a terrible pucker when I finally told her.

For days she won’t leave me alone in my library! Then I get a letter from Lady Fuddlesby saying she
will
sell the ring. I had to fork over a considerable amount of blunt, but anything’s worth silencing Hester.”

The duke frowned and said, “Are you telling me Lady Fuddlesby sold you a piece of her jewelry for a large sum of money?”

Lord Mawbly’s left eye twitched nervously. “Yes. No. Well, not exactly. You see, her ladyship sold me a paste ring.”

Winterton’s eyebrows rose incredulously. “Paste?”

Lord Mawbly nodded his head up and down. “That’s right. Paste. Now I don’t know what to do. Thank God I never told Hester I struck a bargain with her ladyship, but mark my word, Hester will know at once that I have withdrawn money from the bank. Very close with the accounts, she is.”

The duke shuddered inwardly at the picture the man painted of his marriage. “I shall take your word you are certain the ring is paste. After all the jewels you have, no doubt, acquired for Lady Mawbly over the years, you must know a fake when you see one. What do you plan to do about the situation?”

Darting an anxious look at where Lady Mawbly stood in conversation with the Dowager Duchess of Winterton, Lord Mawbly replied, “Thought as a friend of my family, you might help me.”

Giles was taken aback. What could he do? He brought his hand up to stroke his chin thoughtfully. The timid little man in front of him might eventually spill the story to his odious wife, if she nagged him enough, which was frightfully probable. Poor Lady Fuddlesby would be the subject of a scandal. The duke knew neither he nor his godfather would tolerate that.

His brows came together. What could have possessed Lady Fuddlesby to have tried a trick like this? Hard on the heels of this question came the certain knowledge Lady Fuddlesby could not have known what she did. A genteel lady, she would never resort to fleecing anyone.

“Do you have the ring with you, Mawbly?”

Lord Mawbly gasped aloud. “Never! Hester would smell a piece of jewelry on me in a minute. It’s hidden away in my books. Hester would never look at those.”

The duke’s eyes narrowed as he considered the man. “I shall investigate the matter, and you will hear from me in a day or two. Give me your word you will not tell any of this to another living soul.”

“Yes, your grace. My word on it,” Lord Mawbly replied, noticeably relieved.

The men shook hands and parted company, Lord Mawbly going over to stand furtively beside his wife, and the duke looked for his godfather. His gaze first sought Miss Lanford, however, and he found her sitting on a settee, talking with the cumbersome Mr. Shire.

Keeping an eye on her, lest she escape before he could speak to her, the duke drew the colonel aside, saying, “We have a mystery on our hands, sir.”

“A mystery?” Colonel Colchester queried.

“Yes, and I am afraid it concerns Lady Fuddlesby.”

The older gentleman snapped to attention. “What? Tell me at once!”

Giles proceeded to relate the disturbing story, ending with, “I wonder why Lady Fuddlesby would sell a piece of her jewelry to accommodate Lord Mawbly. She does not seem overfond of Hester Mawbly.”

Colonel Colchester’s face was ashen. “’Tis of no significance why she did it. I confess I neither know nor care. We must give Lord Mawbly back whatever sum he paid Lady Fuddlesby for the ring. Clara must not be subjected to any unpleasantness, and the faster we end this matter, the better.”

Knowing of the affection between the lady and his godfather, the duke spoke gently. “But, sir that will not answer. Lady Mawbly has been hounding her husband for the ring and will most likely continue to do so. Eventually she might even approach Lady Fuddlesby herself. Then the fat would be in the fire! Lady Fuddlesby would declare she already sold the ring to Lord Mawbly. That man would no doubt meet his Maker within the hour when Lady Mawbly learns he has purchased paste for her.”