Miss Darby's Duenna (12 page)

“Is something wrong, Higgins?” she asked. “I heard noises.”

“Her ladyship is ill, miss,” explained the servant.

“Shall I summon a physician?”

“No, no,” was the quick reply. “I am sure he—she will feel much more the thing after a good night’s sleep.” And a pot of strong coffee, he added mentally.

“Very well, if you are sure,” Olivia conceded reluctantly. “Still, if there is any change, do not hesitate to awaken me.”

Higgins repeated his assurances that Lady Hawthorne would be quite all right, then gently but firmly closed the door. He listened for a moment to Olivia’s retreating footsteps, then addressed his master.

“A close call, but I believe we got through that one rather well, didn’t we, sir? Sir?”

But Sir Harry, sprawled unconscious before the window, made no reply.

* * * *

Lord Mannerly, having fulfilled his promise to Lord Norville by seeing Sir Harry safely home, was about to return to his own residence in Park Lane when Sir Harry’s odd behavior gave him pause. From his vantage point across the street, he watched as that young man removed his shoes and began to scale the ivy clinging to the outside wall. A few moments later, he was treated to the sight of Sir Harry Hawthorne entering the Curzon Street town house through a window on the upper floor. Why, he wondered, might the head of the Hawthorne family find it necessary to enter his own house clandestinely? The question nagged at him all the way home.  The answer, he was somehow sure, was important.

Upon reaching his own domicile, he poured himself a glass of sherry from the bottle awaiting him in the library, and sat in silence for a long while, staring into the flames dancing in the fireplace.

They were a strange lot, these Hawthornes, but what could one expect, with a stripling like Sir Harry as head of the family?  A schoolroom chit who fancied herself a missionary, a dowager who until quite recently had lived the life of a recluse. . . .

A recluse? Mannerly had it on good authority that the dowager Lady Hawthorne had not left her Bath lodgings in twenty years or more. Why, then, would she suddenly take up residence in London just as Sir Harry’s bride made her come-out?  He remembered his curious impression of Lady Hawthorne that night at Covent Garden and his aunt’s conviction that the old lady was not who she seemed, and his suspicions grew apace. It was interesting to recall that, as much as he had haunted Hawthorne House in recent weeks, he had never seen Sir Harry and his grandmother at the same time. Even tonight—
last
night, rather, at Vauxhall, Sir Harry had not arrived until after his grandmother had departed.

Of course! Why else should Sir Harry sneak into the window, unless he was already believed to be within? Furthermore, Sir Harry could hardly be seen entering the residence at such an hour, when all the world knew Miss Darby to have no other chaperone but the dowager Lady Hawthorne—who happened, most conveniently, to bear a marked resemblance to her grandson, and who walked, surprisingly enough, like a man.

Suddenly all the pieces of the puzzle fell neatly into place, and Lord Mannerly knew his long-awaited victory was at last within reach. He would have to call in Curzon Street the next morning to confirm his theory, but he was almost certain his surmise was correct. Refilling his wineglass, he raised it in a mock toast.

“Sir Harry Hawthorne, I salute you,” he said aloud, addressing himself to the amber depths.   “You have fought, and fought valiantly—but you have lost.”

Chapter Ten

There is no disguise which can for long conceal love.

FRANÇOIS, DUC DE LA ROCHEFOUCAULD,
Reflections

The following morning found Miss Georgina Hawthorne quite alone. Of her future sister-in-law Olivia there was no sign, although it was almost noon, and, judging from the anguished groan which emitted from her brother’s room immediately after Higgins had entered milady’s chamber to draw open the curtains, Georgina expected it would be quite some time before Sir Harry saw fit to make an appearance.

Thus left to her own devices, she found herself sunk in a fit of the dismals. In this frame of mind, she made a short breakfast of chocolate and toast, then applied herself to her daily perusal of the holy scripture. She had first begun these devotional readings upon her arrival in London, feeling sure that the reverend Mr. Collier would approve of this exercise as proof against the temptations of the social whirl. Unfortunately, in this aim it had failed miserably.  Georgina found herself turning with alarming frequency to the Song of Songs, which is Solomon’s. Indeed, so often had she turned to that most sensuous of books that her Bible now fell open to the page. She had, of course, neither the opportunity nor the inclination to discuss the matter with her vicar, but she suspected the reverend would find her new reading preferences even more objectionable than the Gothic novels he frequently denounced from the pulpit.

Heaving a discontented sigh, she closed the Bible and gazed out the window, where the gray skies and drizzling rain seemed perfectly matched to her mood. She wished they had never come to Town. She had been happy at home in Leicestershire, and she would have been quite content to marry Mr. Collier and dedicate her life to assisting him in his work, with no trace of regret for what might have been.

But now. . . now she found herself obsessed with a man who was everything the vicar was not, everything she should most despise. Lord Mannerly was rude, arrogant, and self-centered, and always gave one the uncomfortable feeling that he was mocking one. Furthermore, he cared nothing for propriety, or he would not pay the most marked attentions to a young lady who was already promised to another.

Here her frown deepened.  Olivia would have been happy in Leicestershire, too, and she and Harry would have been married just as everyone had always expected. But what woman would prefer Harry’s attentions to those of the marquess of Mannerly? Perhaps strangest of all was the vague suspicion that, were Olivia to change her mind and marry Lord Mannerly instead, the loss would be her own as much as her brother’s.

Finding no answers either in holy writ or in the raindrops chasing one another down the window pane, she rose to go in search of her embroidery. She was not generally fond of needlework, but at present she had need of some activity—
any
activity—to distract her mind from thoughts she would prefer not to dwell on. She was just crossing the entrance hall when the door knocker sounded. Coombes hurried to answer it, and a moment later Lord Mannerly entered the house, just as if her thoughts had somehow summoned him. His many-caped greatcoat dripped water, as did his curly-brimmed beaver, and with these additions to an already imposing frame, he seemed to Georgina to fill the entire room. The effect was only slightly diminished when Coombes swept the wet articles from his lordship’s person and bore them away, leaving Georgina to usher her noble guest into the parlor.

“D-Do come in, my lord,” she said, suddenly short of breath. “What brings you out in this weather?”

“Surely three charming ladies under one roof are sufficient to tempt any man to brave the elements, Miss Hawthorne,” he riposted, bowing over her hand.

“Three?   Oh, yes, of course, three,” she amended quickly, remembering her brother’s disguise.

“Tell me, how does your grandmother fare this morning?”

“She—she is indisposed, sir.”

Mannerly nodded. “I thought perhaps she might be.”

“I—I will tell her you called, my lord.”

“But may I not see her and offer her my best wishes for a quick recovery?” protested the marquess.

“She—she is quite ill, sir,” answered Georgina, casting a nervous glance toward the staircase leading to the bedchambers above. “She is not receiving visitors.”

“I daresay she has the headache,” suggested Mannerly, watching her through narrowed eyes.

“I—I believe she does.”

“And Miss Darby? Is she, too, ill?”

Georgina looked visibly relieved. “I believe she is merely fatigued from last night’s visit to Vauxhall Gardens.”

“Quite likely. I understand she had a very busy evening.”

It seemed to Georgina as if Lord Mannerly were speaking in riddles, but to what purpose, she could not begin to guess. “I am sure we all had a busy evening, my lord. There is so much to see and do at Vauxhall.”

“While I have seen the gardens too many times to find them a novelty, I must confess that I, for one, was certainly never bored,” agreed the marquess.

Nor was he so utterly lost to propriety as Georgina supposed, for he was fully aware of the awkwardness attending a young lady entertaining a gentleman without a chaperone present. He therefore took his leave without further ado, promising to give himself the pleasure of calling again at a later date, at which time he hoped he would find Lady Hawthorne and Miss Darby in better health. Having received his still-damp outer garments from Coombes, he waved the butler away, professing himself capable of showing himself out. But his capability in this regard was perhaps overstated, for as he drew the door closed, it met the frame with a slam that seemed to shake the entire house. Immediately it flew open again to reveal the marquess, all repentance.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, casting upon Georgina a look of wide-eyed innocence which sat ill upon his saturnine countenance. “It must have been the wind.”

Then he shut the door once again, more gently this time, and hailed a passing hackney, smiling to himself as he pictured Sir Harry somewhere upstairs, clutching his throbbing head.

* * * *

While Georgina perused the Good Book, Olivia remained cloistered in her bedchamber. Sitting in the window seat, she relived in vivid detail the disastrous events of the previous weeks as she stared morosely at the leaden skies. When she recalled her naïveté in thinking she could win Harry’s affections by encouraging Lord Mannerly’s attentions, she knew not whether to laugh or cry. She pressed her knuckles to her bruised lips, recalling Harry’s kiss. She had waited all her life for Harry to take her into his arms, and when the long-awaited event had finally come to pass, it had been all wrong. Certainly it was not love that had inspired his actions, but fury. Then she had committed her crowning folly in slapping his face, which surely must have killed forever any affection he might once have felt for her. She should have been content to make a loveless match, and trust to Time to earn her a place in Harry’s heart.

Upon hearing the sharp rap of the knocker on the front door below, she leaped up to peer at the front stoop, her heart pounding at the prospect of seeing Harry there. But alas, the great-coated figure standing in the rain was clearly too tall to be Sir Harry, and this assessment was confirmed a moment later, when the door was opened and Lord Mannerly’s well-modulated tones reached her ears.

She sank back down to the window seat, unwilling to face the marquess’s mocking eyes and knowing smile. For this part was harder to bear than all the rest. She had slapped poor Harry, only to discover not five minutes later that he had been right all along in his estimation of Lord Mannerly’s character. When she thought of the liberties he had taken with her—no, that she had allowed him to take!—her face burned hot with shame. Surely Harry would despise her if he knew! How ironic it would be if, by conspiring to win him, she only succeeded in giving him a disgust of her instead! As she idly traced a raindrop’s progress down her window pane, she thought longingly of her fiancé and wondered where he was and what he was doing, little supposing that at that moment Sir Harry was ensconced in the bedchamber two doors down, nursing a very sore head.

* * * *

It was a haggard-looking “Lady Hawthorne” who, thanks to numerous pots of strong coffee and more than a few dunkings of his head into a bowl of cold water, made his way downstairs that evening dressed in full ball regalia of puce satin evening gown, long kid gloves, and an elaborately coifed wig topped by a crimson turban with a single purple ostrich plume curving artistically over his left temple. His aching head notwithstanding, it was Wednesday night, and to fail to appear at Almack’s Assembly Rooms would be to invite unwelcome speculation. Olivia was still in her room, but Georgina was already waiting below, demurely attired in a gown of pale green which complemented her copper curls to perfection. When Olivia finally appeared, not even Sir Harry could say with honesty that his love was enjoying her customary good looks.  To be sure, her coiffure was flawless and her gown unexceptionable, but the pink satin which should have brought out the roses in her cheeks only called attention to their absence, and the rouge with which her maid had attempted to correct this deficiency merely served to emphasize the pallor beneath.

“You are looking well, Olivia,” said Georgina perhaps a bit too brightly.

“Thank you, Georgina,” Olivia said without conviction, then turned to address the older woman. “Good evening, Lady Hawthorne. I trust you are quite recovered.”

“Yes, quite.” Sir Harry stepped forward to take her hands in his, wincing only slightly as the hall clock loudly chimed the hour. “And you, Miss Darby?”

“Very well, thank you.”

There seemed very little to say after that, and it was a subdued trio indeed that ascended into the carriage and set out for King Street.

The rain had ceased by early evening, and all of those fortunate enough to have vouchers seemed to have leaped at the opportunity to get out after a day spent indoors. The Assembly Rooms were even more crowded than usual, and the lemonade was even weaker, as if watered down to accommodate the greater numbers. The closeness of the rooms, combined with the stifling humidity, produced an oppressive heat; the Hawthorne party found seats along the wall and quickly sought recourse to their fans.

Georgina, with the natural ebullience of youth, seemed the least affected by the heat. Since her waltz with Lord Mannerly at Vauxhall Gardens, word had quickly spread among the young bucks of the
ton
that Miss Hawthorne did waltz, and that divinely. She found herself sought after with an enthusiasm that recalled her days as the belle of Leicestershire, and discovered that her innocent enjoyment of her popularity was, perhaps, not so sinful after all, when compared to her more dangerous fascination with the marquess of Mannerly.