When her more revealing ensembles had failed to bring the duke up to scratch, she had felt a change in tactics was in order. Encouraged by his invitation to dine, which she felt indicated the duke’s desire for her to approve his home, she and her mama had concocted the plan of covering her voluptuous assets. Their hope was that, denied the pleasure of viewing her charms, the duke would offer for Lady Clorinda in order to obtain them.
Clorinda’s green eyes narrowed in rage while she remembered how the duke had kissed Henrietta’s hand at the musicale. Heaven only knew what they were doing upstairs. Dismissing the thought, she decided that it was all for the best if the duke wanted to carry on a last flirtation before they were married.
Tugging irritably at the dress’s high bodice, Clorinda went to sit next to her mother, giving the lady a sharp set-down for her stupid advice regarding her dress.
Now seated on a gold satin settee, Matilda continued to monopolize the colonel, leaving him no chance to associate with Lady Fuddlesby.
That lady was consuming large quantities of wine. Lord Sebastian approached her and flirted expertly. “Are you bringing Miss Lanford out this Season, Lady Fuddlesby?”
Smiling at him coyly, all the while sneaking glances at the colonel to see his reaction to her new courtier, Lady Fuddlesby answered, “Why, yes, I am. We have been run ragged with entertainments these past weeks.”
“It must be a difficult task for you when the two of you are so close in age. I cannot imagine a lady as beautiful as you sitting with the chaperons,” Lord Sebastian replied gallantly.
Lady Fuddlesby ignored the suspicion Lord Sebastian, or Sebbie as he begged her to call him, resorted to the paint pot, and flirted with him over her fan.
Upstairs, Henrietta and the duke entered his bedchamber. Prestwich stood at attention in the doorway.
Winterton hurried ahead of her, opening the door to a large cage standing in one corner. Henrietta scratched Sir Polly Grey’s head, much to the bird’s contentment, and popped him into his cage without any trouble.
Jumping from perch to perch, Sir Polly proclaimed gleefully in the seventh Duke of Winterton’s voice, “Giles. A suitable gel.”
Henrietta’s mouth dropped open in an unladylike manner. “He spoke! Sir Polly Grey can talk!”
The duke smiled grimly. “Yes, much as I wish he could not.”
“But what did he mean? And that cultured voice. It sounded like that of a grand old man.” She turned to gaze at the amazing parrot.
The bird fell mercifully silent and began eating seeds like an ordinary member of the avian family.
The duke fingered the ruby pin nestled in his cravat. “Er, never mind, Miss Lanford. Tell me, have you learned anything about the ring?”
“Oh, you could never imagine it, your grace,” Henrietta began eagerly. “Lady Fuddlesby had a paste copy made of her pink tourmaline ring. She intended to keep it for sentimental reasons, selling the genuine ring, which is quite valuable, I suppose, to Lord Mawbly.”
“Good God,” uttered the duke. “How did you find this out?”
“Her ladyship’s maid, Felice, had the copy made, and she told me everything. Somehow, before Lady Fuddlesby turned the ring over to Lord Mawbly, the paste and the genuine rings were switched.” Henrietta lowered her head. “My assumption her ladyship sold the ring in order to pay for my ball proved to be correct.”
The duke reached out a hand, and his fingers raised her chin. “Remember, it was Lady Fuddlesby’s decision. She obviously cares for you a great deal and will enjoy holding the entertainment in your honor.”
Henrietta looked up at him uncertainly. “I guess you are right, but I cannot help feeling as though I do not deserve such a sacrifice on Lady Fuddlesby’s part. She has been so kind to me already.”
“It is not for you to determine whether or not you deserve it, Miss Lanford.” Dropping his hand to his side, the duke said, “Come, every pretty young miss must have her own ball. Now all we must do is contrive to end this muddle with the rings by switching them back again.”
Henrietta reached for her reticule, saying, “I brought the genuine ring with me. Oh, goodness, I left it in my reticule downstairs.”
“No matter. Lord Mawbly will have to bring me the paste before we can carry out the switch,” the duke pronounced.
Disappointed, Henrietta cried, “I thought Lord Mawbly had already given it to you and we could make the exchange tonight. I dare not leave the genuine ring with you, lest Lady Fuddlesby notice its disappearance before I can replace it with the paste.”
The duke ran a hand through his dark hair. “In that case, you must keep the real stone until I can secure the paste from Mawbly. I shall call on you when I have it. We must return downstairs before our lengthy absence causes comment.”
Henrietta suddenly became acutely aware of where she was. Before, her concentration had been on Sir Polly, and then the contretemps with the ring. Now the massive bed with its dark red velvet hangings loomed in front of her. Unbidden, an image of the duke reclining on the velvet bedspread with his arms outstretched to her appeared in her mind. She felt intense heat rush to her cheeks at the improper vision.
The duke took her arm, and Henrietta was half-disappointed when he led her toward the door. They walked with Prestwich downstairs to the drawing room.
Entering the room, Henrietta noticed her aunt flirting with Lord Sebastian. Upon closer inspection of the scene, she decided Lady Fuddlesby’s face looked flushed, and she was giggling like a young girl.
Frowning, Henrietta started to cross the room to her aunt’s side when dinner was announced. Sir Tommy appeared at her side to lead her in.
“Not the thing for me to say, Miss Lanford, but you look a caring sort of person. Appears your aunt is a trifle foxed. Been tippling the wine while you were upstairs with Winterton. No need to become alarmed, though, she’s safe with Sebbie. Cares too much for his clothes, Sebbie does, but he’s a right ’un.”
“Thank you, Sir Tommy. My aunt does not usually take more than a glass of wine. I fear she is upset this evening, and I appreciate your concern.”
Henrietta thought the dining room a miracle of gleaming wood, hothouse flowers, crystal chandeliers, and luxurious plate. Sections had been taken out of a table she imagined could fill the large room, but now seated the ten people comfortably.
Sir Tommy held out a chair, and Henrietta seated herself. An impressive silver epergne depicting cherubs holding fruits stood in the middle of the table, partially blocking Henrietta’s view of the other guests down the table.
Lord Sebastian sat on her right and Sir Tommy on her left. She noticed the duke sat at one end of the table and Matilda at the other. Happily, Lady Fuddlesby sat on the duke’s left, with the colonel beside her. Perhaps the colonel would have an opportunity to redeem himself.
Footmen stood behind each guest’s chair, the duke not following the trend in some houses for the dishes to be placed upon the table, and passed from person to person. Henrietta quietly thanked a footman who served her with turtle soup and filled her wineglass.
She heard her aunt’s voice, louder than usual, addressing the duke. “Thank you, your grace,
Knight has indeed recovered from his ordeal. I have been thinking how wonderful it would be to commission Thomas Lawrence to paint the little dear’s portrait. You know I dote on Knight more than any male in the world.”
Lady Fuddlesby had partially turned her back to the colonel, sitting next to her, but this remark was obviously intended for his ears. The military man shifted in his chair, ill at ease.
Henrietta could not hear what the duke replied to her ladyship’s declaration.
Lady Clorinda, sitting across from Henrietta, shot her a nasty look while she said to Colonel Colchester, “I am afraid I cannot admire cats, sir, although I believe Lady Fuddlesby’s animal must be superior.”
The colonel paid her no heed since he was busy trying to get Lady Fuddlesby’s attention. Her ladyship refused to acknowledge him.
Clorinda turned away to speak to her father, seated at her left. Lord Mawbly’s brow was damp and his face flushed. Every few moments he glanced down the table to where his wife sat next to the duke.
Henrietta decided she was neglecting her own table partners, and turned to Lord Sebastian on her right. “My lord, your coat is a handsome shade of blue.”
Lord Sebastian’s face brightened. Compliments on his dress were sure to endear the speaker to him. “Devilish good of you to say so, Miss Lanford, and while I agree with you, I must tell you the shade is not nearly as ravishing as the blue of your eyes.”
Henrietta stiffened, then chided herself for her reaction. Lord Sebastian’s comment was surely a
harmless flirtation. She was just not the sort who could play the coquette, and her experience with Lord Baddick’s practiced phrases had left her wary.
After a moment she was able to reply calmly, “Thank you, my lord. Are you in Town for the Season or do you reside in London year round?”
They conversed amiably about the merits of Town life, and Henrietta discovered Lord Sebastian was the rare dandy who also enjoyed spending time in the country. During their talk, she found her gaze drifting frequently to his lordship’s cravat where an unusually ugly pin rested in the snowy folds. It was fashioned to depict a peacock displaying its full colors, and was comprised of a riot of garish, multicolored stones. Henrietta longed to ask him about it, but felt by doing so she would be expected to compliment him on it, which she could not. The thought crossed her mind the pin was an allusion to dandyism, and she hastily turned a giggle into a muffled cough.
The meal lasted quite two hours, and when the covers were being removed, the dowager duchess said, “I know we ladies are supposed to leave the gentlemen to their port, but since we are a small party I insist we abandon the custom and retire to the drawing room as a group.”
Lord Mawbly made a choking sound, casting a desperate glance at the duke, but Winterton’s attentions were focused on helping an unsteady Lady Fuddlesby rise from her chair. She required assistance from the room, but refused the colonel’s arm, taking the duke’s instead.
Matilda placed her hand on the colonel’s arm, saying, “You may escort me, Owen.”
Colonel Colchester, frustrated with what he thought was Lady Fuddlesby’s unreasonable behavior in the face of what was, for his part, only good manners to an old friend, gruffly replied, “Yes, I shall, Matilda.”
Glancing triumphantly at Clara Fuddlesby, Matilda turned to the colonel. “Owen, after all these years, one would think you would call me Tilly.”
As he observed the tension between his godfather and Lady Fuddlesby, Winterton’s eyes met Henrietta’s and they exchanged a grieved look. Henrietta took Lord Sebastian’s arm since Lady Clorinda had claimed Sir Tommy.
Lady Mawbly did not put the same strictures on herself regarding the niceties of conversation as Henrietta did. While everyone was leaving the room, she advanced on Lord Sebastian and said, “My lord, sitting across from you during dinner, I could not help but notice your pin. Wherever did you find such a thing?”
Taking the lady’s interest as flattery, Lord Sebastian proudly explained, “My manor house is called Peacock Hall. I commissioned Rundell and Bridge to make this pin in its honor.”
Lady Mawbly crinkled her nose in obvious distaste. “Rundell and Bridge made that?”
The insult hit its intended target. Red-faced with anger, Lord Sebastian drew himself up to his full height and escorted Henrietta from the room.
Lord Mawbly groaned aloud at his wife’s farouche behavior.
Once again in the drawing room, the dowager duchess claimed everyone’s attention. “We have an accomplished singer here among us this evening. Lady Clorinda has graciously agreed to perform a ballad, and Lady Mawbly will accompany her on the pianoforte.”
“Lud, not again,” slurred Lady Fuddlesby before she sank down onto a settee. Henrietta hurried to sit beside her.
Matilda and the colonel sat on the settee opposite them.
Sir Tommy, quite used to listening to young misses sing, assumed an expression of polite attention.
Lord Sebastian, still embittered over Lady Mawbly’s crass remark, crossed his arms across his chest and sat back, resigned, in his chair.
The duke leaned negligently against the fireplace.
Lord Mawbly quickly traversed the room and was almost at the duke’s side when his wife’s voice stopped him midstride. “Silias! You may turn the pages for me.”
Trembling, Lord Mawbly ventured, “Must I, Lady Mawbly? I wish to speak with the duke.”
Hester stood before the pianoforte glaring at her husband. “You cannot wish to speak while our daughter is singing. Come here at once.”
Like a whipped dog, Lord Mawbly obeyed.
Lady Mawbly sat down at the pianoforte and removed her gloves.
She began to play, and Lady Clorinda stood bashfully by, eyes downcast, singing a sweet ballad. None of her posturing at Lady Chatterton’s musicale was present tonight.
The duke’s mind was on Miss Lanford. How luminous her ivory skin appeared against the shining satin of her gown. When she had arrived this evening, he detected an apprehensive air about her. But after the adventure with Sir Polly Grey, she had relaxed and conversed easily with the other guests.
Clearly his mother held the girl in dislike, but
Giles found, to his surprise, that he did not care. Instead, he wondered about the uncomfortable twist in his stomach when he saw Miss Lanford seated at the table between Lord Sebastian and Sir Tommy. Seeing her give her attention to the gentlemen had caused him to lose his appetite, partaking of little of the food painstakingly prepared, an act that had, no doubt, angered his French cook.
These musings were abruptly cut off by Lord Mawbly’s sudden throat-clearing. The duke looked up and found the heavily perspiring man darting his gaze back and forth from his wife’s hand to the duke’s face.
Curiously Winterton looked at Lady Mawbly’s hand. The paste copy of Lady Fuddlesby’s pink tourmaline ring winked at him in the candlelight.