In Interlaken, Hope might have been ridiculed. The neighbors would agree that she’d received her comeuppance for being so choosy about picking a husband. Here in London, though, only Nancy and this gentleman knew of her prior attachment. Nancy would never speak of it, and Mr. Arthur would never betray her.
“Artur.” A piercing voice cut through the clatter and chatter of the busy dining parlor. “Artur,
liebchen
!”
Ah, the unkindest cut of all. “Vere ist you,
liebchen
?”
Arthur raised his eyes to where the princess was waving her napkin at him. He had to go. Henrika would make a scene, else. She and the temperamental French chef ought to make a match of it, he thought. “Duty calls,” he told the Thurstfield ladies, with regret.
Trying to sound nonchalant and unfazed, Hope said, “Of course,” and forced herself to bring a forkful of food to her mouth.
He bowed and headed toward the princess’s table.
Et tu, Brute?
Arthur did not think of how he must appear, awkward as a three-legged turtle, tapping his way across the room. He thought only of the hurt in his darling’s eyes. When he reached Henrika, she stood and threw her arms around him, kissing first one cheek, then the other. “Sit, sit,
liebchen
.”
Then she switched to German, begging him to join her, as these English lords had no fire in them, not like her so-gallant Arthur. She waved a scowling Sir Malcolm off to an empty chair so Arthur might have the favored one, beside her. As the baronet stood with his wineglass in hand to switch seats, Arthur managed to stumble, unfortunately letting his cane swing up to knock Fredenham’s hand. The red wine spilled down the front of his white inexpressibles. “
Ja, ja,
go change,” the princess said, dismissing Sir Malcolm. “Mine
engel
Artur keeps me company.”
Nancy and Hope took turns peeking at the luminaries’ table, which most of the waiters were tripping over themselves to serve. “Now do you believe that Mr. Arthur is not simply a glorified clerk?”
Nancy clucked her tongue. “He does seem to be on familiar terms with royalty, doesn’t he?”
“Familiar? If she was any more familiar she’d be sitting on his lap. I’d wager they were lovers.”
Nancy choked on a morsel of mushroom, but Hope went on. “And I’d bet her influence got him his position at the hotel. Yes, and he’s likely interested in her money, just like Sir Malcolm.” And just, Hope thought with a pang, like they had both shown herself flattering attention. “It stands to reason, for whatever circumstances forced Mr. Arthur into working for wages, he cannot wish to remain a hotel manager all his days.”
“Never say he hopes to cozen her into marriage? He is devilishly handsome, but a workingman and a princess? That sounds like a child’s fairy tale.”
“No, I daresay even the audacious Mr. Arthur does not aim so high. I suppose he’s merely trying to feather his nest at the princess’s expense. Selling his favors like a…a light skirt.”
“Never say so! Oh, my airs and archangels, he’s a gentleman.”
“My arse.” Hope excused her language. “Your Mr. Arthur is a libertine. At least he is as tall as the Saxon siren. Come, Nancy, my stomach is quite turned by such licentious behavior. I daresay any lady would be offended.”
Especially one who very much feared that
now
her heart was broken.
8
That proper attire be worn at all times.
Arthur could not call Sir Malcolm out, for a duel would only drag Miss Thurstfield’s name through the mud. So he got rid of the muckworm by the simple expedient of taking the baronet’s place as the royal fraulein’s favorite. That was Captain Hunter’s assignment, after all; putting paid to Fredenham’s plans was his pleasure. Speaking of pleasure, the captain did not take Sir Malcolm’s place in Henrika’s bed, protesting that his leg could not manage the climb to her chamber, that he was not yet strong enough for the vigorous bedplay she favored. No one man was. Arthur thought, in fact, that he might just be saving the baronet’s life.
Sir Malcolm was busy trying to save his skin. Once the duns saw that the baronet was out of favor with his wealthy patroness, they were after him like hounds on a fox. Fredenham attempted to reattach Miss Thurstfield’s affections and her pocketbook—thin though it was compared to what he needed—but somehow she was never available. His messages requesting an interview never reached her suite, his notes begging for her forgiveness got misplaced at the manager’s office, and the room number he was repeatedly given was repeatedly wrong. Unless he was ready to knock on every door in the hotel, Sir Malcolm was not going to visit his onetime meal ticket in her chambers. He could have waited in the lobby for her coming or going, but the bill collectors were gathering there. After a sennight of using the kitchen entry, and being threatened every time with the
chef’s
butcher knife for disturbing Monsieur DuPré’s creative efforts, Sir Malcolm was forced to flee London. He left without a wealthy, well-born bride. He did manage to get a ride in the carriage of a banker’s widow from Harrogate, twice Hope’s age, half as rich.
Arthur could not enjoy routing the enemy. For one thing he was too busy escorting the indefatigable Hafkesprinke contingent to every social event and tourist site. For another, he was having as hard a time seeing Miss Thurstfield as Sir Malcolm had. She had been taken up by Lord and Lady Leverett, who seemed intent on introducing Hope to every Tom, Dick, and half-pay officer in Town. They did not attend the same functions, and their paths seldom
crossed
in
the hotel.
Not that seeing Hope would have availed him aught but the ague. The few times he did chance upon her, icicles dripped from her well-mannered greeting. At least she had not left Town. According to Browne, who had it from Mrs. Storke, a clod of a countryman was waiting to drag her to the altar there.
Just a week or so more, he calculated. The celebrations were winding down, the foreigners were returning to their countries, the
ton
to their estates. The day after his sister-in-law’s ball he’d be free of the princess, free of the army. And free to court Miss Hope Thurstfield.
*
Hope decided to stay on in London, even though she was taking no pleasure in the sight-seeing or shopping or endless celebrations of Napoleon’s abdication. If she’d seen one military parade, she’d seen twenty, it seemed, and fireworks were magical the first night. By the sixth night, they were just loud. But she stayed in Town, for her father’s plans for her were even more dismal.
And she stayed on because she’d been invited to a grand ball at one of London’s finest houses. Who knew, but the man of her dreams just might come waltz her off her feet. Hope doubted that would happen, for the man who was interrupting her sleep at night—and disturbing her days—did not dance. He limped through her fantasies. And sailed off with his behemoth barque of frailty.
Hope did some additional sight-seeing, visiting properties with a land agent, to see if she could afford a house of her own. She could not. Even if Hope could convince Papa to let her set up an independent establishment, though, Lady Leverett convinced her that she would be considered no better than she ought to be, a social outcast. Young women simply did not live alone. Hope had no desire to do so, either, but she had few choices. Her father would have apoplexy if she suggested finding a position, and she was not suited to be a governess or a companion anyway. Which left marriage.
If Hope was not to experience the love of a man, at least she wanted children to lavish her affection on.
Her little dog Trumpet was all well and good for cuddling and cooing, but she could not read him her favorite books, or braid his hair, or rock him in her arms. She’d be a good mother. Whether she’d be a good wife was less certain. The idea of begetting the infants of her imagination with any of the men she was meeting was sickening. Besides, her air-castle cherubs all had blond hair and blue eyes—and uneven gaits.
Hope studied the thick vellum invitation again. She did not know Viscountess Huntingdon. She did not even know the young lady who was to be among the evening’s three honorees, or the lieutenant also mentioned in the fine copperplate. She did know the last name, and had no desire to spend the evening in company with the Austrian Amazon. Or her inamorato, Mr. Arthur.
According to Lady Leverett, however, the ball should be such a sad crush that she’d never spot anyone in the crowd. With so many of the Quality gone to their summer residences, Lady Huntingdon had invited everyone of note still in London to fill her rooms. Hope had to attend, the older woman insisted, for how else was she to meet eligible
partis
?
Not loitering in hotel lobbies, for certain!
Hope decided to go, but not as anybody’s country cousin. Or a heart-sore henwit. She cut her hair into short curls, despite Nancy’s protests. Cropped hair was all the rage, Hope declared, and much cooler for the summer heat. She sent for her jewelry, all of it, and picked out a diamond and sapphire parure, then she found the most expensive couturier in London to create a gown to match the blue, with brilliants sewn across the silver lace overskirt. Miss Thurstfield even learned how to apply the hare’s foot with a delicate hand so no one could detect the cosmetics, the darkened lashes, or the pinkened cheeks. She couldn’t hope to compete with the Hafkesprinke heiress—a tallow candle might as well try to outshine the sun—but she knew she looked her best when the night of the ball finally came around.
So did Mr. Arthur. The enormous line waiting to greet their host and hostess almost came to a complete halt as Hope stood frozen on the steps leading to the Huntingdon House ballroom.
She had expected him to be there, of course, since Princess Henrika and her advisers and ladies in waiting and hangers-on were already enthroned on a raised dais near the orchestra. But Hope had not expected the hotel manager to be on the receiving line. Her mind went numb, along with her feet.
She had never expected him to be in uniform, either, no, not even if Lady Huntingdon had hired him for the night to manage her ball as efficiently as he and Mr. Simmons managed the Grand Hotel. But this was not the navy blue and white hotel livery she was used to, not by half. She thought for a moment he might somehow be that Lieutenant Thomas Durbin named on the invitation, but even at this distance there seemed too much gold on his coat, too many medals and ribbons and epaulets for a mere lieutenant. Nothing made sense. Hope tried to turn to leave, but the press of people was too great. She tried to find Lady Leverett and her husband, but they’d become separated in the crush. Nancy had said she’d find her own way to the chaperones’ corner, when they gave their wraps. Hope was alone, and totally at sea. Drowning.
Then the bewigged butler called her name and people behind her shoved forward until she stumbled, practically at his feet. He took her hand and raised it to his lips. The delight that crossed his handsome face, the smile that was brighter than the enormous chandelier above them, would have gladdened Hope’s heart, if that organ was not also numb. Her dear Mr. Arthur was a complete charlatan. An impostor, a deceiver. Whoever he was.
“How do you do,
Mr.
Arthur?”
“I can explain, Miss Thurstfield, I swear. Please save me the first dance.”
“What, you are not injured, either?”
He raised his cane so she could see at least part of his act was real. “I meant we could talk then. Please?” Before she could answer—a refusal, of course—the butler cleared his throat.
“Oh, yes, we need to move this confounded thing along. May I present you to my sister-in-law, Lady Huntingdon.”
So he was related to the aristocracy. Her instincts, at least, had been correct. Perhaps he was Viscount Huntingdon’s younger brother, an impecunious second son, taking up the hotel trade to support his expensive style of living. Hope was still trying to find some rationale, some excuse, she knew. She looked beyond him on the receiving line. “And your brother is…?”
“Sadly departed, I am sorry to say.” He addressed the rotund, ruby-draped female standing next to him: “Sylvia, here is the young lady I told you about.” Lady Huntingdon snorted, holding her lorgnette up to inspect Hope. “You mean the one you asked five times if she accepted my invite? How do you do, Miss Thurstfield? Arthur’s been singing your praises. Call on me tomorrow.” And she looked past Hope to the next person on line.
To the devil with protocol. Those overdressed, overperfumed prigs on the steps could just wait their turn. “Arthur? Not Mr. Arthur?”
He flushed. “I am sorry, it just happened. I did not wish to embarrass either of us. It’s actually Arthur Everitt Halliday Hunter, Captain, but there’s more. I’m afraid I am—”
“His Grace, the Duke of Wellington,” the butler intoned. The crowd on the stairs parted like the Red Sea, and Hope had to step aside before Lady Huntingdon trampled her on the way to take the general’s hand. The last glimpse Hope had before she was swept into the ballroom was of the nation’s hero sharing salutes, then slaps on the back, with her hotel manager.
Hope snatched a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. Then she grabbed another glass. If she’d dared, she would have seized the entire tray. It would not have been enough. By now, of course, she’d heard enough whispers and wisps of conversations to winkle out the enormity of her witlessness. What a fool he had made of her, this vaunted viscount. If she hid behind a potted palm and drank champagne, perhaps it would soon be time to leave. Or perhaps she’d pass out first. Either one was preferable to facing the two-faced fustian-flinger. Three-faced if she added his military career to that of clerk and peer of the realm.