As Georgina mounted the stairs to her bedchamber, Olivia would have followed, had not Sir Harry laid his gloved hand on her arm to detain her.
“Yes?” she asked, looking beyond the female garb and powdered wig to the man she knew lurked beneath. “What is it?”
Sir Harry stroked his jaw in a gesture so achingly familiar that, had she not already guessed his secret, surely would have given him away. “My dear, if you are in some sort of trouble, had you best not tell Harry? He—he is—quite fond of you, you know.”
I
should not mention any of this to Sir Harry. . . Things might be the worse for him, if you do. . . .
Lord Mannerly’s parting words hung between them like a tangible presence.
“No,” said Olivia, shaking her head. “‘Tis nothing. Good night, Lady Hawthorne.” She began to turn away, then on sudden impulse, turned back and kissed Harry’s painted cheek.
Fighting the urge to take her in his arms, Sir Harry watched in silence as she climbed the stairs. “Fond,” he muttered contemptuously after she had disappeared from view at the top of the landing. What an inane, insipid, totally inadequate word! He was fond of riding, hunting, and whist; he was not, nor had he ever been, fond of Olivia Darby. He was in love with her, passionately and desperately in love, and he chafed under the knowledge that he, trapped in the charade he had begun with the best of intentions, was powerless to help her in her distress.
That it had something to do with Lord Mannerly, he was certain. He was sensitive now to Olivia’s moods in a way he had never been before, and although she had seemed somewhat melancholy earlier in the evening, she had certainly not been distraught until her
tête-à-tête
with Mannerly. Sir Harry’s mouth took on a grim aspect. He had known from the first that Mannerly would be trouble.
As he mounted the stairs in Olivia’s wake, a plan began to form in his mind. If she would not confide in “Lady Hawthorne,” perhaps he could prevail upon her to confide in Sir Harry. He would send “Lady Hawthorne” out tomorrow on some pretext, then return to his Stratton Street lodgings for a change of clothes before paying a formal call in Curzon Street. Lastly, he would profess his undying love for Olivia, and beg her to grant him the opportunity to prove it. And if that proof should call for running Mannerly through with a sword or putting a bullet through his brain at Paddington Green, so much the better. He had been spoiling for the opportunity ever since that first night at Almack’s when he had seen his Livvy in the marquess’s arms.
Feeling more cheerful already, he took off the offending slippers and strode boldly to his room to give instructions to Higgins.
Chapter Twelve
Necessity never made a good bargain. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN,
Poor Richard’s Almanac
Olivia did not rise from her bed before noon, having passed a restless night disturbed by troubling dreams—when, indeed, she was able to sleep at all. When at last she arrived at the breakfast table, she was met with the information that Lady Hawthorne had gone out on a shopping expedition. For this Olivia was grateful; she feared she lacked the strength to be all day in Sir Harry’s company without breaking down and confessing the whole, to his everlasting downfall.
The cheery breakfast room, decorated in sunny shades of yellow and white, seemed to mock Olivia’s despair. She poured herself a cup of chocolate and took a seat at the table, where she toyed with a slice of toast and made a desultory attempt at conversation with her future sister-in-law. Georgina, too, was unusually reticent and continued so even after breakfast, seemingly preoccupied with her needlework and her own thoughts. On any other occasion, this might have evoked comment, but on this particular day, Olivia’s mind was too taken up with her own dilemma to notice the megrims of another.
What had she done to poor Harry, and whatever was she to do now? If only she had listened when he had warned her to have nothing to do with Mannerly! To be sure, it was Harry who would suffer the most if he were exposed. Olivia cared little for her own reputation, for if their unseemly living arrangements were to be discovered, the only result for her would be a hasty marriage and a discreet removal to the country—precisely what she had wished for all along. But how could she subject Harry to the scorn of the very society in which he thrived? Such a course of action was too contemptible to contemplate.
On the other hand, if she submitted to Lord Mannerly’s nefarious scheme, it would be tantamount to planting cuckold’s horns on Harry’s head before he had even reached the altar. It was even possible that, some nine months after the “brief assignation” of which the marquess spoke, she might present Harry with an heir who was not even his child, but Mannerly’s. Every feeling revolted at such an act of betrayal! But could she in all honor do less, to protect him from utter ruin?
The early post brought some slight distraction in the form of a letter from Mrs. Darby. Olivia’s hopes soared. Lord Mannerly had “suggested” that she not tell Harry of his intentions, but he had said nothing about not telling her mama. Eagerly she broke the seal and scanned the crossed and re-crossed lines. Liza and her son were both doing well, it seemed, and George, her husband, was expected to return within the week. Barring any complications, Mrs. Darby hoped to rejoin her daughter in London by Tuesday next. She trusted her daughter and Georgina were enjoying their Season, and could not sufficiently express her gratitude to Lady Hawthorne for taking the girls under her wing.
Olivia’s hopes plummeted once more. Her mama would be devastated if she discovered she had left her daughter to the chaperonage of none other than her intended bridegroom, and Olivia was not at all certain she could depend upon her mother to keep her distress suitably private. No, she had best not write to her mama. But, she thought, perhaps there was another to whom she could turn for assistance.
Hurrying to the drawing room, she seated herself at an elegant rosewood writing table and, after locating vellum and a quill, began to write:
My dear Lady Hawthorne, I beg you will forgive my impertinence in writing to you, but I feel it my duty to inform you that your grandson and my fiancé. Sir Harry Hawthorne, has fallen into difficulties from which you alone would seem to have the power to extricate him. . . .
Olivia’s quill fairly flew across the page, as the whole story of her foolish whim, Sir Harry’s masquerade, and her current dilemma came pouring out. When she had finished, she sealed the letter and summoned a footman.
“Charles, see that this is delivered to Lady Hawthorne—that is, Lady Hawthorne’s
lodgings
in Laura Place, Bath. The messenger is to ride all night, if necessary, but this letter must be delivered without delay.”
“Yes, miss.” Having received the sealed missive, Charles shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. “Er, begging your pardon, miss, but won’t Lady Hawthorne’s lodgings be empty, her ladyship being in Town?”
“Nonsense! Lady Hawthorne employs a—a companion, who remains in residence there,” replied Olivia, improvising rapidly. “Now, be on your way, and quickly!”
The footman set out on his errand, and Olivia let out a long breath. The letter was on its way. If only it might reach its destination before it was too late!
One by one the minutes slipped slowly by, until the time came for Olivia to meet Lord Mannerly and give him the answer that would determine Sir Harry’s fate. She allowed her maid to outfit her in a gray walking dress of no particular style or beauty, so as not to call undue attention to herself, and had just finished tying the strings of her bonnet when the door knocker sounded. A moment later Sir Harry stood before her, every inch the Town beau in a blue coat of Bath superfine, pantaloons of a delicate yellow hue, and gleaming Hessian boots. To Olivia, the very sight of him was like a knife in her bosom. How could she give herself to Lord Mannerly when her heart belonged only to Harry? And yet, how could she save her virtue at his expense?
“Why, Harry, what a pleasant surprise,” said Olivia with a pathetic attempt at a smile. “What brings you here?”
“What better reason than to see you?” Sir Harry replied gallantly, taking her gloved hands in his.
If he had harbored any doubts about Olivia’s mental state, her appearance would have certainly put them to rest. Her fine eyes held a hunted look, and seemed overly large in her pale and drawn face. Dark half-circles underneath testified to a sleepless night. Sir Harry, far from being repulsed by her haggard appearance, found all his protective instincts fully aroused.
“But I am fortunate not to have missed you,” he continued, wisely keeping these unflattering observations to himself. “Are you going out?”
Olivia darted a furtive glance at the clock. It would never do to be late; Lord Mannerly might think she was not coming. “Indeed, I am, as you can see.”
She tried to draw her hands from Sir Harry’s grasp, but his fingers only tightened over hers. “Can it not wait? There is something particular I must tell you—”
“I—I’m afraid it can’t.”
“In that case, dismiss your maid, and I shall escort you,” persisted Sir Harry.
“I should not wish to impose—”
“ ‘Tis no imposition, I assure you.”
“I—I am only going shopping for gloves and stockings and the like,” fudged Olivia. “You would be shockingly bored.”
“Believe me, Livvy, I could never be bored in your company.”
Olivia cast another glance at the clock. She would have to hurry to make her rendezvous in time. How long would Mannerly wait before working his mischief?
“For heaven’s sake, Harry,” she cried in desperation, “for my first month in London, you seemed to have forgotten my existence, and now you wish to shadow my every move! Can you not see that I prefer to be alone?”
Pain flared ever so briefly in Sir Harry’s eyes before his face became a mask, devoid of all emotion. “You have made that abundantly plain,” he said with crushing formality. “And so I bid you good day, madam.”
Olivia could only watch miserably as Sir Harry turned without another word and quitted the house. Unfortunately, she had not the luxury of repining for what might have been, for the hands of the large hall clock inched ever closer to three, and she dared not keep Lord Mannerly waiting.
“Come, Mary,” she said to her servant, and mistress and maid left the house in Sir Harry’s wake.
They had progressed some way down the street when a fashionably clad figure emerged from the corner whence he had once scaled the wall to the window. Something havey-cavey was going on, and Sir Harry Hawthorne intended to find out what it was. He waited until Olivia was some distance ahead, then fell into step behind her.
* * * *
So quick were Olivia’s steps that both she and her maid were out of breath by the time they reached their destination. Once the royal playground of the Hanovers, Kensington Gardens had been opened to the public in the last century, but the absence of the Court had eventually robbed the Gardens of their appeal. The
beau monde
rarely frequented Kensington anymore, and Olivia assumed this was precisely the reason the marquess had selected it as a rendezvous. She recalled that Princess Lieven had gone so far as to say that good society no longer visited the Gardens except to drown itself. If these unfortunates had found themselves in circumstances half so dire as her own, reflected Olivia, gazing at the Long Water which separated the Gardens from the more fashionable Hyde Park, she could easily see the appeal.
Instructing her maid to wait for her, she set out down one of the grassed walks in the direction of the Round Pond, which she judged to be a likely meeting place. In this assessment she was correct, for it was here that, a short time later, Lord Mannerly joined her.
“Ah, Miss Darby,” he said, bowing over her hand. “I had quite given you up.”
“I was—delayed,” she offered by way of explanation, remembering the pain in Harry’s eyes at her curt dismissal.
The marquess drew her hand through his arm, and they set out together along the grassy walk. When he spoke again, it was as offhand as if he were discussing something of no more importance than the weather. “And have you considered my offer, Miss Darby?”
Olivia stared fixedly ahead, avoiding her companion’s gaze. “I have.”
“And what decision have you reached?”
She took a deep breath. “I have elected to accept your terms, my lord.”
“A wise decision, my dear, and one which I am sure you will not regret.”
Olivia could not let this comment pass unchallenged. “I fear I cannot share your confidence, sir, but since you give me no choice—”
The marquess’s eyebrows rose in mock surprise. “No choice? My dear, you wound me to the quick! Did I not offer you
two
alternatives from which to choose?”
“You did,” conceded Olivia, transferring her gaze to her kid half-boots.
“And did you not select the one you found preferable?”
Her reply was little more than a whisper. “Yes.”
“Good! For a moment there you alarmed me. Now that that is settled, we have only to work out the particulars. There is to be a masquerade at Vauxhall Gardens on Monday night. Meet me at the pavilion at midnight, and wear a white domino. We shall conduct our business, and then I shall return you to your party before you are missed.”
“I haven’t a white domino,” put in Olivia, not without satisfaction.
Having come so close to the achievement of his ambition, Lord Mannerly was not about to surrender over a mere matter of dress. “I shall consider it an honor to provide you with one,” he replied.
“I have heard that masquerades are not at all the thing,” persisted Olivia. “What if—my duenna—will not allow me to attend?”
“Come, come, my dear,” chided the marquess. “You must know that Sir Harry will deny you nothing. I am sure you will be able to bring him around.”
“And if I cannot?”
Mannerly shrugged. “If I find myself alone at midnight with nothing to occupy me, who knows what mischief I might find with which to busy myself? Idle hands, as Miss Hawthorne might say, are the devil’s workshop, you know.”