Olivia did not linger long enough to thank her rescuer, but ran back up the Grand Walk in the direction she had come, all thoughts of her meeting with Lord Mannerly driven from her mind by fear and overwrought nerves. Upon reaching a safe distance, she looked back, wondering if perhaps it had been Lord Mannerly who had come to her rescue—how ironic
that
would have been!—but one glance informed her that this gentleman was not tall enough to be the marquess. Then, upon seeing him take two or three resolute steps in her direction, she picked up her skirts and fled.
* * * *
Sir Harry, having neatly disposed of Olivia’s unwanted suitor, pushed back the man’s hood and was disappointed to discover that the gentleman lying unconscious on the ground was not, in fact, Lord Mannerly. He should have guessed, he thought bitterly. Had it been Mannerly, would Olivia have struggled in his embrace? Suddenly he could tolerate the uncertainty no longer; he had to hear from her own lips whether or not she loved the marquess. Seeing her pause, he started in her direction, but she only hastened her retreat, and although he followed, he quickly lost sight of her in the crowd.
If Sir Harry had thought life could hold no more painful sight than that of his own Livvy fleeing from him in terror, he was soon to discover his mistake. As he approached the pavilion, the gleam of white satin caught his eye, and the scene that unfolded before him froze him in his tracks. Near the entrance to the pavilion waited a lady in white, the hood of her domino pulled forward so as to conceal her face. A tall man in a black domino approached her, raising her hand to his lips in salutation. Then, the lady nodding her assent, he drew her hand through his arm and the pair made their way toward the gates at the entrance to the garden.
Olivia’s apparent submissiveness moved Sir Harry in a way that her earlier resistance had not. When he had seen her struggling in the arms of a stranger, he had been hot with fury; now he felt chilled to the very core of his being. Well, he was not going to give her up without a fight! Resolutely he pushed his way through the crowd, unmindful of the glaring looks he received from gentlemen whom he had jostled or ladies upon whose hems he had trodden.
He reached the garden entrance just in time to see a nondescript hired carriage go by at a brisk pace. Lord Mannerly’s carriage, he knew, had his crest emblazoned on the panel, but whatever else Mannerly might be, he was not fool enough to attempt an elopement in a vehicle so easily recognized. Hailing a passing hackney, Sir Harry startled the driver by climbing up beside him on the box and seizing the reins from his slackened grasp.
Sir Harry was by no means a contemptible whip, and indeed might have stood some chance of overtaking his quarry, had he not been cut off by an antiquated landaulet filled with masked parvenus, all in high spirits either from the gardens’ famed rack punch or from the satisfaction of a night spent among the Quality. They showed no inclination to hurry home from their night of revelry, but progressed up the Vauxhall Bridge Road at a leisurely pace which inspired Sir Harry to air a vocabulary which had not been fully exercised since his Oxford days.
* * * *
Olivia, meanwhile, reached the pavilion just in time to see the cloaked and masked Lord Mannerly—for surely it could be no one else—offer his arm to a lady in a white domino. No, it could not be! She could not allow Lord Mannerly to take the wrong woman, for not only would an innocent female be ruined, but the marquess would believe that she herself had intentionally arranged the switch, and poor Harry would be lost.
Unmindful of the leering glances of the masked men, she hurried toward the pavilion, but by the time she reached it, the marquess had absconded with his prey. As she stood wondering what to do next, a slight breeze stirred the shrubbery and fluttered the folds of a length of gray satin concealed therein. With a growing sense of unease, Olivia drew the length of fabric out of the greenery, and found herself holding Georgina’s gray domino. Her mind recoiled in horror from the implication: Lord Mannerly had taken Georgina!
Fighting the panic which threatened to overtake her, Olivia forced herself to think rationally. She must return to Curzon Street and tell Harry, who would no doubt feel compelled to challenge Lord Mannerly to a duel. Mannerly would probably shoot him, or run him through with a sword, and all her efforts to rescue him would have led instead to his destruction.
She shook her head to clear away the unwelcome images. This was not rational thinking at all! No, what she must do was return to Mrs. Brandemere and ask to be taken home. With a firm goal to work toward, she felt much calmer, and soon located the chaperone and her daughter inside the pavilion, where Miss Brandemere was dancing with an Elizabethan courtier while her mama beamed fondly at her daughter’s newest prospect.
“Mrs. Brandemere—” Olivia began.
“Just look at them, Miss Darby,” said the chaperone with a contented sigh. “Don’t they make a handsome pair?”
“Handsome, indeed,” agreed Olivia diplomatically. “Mrs. Brandemere, I hate to cut short your evening, but may I impose upon your hospitality and beg you to take me home?”
Instantly, Mrs. Brandemere was all concern. “Are you unwell, my dear? I told Lady Hawthorne it would not do. You must take better care of yourself, or—”
“It is not for myself that I ask, but for Miss Hawthorne,” interrupted Olivia, cutting short the lecture she knew was about to begin. “Georgina has suddenly taken ill.”
“Of course, we must take her home. But—where is she?”
“I—That is, Lord Mannerly very generously agreed to escort her,” Olivia improvised rapidly, hoping that, if Georgina were recognized, her explanation might scotch any scandal.
Throughout the drive home, Olivia offered deliberately vague replies to Mrs. Brandemere’s inquiries as to the nature and seriousness of Miss Hawthorne’s malady. Thankfully, the interrogation did not last long, as Mrs. Brandemere was soon distracted by the plodding pace of a carriage some distance ahead, as well as shocked by the colorful outpourings of a young man driving a hackney carriage.
“Depend upon it, some young pot-valiant who fancies himself a coachman,” remarked the offended chaperone in tones of deepest disapproval. “He is indeed fortunate the carriage is blocking his way, or he would have no doubt killed himself by now.”
Olivia returned no comment to this observation, too distressed over the fates of her future husband and his sister to be concerned with that of a stranger. At last the carriage set her down in Curzon Street, and she burst through the front door and into the drawing room, expecting to see Sir Harry there in his Lady Hawthorne garb. But the room was empty. Finding the dining room similarly unoccupied, she scurried up the stairs and searched the upstairs rooms, but to no avail: Harry was clearly not at home. Choking back a groan of frustration, she returned to the drawing room and gave the bell pull a tug.
“Coombes,” she said when the butler appeared, “where is Lady Hawthorne?”
“I cannot say, miss,” replied the butler. “She summoned a hackney immediately after you left, and has not returned.”
“And did he—
she—
say where she was going?”
“No, miss.”
“Very well, Coombes,” she said with a heavy sigh. “That will be all.”
Alone once more, there was nothing Olivia could do but pace the floor and await Sir Harry’s return. Perhaps, she thought, he had gone to his club. She knew he was a member of White’s, but she could hardly storm that male bastion and demand an audience. No, she could only wait and hope that he would not stay out all night. Back and forth she paced, with the white domino she had forgotten to take off billowing out behind her like a ship in full sail. At last tiring of this unproductive activity, she had just collapsed into a chair when a noise at the front of the house, followed by the sound of voices, startled her from her reverie. She leaped to her feet just as a familiar figure in powdered wig and plumed headdress entered the room, followed by a mousy female of indeterminate age whom Olivia had never seen before. Olivia, however, took no notice of this second arrival, for all her attention was focused on the first.
“Harry! Thank God you’ve come!” she cried, and without further ado flung her arms about the dowager’s neck.
But no welcoming arms enfolded her. Instead, the object of her ardor stiffened in her embrace, and an unfamiliar voice addressed her in stentorian tones.
“Miss Darby, I presume?”
“Oh!” Olivia leaped back, her face flaming. “I beg your pardon. You—you must be Lady Hawthorne.”
“Must I be? It seems to me there are quite enough of us already,” observed the dowager dryly.
“It was very good of you to come, my lady—”
“Nonsense! Now, where is my good-for-nothing grandson? I vow, I hope Georgina has more sense than her brother!”
“I don’t know where Harry has gone, and Georgina—” Olivia took a deep breath. “—Georgina has run off with the marquess of Mannerly.”
“Good heavens!” uttered Lady Hawthorne. “Have they gone to Gretna Green?”
“Believe me, ma’am, a Gretna marriage would be a blessing.” Olivia recounted the sordid story of the marquess’s proposed exchange, including details she had not seen fit to put down on paper. “I can only assume that Georgina somehow discovered his plans, and foolishly substituted herself.”
“It would appear that insanity runs in the family—on their mother’s side, no doubt. Tell me, Miss Darby, did Mannerly reveal where he intended to take you?”
“No, ma’am. He only said that he would return me after we—afterwards—before I was missed.”
“Then he cannot have taken her far. Miss Darby, you and I must first track down Georgina—we shall deal with Harry later. Mildred, you will stay here in case the prodigals return!”
Olivia paused only long enough to exchange her domino for a traveling cloak, then followed Lady Hawthorne to the carriage, which was still laden with the dowager’s and her companion’s bags. Lady Hawthorne gave instructions to the coachman, then joined Olivia within.
“We shall stop at every inn in the immediate vicinity of Vauxhall,” she explained as the carriage lurched forward. “Perhaps by the time we locate Georgina, Harry will have returned. My dear Miss Darby, you seem like a sensible young woman; why on earth would you wish to marry my ramshackle grandson?”
Olivia could think of a thousand reasons, but limited her answer to one. “As you are no doubt aware, my lady, Harry is impulsive to a fault. He needs a woman to take care of him—the more so because he fancies himself awake upon every suit.”
“And you are willing to shoulder such a burden?” asked the dowager in some surprise.
“Life could hold no greater happiness,” Olivia said simply.
“Well! You are an extraordinary young woman, Miss Darby. I only hope my grandson deserves you.”
Chapter Fifteen
Full bravely hast thou fleshed Thy maiden sword.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
Henry IV
Georgina, having fobbed Olivia off with a forged message directing her to a location at the opposite end of the gardens, arrived at the rendezvous well before the appointed hour. Here she divested herself of her gray domino to reveal the white one underneath and, finding nothing else to do with her discarded raiment, stuffed it unceremoniously into the shrubbery.
Lord Mannerly, arriving precisely at twelve, saw the ghostly figure in white and reached his hand inside his own black domino so that he might withdraw his pocket watch. After checking the hour, he replaced his timepiece and bestowed upon his companion a nod of approval.
“You are early, my dear,” he said, bowing over her hand. “I could almost flatter myself that you are not so reluctant as you would have me believe.”
Georgina offered no reply, but kept her head lowered and her hood drawn forward to conceal what her half-mask could not.
“Then again, perhaps not,” continued the marquess, frowning beneath his mask as a fold of white satin fell over his hand. “This is not the domino I ordered from Madame Franchot; she was quite right when she said no other satin could match its texture. Was there something wrong with it, or could you not bring yourself to accept a gift from my hand? Oh, well, it matters not. Shall we go?”
After the slightest of hesitations, Georgina laid her hand on the marquess’s proffered arm. She would have to go with him, as it would not do to confront him in the middle of one of London’s most popular attractions. Still, it was not until he led her through the gates and handed her into his carriage that Georgina began to know fear.
“Wh—where are we going, sir?” she asked in a whisper, lest he should recognize her voice.
Mannerly’s lip curled in a cynical smile as the stone-faced coachman shut the door, sealing them alone together within the dark confines of the carriage. “Did you think I would ravish you in the middle of the pavilion? Give me credit for a little discretion, my dear. We are going to a place where we may be alone, with no questions asked. Afterwards, I shall return you to your chaperone just as I promised.”
Far from putting her at ease, these reassurances only confirmed Georgina’s worst suspicions. Yet she dared not reveal herself now, when there was no one nearby who might come to her aid. Why, the marquess might be furious with her, and who knew what he might do in his rage? She shrank back into the corner of the carriage, no longer sure of her ability to show him the error of his ways.
“You need have no fear on my account,” said the marquess, observing this maneuver with jaded amusement. “I have no intention of making violent love to you, my dear. Revenge, no matter how satisfying, is never an excuse for a lack of delicacy.”
“Revenge?” echoed Georgina, still in a whisper. “But what has O—what have I done to you, that you should desire vengeance?”
“Why, nothing at all. You are merely the lovely pawn by which I shall avenge myself upon your intended bridegroom. Ah,” he said as the carriage rolled to a stop. “We have arrived.”
A moment later the door was opened. Lord Mannerly disembarked first, then handed his lady down with all due ceremony. Georgina looked about her as well as she might, given the hood obstructing her vision, and discovered that he had brought her to an inn whose carved wooden sign identified it as the Crossed Swords. Recalling the brevity of the journey and the marquess’s avowed intention of returning her to Mrs. Brandemere, she judged that the location of this establishment could not be very far from Vauxhall.