Wicked Godmother (7 page)

She seized the tongs and surprised herself by finally achieving quite the prettiest hairstyle she had ever managed to create. She threaded a long silver-grey ribbon among her soft curls to achieve the Grecian effect which was so popular with the ladies of the
ton
. Firmly keeping her mind focused on the preparations for the ball, she was soon able to banish even the slightest thought about the Marquess of Huntingdon.

England was going through a brief phase of pseudo-democracy, which is why the Marquess of Huntingdon’s evening coat did not allow even a glimpse of shirt cuff to be shown. That thin white line that cut the community in two, separating the gentleman of leisure from the manual worker, was thought to be undemocratic. It was a fashion that had come into being seventeen years before, and gentlemen like the marquess had obviously forgotten the reason for it – for there was a splendid sapphire pin waiting on his dresser to be buried among the snowy folds of his starched cravat. Brummell, that famous dandy, had brought starch into fashion. This innovation earned him a mention in the press. ‘When he first appeared in this stiffened cravat, the sensation was prodigious; dandies were struck dumb with envy and washerwomen miscarried.’

Next to Brummell’s, the marquess’s cravats were the envy of the
ton
, and, unlike Beau Brummell, the marquess usually had very little difficulty in pleating the starched material into sculptured folds. But for some reason, the magic had left his fingers. He blamed Harriet Metcalf. He could not get her out of his mind. It must be a sign of increasing age, he thought bitterly as he threw another ruined cravat on the floor. He had a clever, witty, and competent mistress; his fortune allowed him to travel; he had worked hard in America and had long dreamed of the frivolity of the London Season; and he was surely experienced enough not to be taken in by an innocent from the country with fair hair and large blue eyes. Harriet Metcalf, he was sure, was that rarest of creatures – a thoroughly good woman – and surely nothing was more boring than that. But he kept remembering her softness, her femininity, and the swell of her bosom. Even her gentle voice sounded in his ears.

He had made up his mind to ignore her at the ball. He did not even want to go to this curst ball, but he had called on a much gratified Lady Phillips to explain he would be there after all, and he had promised Lord Vere he would accompany him. Now he decided that perhaps the best thing would be to seek her out, talk to her, find her as empty-headed and dull as he was sure she would prove to be on closer acquaintance, and then the carriage ride the next day would surely put an end to these strange spring-like yearnings.

* * *

By ten in the evening, Harriet was seated demurely against the wall with the other chaperones. She was well-content. As the duenna of two formidable dowries, she was welcomed into their ranks and regaled with all the latest gossip. It was rumoured the king had been put in a strait-jacket again and surely poor Prinny would be made Regent now. After all, had not King George fancied himself a Quaker this age and gone about in Quaker dress? And he had not shaved for a long time and looked like Mr Kemble in King Lear. What did Miss Metcalf think of the fashion of wearing aprons over petticoats for undress?

Harriet chatted away, oblivious of the attention her dazzlingly fair looks were attracting. Many of the gentlemen would have liked to approach her, but she seemed so absorbed in conversation with such a formidable array of harridans that they did not dare. Next to Harriet was Baroness Villiers, a crusty, tetchy old lady whose frivolous granddaughter was at that moment falling over the feet of a guardsman on the floor and laughing immoderately.

‘I wish she would not go on like that,’ said the baroness crossly. ‘Your girls behave like angels. I wish my Amelia would copy their manners.’

‘Amelia appears to please the gentlemen,’ said Harriet. ‘She has such gay, unaffected manners.’ She fell silent as she watched Sarah and Annabelle. Harriet had to admit that both were in looks, although she wished that pastel colours, which did not show either girl to advantage, were not quite so fashionable. Sarah was in blue and Annabelle in pink. Sarah was wearing a fine sapphire necklace, and Annabelle boasted a diamond collar. They flirted with their partners to a nicety, all fluttering eyelashes and waving fans.

What a pair of actresses they are
, mused Harriet, and then was appalled at her own thought.
London is making me uncharitable
, she chided herself. She turned to the baroness and to her horror found herself wishing that the lady would shave, for the baroness’s grey moustache and incipient beard were disconcerting.

‘The Marquess of Huntingdon called on me today,’ said Harriet. ‘He had met my footman walking my dog and immediately saw that the poor animal was sick. He gave me some lotion. The marquess called with Lord Vere.’

‘Humph,’ said the baroness. ‘Lord Vere is very well. Fine family, good fortune.’

‘And Lord Huntingdon?’

‘A rake, my dear. Keep well clear of him. Do you see Belinda Romney over there? No, no, the one dancing with that tall, gangly fellow? Well, Mrs Romney is his mistress, newly set up. He gave her those emeralds to match her eyes.’

Harriet looked at Mrs Romney. She was a voluptuous brunette with creamy skin and roguish eyes. Her gown was hitched up on either side to display a pair of pink stockings, and the material of her gown was so filmy that it was easy to see she had nothing on underneath except the stockings.

‘And what does Mr Romney think of the liaison?’ asked Harriet.

‘He died two years ago, leaving her nothing but debts, so she has done well for herself to secure Huntingdon, and him so lately come to town. He was always generous to his mistresses, I’ll say that for the man.’

Harriet felt very depressed. Although she had believed the marquess to be a rake, she had hoped to be proved wrong. After all, he had helped Beauty, and that might have shown evidence of a kind heart. But Harriet now could not bring herself to think of him as kind. Mrs Romney had been left destitute and obviously needed money badly. The marquess had taken advantage of her situation.

On Harriet’s other side was Mrs Cramp, who had two hopeful daughters at the ball. They frequently came bouncing up to speak to their mama and ask her if she was well and to tell her about their partners. Even the baroness’s granddaughter, Amelia, came over between dances to chat to her grandmother. Neither Sarah nor Annabelle approached Harriet. In fact, they never once looked in her direction.

‘Here comes Huntingdon and Vere,’ said Mrs Cramp suddenly. ‘Isn’t Huntingdon enough to make any female swoon? ’Tis a pity he’s a rake.’

‘Yes,’ said Harriet a little sadly. For the marquess, as he strolled into the ballroom, looked the hero of any woman’s dreams, from his handsome face to his small waist and beautiful legs. He was exquisitely tailored and wore his clothes with an air. His face had a slight tan that owed nothing to walnut juice, and his hands were free of paint, unlike those of some of the gentlemen who white-leaded the backs of their hands and painted their palms a delicate pink with cochineal.

Lord Vere would have set off immediately in Harriet’s direction, but, by ill chance, a gentleman buttonholed him and started to tell the irritated lord a long and dreary story about what Brummell had said to Lord Alvanley. Lord Vere gloomily listened with half an ear while watching the marquess make his expert way around the edge of the ballroom to where Harriet was sitting. ‘He told me he wanted nothing to do with her,’ grumbled Lord Vere.

‘Who? What?’ demanded the boring gentleman, pausing in the middle of his story.

‘What does Huntingdon want?’ demanded Mrs Cramp. Harriet looked up in time to see the marquess bearing down on her.

She looked down again quickly and studied the painted picture on her fan. Then she studied the toes of the marquess’s shoes with interest as he came to stand in front of her.

‘You do not dance, Miss Metcalf?’ he asked.

Harriet raised her blue eyes. ‘No, my lord, my duty here is as chaperone.’

Baroness Villiers and Mrs Cramp exchanged looks across the top of Harriet’s head. They both thought this new member of their ranks a vastly fetching little thing. Huntingdon was a rake with the morals of a tomcat, but it did seem a shame that little Miss Metcalf should have no fun at all. She was surely as young as the debutantes.

‘Get along with you,’ said the baroness heartily. ‘Your charges are doing very nicely. A lady of your tender years does not belong here with us.’

‘Do accept Lord Huntingdon’s offer,’ urged Mrs Cramp, who despite her earlier warning dearly loved a rake. ‘I shall keep an eye on your god-daughters.’

‘Very well,’ said Harriet in a low voice. It seemed easier to go with the marquess than enter into an argument with her new-found friends.

It was a country dance and went on for quite half an hour, which was more than enough time to allow society to see how very well pretty little Miss Metcalf danced, and how much Huntingdon appeared to be enjoying her company.

By chance, both Sarah and Annabelle found themselves partnerless for this dance. They retreated to a corner and unfurled their fans so that they could whisper behind them.

‘Well!’ exclaimed Sarah angrily. ‘Who is that divine creature with dreary Harriet?’

‘I asked my last partner the minute I saw him enter the ballroom,’ said Annabelle. ‘That, beloved Sis, is the Marquess of Huntingdon, vastly rich. A rake.’

‘Our dear godmother has no right to be dancing about,’ said Sarah. ‘It is our come-out, not hers. That dress is quite unsuitable.’

Both girls lowered their fans and glared at the tabinet gown of silver grey. It was admittedly very plain, with little embellishment apart from the three deep flounces and a little string of coral beads that Harriet wore about her neck. The neckline was low, but not as low as some of the other gowns being sported. But the elegance of the line showed her figure to advantage, as did the grace of her movements, although neither girl would admit to noticing that latter asset.

Annabelle yawned. As usual, she felt sleepy. ‘Then perhaps it is time to prime Emily,’ she said lazily. ‘Emily is such a good gossip. She passed on everything we had told her about Harriet to the people in the village.’

Both girls savoured the memory. ‘Do you remember,’ said Sarah, ‘the haberdasher, Mr James, who used to turn pink every time he saw Harriet? One would never have thought he would have believed a word against her. But he believed it when Emily told him how Harriet had deliberately courted our father’s affections. Emily must have been very convincing.’

‘I am surprised he believed her,’ said Annabelle.

‘Oh, she did not tell him direct. She burst into tears in the shop and confided in that old harridan, Mrs Winter, the colonel’s lady, and Mr James asked what the matter was. He didn’t believe it at first, but then he got it from one other source before the day was out and then another the next day.’

‘Well, I don’t like the way Harriet is making so free with our money for
her
wardrobe,’ said Annabelle sourly. ‘She is wearing an expensive gown and dancing with the handsomest man in the room as if she were the debutante and we the chaperones. I am so hungry. We go in to supper after this dance. So shaming not to have a partner.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Sarah absentmindedly, her eyes on Harriet. ‘I think dear Harriet is getting a little too much attention. Emily is very loyal to us. It would do no harm if she were to start to drop a word here and there, as she did in the village. She can start off in the servants’ quarters. And speaking of servants, have you ever seen such an odd crowd? No wonder murder and mayhem have been done at Number Sixty-seven! I saw the cook emerging from the nether regions t’other day, and he looked as if he might slit anyone’s throat. That Rainbird is more like a mountebank than a butler, and they do not treat us with the right deference. Servants should be frightened of their masters. Oh, look, the dance is over.’

Both girls lowered their fans and flirted with their eyes to such advantage that they soon had two cavaliers at their side to take them into supper.

They would have been amazed to know that their godmother was thoroughly miserable at the thought of eating her supper in the company of Lord Huntingdon. Harriet had been glad that the steps of the energetic country dance had made conversation impossible. Now it appeared she was expected to take supper with the marquess simply because he had partnered her in the dance preceding it. It was not as if he were a suitable
parti
for either of the girls. She would never feel easy in her mind if she thought she had been instrumental in wedding either Sarah or Annabelle to such a hardened rake.

The marquess studied her downcast face and felt himself becoming very angry indeed. He had never quite put himself out so much over any female before and, instead of looking gratified, Miss Metcalf looked as if he were leading her to the gallows rather than into the supper room at a
tonnish
London ball. His mistress was looking daggers at him, and he knew a stormy scene lay ahead. He wished he had not taken her out of the care of old Lord Brothers. Belinda was delightful, but she was becoming increasingly jealous.

The supper room was decorated in an Indian theme, draped with yards of silk and set about with palm trees.

Voices rose and fell. Harriet looked down at a selection of delicacies on her plate and felt she did not want to eat any of it. She was aware of the marquess’s eyes on her face. She was aware too of the strength of his personality, a personality which seemed to be seeking to dominate her. Harriet had been used to being ordered around. Her parents had laid down the law on every subject, and, after their death, Sir Benjamin had fallen into the way of ordering her about. Even Josephine – Miss Spencer – had, on occasion, affectionately called Harriet a widgeon and had stepped in to tackle her problems for her. But since she had come to London, her desire to do the best for Sarah and Annabelle had given Harriet a new courage and independence. Unknown to herself, she was on the brink of discovering she preferred to make up her own mind.