“Lady Clarinda is Warrefield’s youngest,” the Queen whispered to the King, who was watching the pudding dress as if waiting for something gruesome to erupt from its depths.
“Warrefield!” George sat up, his gaze focusing. “With the library. Heard he had an excellent catalogue done. Want to hire the man myself.”
“That was Henrietta’s work,” Sir Jasper said proudly. His daughter, radiating delight, swept into a deep curtsy that inclined her wig to a dangerous angle.
A learned woman. Darien should have guessed.
“You?” The King eyed her with fresh alarm.
“Yes, Your Majesty. What an honor that my catalogue should have come to Your Majesty’s notice.” He liked that clear, strong, confident voice of hers. A shame she had such a tragic sense of style.
“Need a catalogue if I’m to leave my library to the nation,” George said. “M’ grandfather did, you know.”
She nodded. “I’ve looked through the Royal Library. Adding to it would be a magnificent gift, Your Majesty. Though of course we all hope,” she added hastily, as gasps traveled through the room, “that will be many, many years in the future.” One did not discuss the sovereign’s death, especially not with him.
“Like my museum, do you?” The King beamed.
“Oh, yes, Your Majesty. I am particularly fond of Hamilton’s Greek vases.” She beamed back.
“Well,” said the King, a competitive gleam in his eye. “Suppose I could arrange for you to poke around in my books. Have one of my secretaries give you a tour. See what I have that Warrefield don’t.”
At this invitation, which on Darien’s list of enjoyable activities would rank between getting blood let and having a tooth drawn, Miss Henrietta Wardley-Hines looked like she had been handed the moon. Her face showed every thought of her quick mind.
At a nudge from her aunt, she swept into another curtsy, but as she thrust her leg back, her hoops tipped up, exposing a length of white clocked stocking that ended in a buckled shoe. The defeated ostrich feather released its purchase in her hair and swirled in resignation to the floor. Her stepmother smoothlylifted her, and Darien glanced about, hoping no one else had observed his damsel’s slim, fine-boned ankle and dainty feet.
The Queen’s gaze fell on the white armband. “But you are observing mourning.” White was the color reserved for members of the royal family and children. “Forgive me, Clarinda, one of yours?”
Henrietta blinked rapidly, and Darien sent her a silent reminder of courage. Her presentation teetered already on the brink of disaster; she could not exit in tears. “Frances, Your Majesty. She was seven.”
“Our condolences, of course,” the Queen murmured. It was a rare woman who lived to see all her children grow to adulthood. Charlotte herself had lost two little princes, and it was said that in his madness the King had babbled conversations with them.
Lucretius should have turned eleven this year. How he missed that bold, laughing, beautiful boy. Darien felt the old axe of grief shear his heart, leaving cold air to rush in.
Sir Jasper’s group prepared to depart, and Darien held his breath as Henrietta backed away, one hand on her errant headdress and one on her shuddering skirts. Near the door, it happened—her train slipped free, and her heel came down hard on the mended hem. Her expression said she’d just driven a pin into her foot. She gave the ruffled mass a valiant kick, made a final curtsy without letting her wig fall to the floor, and scooted out of the room, bottom first.
Another girl would rush straight out of the palace and throw herself under the nearest passing carriage, but Darien had the sense that Henrietta Wardley-Hines would march out of St. James as determinedly as she’d entered.
As the herald announced the next group, Darien stepped forward. Without quite knowing why, he plucked the crushed ostrich feather from the carpet and tucked it inside his waistcoat.
An eternity later the drawing room broke up, and Darien headed for the door. He longed to get home and out of his court dress and into breeches and boots, and to find some remedy for the ache in his chest as soon as possible. He wondered how his damsel would deal with the debacle that had been her presentation.
As he pushed his way through the knots of people waiting for their carriages, he spotted her, a head above the other women, that single feather waving like a forlorn flag. Her family stood clumped around her, laughing at some cocky joke from the cit. Then the young baronet pushed past him, and Darien put a hand over the ostrich feather in his waistcoat so it wouldn’t fall out.
He’d been right to warn her not to be seen with him. He couldn’t have her tainted with the scandals that cloaked him.
“Finally!” she said to her brother. “Now we can leave, thank heavens.”
“Well, Hetty, you were an utter goosecap and no mistake.”
“Was I ever.” She sighed. “I am glad Aunt Davinia was not here. She threatened to come see me presented, and you know she never leaves Bath.”
“I think you were a triumph, Hetty,” said the small brunette beside her. “The King offered you a tour of his library!”
Henrietta laughed with delight. “How soon might I have it? Tomorrow?”
“I should not put too much weight on such an invitation, Henrietta,” said the vinegar-faced aunt. “You shall have to make an appointment with the King’s secretary, and Sir Pelton can tell you that will take a while.”
“So the whole kingdom knows my sister is a bluestocking,” said the sprig. “Famous! I’ll be drinking on that all night.”
