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“You did not attend the Royal Lecture as your little governess friend does?”
She looked pointedly at his stripes, and he realized she’d set a trap for him.
If Octavia had attended the day’s lecture with Harriet, it would only take a little polite interest on the marchioness’s part to get the truth from her. “No. Sometimes a man must put duty before pleasure.”
“You must know a great deal to manage such things.”
“No more than most gentlemen. I have a competent man of business to assist me.”
“I don’t suppose you had occasion to come across any family records that might help me establish my claim to the Saumur vineyards?”
“Would you like me to search more diligently?” he asked.
She tapped him on the wrist with the black lace fan. It was a flirtatious gesture, but he did not think her a woman capable of doing anything lightly. “Diligently? Such a word to use at a party. It banishes amusement.” She shook her head. “People who know too much get old and wrinkly quickly.”
“Old and wrinkly?”
“Oh, it’s a saying.” She laughed.
He made note of it, however. It was a rare, spontaneous utterance, the sort of thing that could give her away, if she were not the woman she purported to be. He supposed he had less patience for games with her because of spending the early part of the evening in the company of a woman of warmth and honesty. He hoped he had not undone the effect of his waistcoat with his talk about managing his estate. He tugged the peony stripes into place.
She engaged him then in reminiscences of Saumur. Did he remember the walled garden of the vineyard house with its moss-covered bench under the walnut tree? The best place to rest in the heat of a harvest afternoon. He did remember. Octavia had taken her first wobbly steps to his mother in the shade of that tree. What he could not remember from that time was any mention of this cousin.
“You were happy away from Paris?” Charles adopted a teasing manner. “You would not wish to be so dull and countrified now, surely?”
She laughed, but the dark eyes snapped with alertness. “But one always sighs for what one has lost, non?”
Charles could almost believe her. She was at her most plausible as the plucky little cousin who spent happy moments in the orchards and fields of the Delatour family far from the upheavals of Paris. But the malice in her treatment of Perry revealed the bitterness of her nature.
The music started in the ballroom, and the marchioness stood. Charles came to his feet.
“I must leave you,” she said, “for I have promised dances to...” She glanced at the crowd. “So many gentlemen. It is what a poor widow must do.” She gave a little shrug of her gleaming white shoulders. “But you will honor our missed engagement, soon?”
He bowed and went in search of Perry.
When Charles found him, Perry explained that he had been one of the marchioness’s circle, trying simply to observe her in action, when a lieutenant in the Horse Guards had brought a message that a Captain Fanshaw sent his regrets. The news apparently annoyed her, and she’d sent Perry on a fool’s errand. He thought she’d done it out of pique.
Perry shook his head. “I should have seen through her. Any schoolboy would have, and I’m not in the fourth form any longer.”
“Pouring the champagne over her macaroons showed that. Nicely done, Perry.”
“Couldn’t have you giving her a facer, could I?” Perry grinned.
“No.”
“Sorry I didn’t glean any intelligence. Meanness doesn’t prove she’s a spy, does it?”
Charles agreed. “But there was something in what she said tonight. I’ll have to think on it.”
If she wasn’t his cousin, survivor of so much instability and violence in France, then she must be someone else, and if Russian, as he suspected, then somewhere she had learned to hate England. She might have come to London in the entourage of the czar for the premature victory celebrations of 1814. Or she might have been in Paris after Waterloo in 1816, when 160,000 of the czar’s troops paraded through the streets, splendid in their high, rigid collars and rich uniforms, with their distinctive turned-out kick as they marched. Someone might have noted a striking diminutive beauty with a dislike for the plain British soldiers proclaimed the true victors of the hour. Her careful avoidance of Wellington might mean that she had once come to the notice of the great man and did not wish to be recognized. Charles would go back to the old intelligence reports and analyze.
The husband hunter must not forget that certain boundaries still exist, which may not be readily apparent in these days of the greater openness of society. Irksome as such boundaries appear, they act to preserve the unwary husband hunter from heartache. There are a great many young men of charm, education, and natural ability who yet lack the means of self-support without the favor of friends and patrons. In a ballroom or at table the husband hunter may enjoy their attentions and feel the distinction of being singled out by their notice. But she must remember that the primary aim of such a man is not marriage but a place in the world.
—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London
Chapter 13
When Wynford entered the Luxborough drawing room the following night, Harriet saw at once that he wore a subtle gray silk waistcoat. His eyes met hers, and she glanced away. It should not matter what he wore, and she should take no notice of his coat or neckcloth or any other thing about him. Apparently, he had no plan to see the marchioness this evening, and he had seen how glad that plain gray garment had made her. She busied herself with setting out the tea.
