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“You know very well what a good businesswoman your Madame Chambon is. I will be presented with my bill at the end of the month and it will be paid promptly. Nothing less is expected. Oh yes, the tailors, the breecher, the mantua maker, they can all wait but Madame Chambon must receive her money on time.”
Rapidly Hetty calculated that she had two weeks before discovery was inevitable. Such a calculation should not engage the numeracy skills of an innocent debutante wanting to make a good marriage, she conceded with a stab of fear. Nor should an innocent debutante have had reason to discover that there were two words to describe an “abbess” and that brothel-keeper was one.
Mistaking her look for something else, he was quick to reassure her. “My dear, I will pay it gladly, do not fret. I’m wild for you and if I could, I’d tup you right here and now.” He cupped her pink cheeks. “Forgive my crudeness. It was intentional and purely so I could enjoy watching you effect your finely honed skills at playing the parson’s daughter fallen on hard times.” He jerked his head in the direction of the doorway. “Come, let us go now.”
H
etty stepped back. “I can’t, sir.”
“Can’t?” His supercilious eyebrows rose. “What prevents you? Surely that’s the very reason you waylaid me? Indeed, it was my intention to send a message to Madame Chambon that I wanted you sent ‘round to me this evening.”
“Surely not, sir! I am glad I found you first, then, for I have spent the afternoon helping my near-blind papa prepare his Sunday sermon.”
He chuckled, clearly enjoying their exchange as he wrapped his arms about her shoulders and led her a couple steps down the passage. “You are vastly diverting, my dear, the way you hint at hidden mysteries.”
Hetty’s grin faded. How much should she tell him? “Sir Aubrey, I have discovered something recently that I think you would very much like to know.”
He chuckled again. “Is this a clever little ruse to gain extra blunt from me that Madame Chambon won’t get her hands on? If so, I’m very amenable to any arrangement you might suggest.” He tightened his grip upon her and kissed her deeply on the mouth. With a sigh she wilted in his arms.
Her pulse was still racing when he set her back on her feet, murmuring, “Come to me tonight. I shall endeavor to be home by three. No, make that two a.m., for the anticipation is already killing me. I have other obligations in the meantime but you’ll round off the evening nicely, my Harriet.”
My Harriet. Hetty could only grin stupidly, her pleasure overwhelming despite his cavalier attitude. The knowledge that he thought her no more than a creature of the night was dispelled by the conviction that one day he’d know the truth—and not be disgusted by it.
Determined, she pushed her shoulders back. She had to find a way to redeem herself. Make him understand she hadn’t deliberately tricked him so that he would forgive her deception. Reward her for salvaging his reputation. For salvaging the reputation of the man who’d ruined hers…
“I shall try, sir,” she said as she turned to go, the sudden fear that Mrs. Monks might march through the door overriding her previous high spirits. She must find Jane’s young man Jem as soon as possible and induce him to give her the letter. Oh, how she’d love to be enfolded in Sir Aubrey’s arms later tonight but while that wasn’t possible, her mission might result in something infinitely more long-term.
Araminta didn’t love Sir Aubrey but Hetty did.
And this time Hetty was going to get her man.
Instead of issuing directly into the ballroom, Hetty turned toward the ladies’ mending room, gasping as she brushed against a tall gentleman enveloped in a monk’s cassock. He didn’t stand aside but instead deliberately blocked the narrow corridor.
How long had Lord Debenham been there? What had he observed? Too fearful to raise her eyes, she murmured in quelling tones, “Excuse me, sir, I wish to pass.”
“Ah, so the lady wishes to pass.” With a bow, he stepped aside and Hetty glided toward the mending room, where she collapsed onto the banquette and, picking up the ivory fan beside her, tried vigorously to increase the circulation of air about her blazing face.
She was certain Lord Debenham was the only guest dressed as a monk. Had he recognized her? Dear Lord, whoever he was, he’d be following her every move now, for the irony of his tone indicated he’d observed her brief, passionate tryst with Sir Aubrey.
She tried to ease her fears. Anyone who’d ever seen her in company with her sister would certainly not have noticed a pale and unremarkable creature such as herself. Lord Debenham, well, he had an eye only for the dazzling. He’d never have known it was her.
Breathing more calmly, she set her mind to finding a means to speak to Jem.
She knew Lord Debenham lived only two blocks from here. For that matter, Hetty lived just one block farther but distance wasn’t the issue. How would she manage to slip away at any time of day? In the morning Araminta would want to engage Hetty in conversation that would emphasize her many successes of the previous the evening. Then there’d be luncheon. Hetty was a protected, nurtured single female and it would be impossible to leave their townhouse without an attendant, even for the shortest of walks.
It was as she was trailing through the ballroom beside Mrs. Monks that she saw Araminta bearing a beaming Mr. Woking in her wake, and a wild and desperate plan borne of desperation took shape.
Affecting an attitude of the greatest languor, she preempted the conversation with, “My dear Araminta, Mr. Woking, you must excuse me but I have the most terrible megrim. I can’t stay here another minute in this close and stifling atmosphere. I’m afraid I shall have to ask Mrs. Monks to take us home.”
Horror replaced Araminta’s smugness. “How can you be so selfish, Hetty? I’m having the most marvelous time and my dance card is completely full.”
Hetty pursed her lips. “I suppose you could stay if Cousin Stephen didn’t mind accompanying me home and then Mrs. Monks could remain here to chaperone you.”
“I daresay that would be all right,” Araminta said sulkily, ignoring the crestfallen young man at her side until she fixed him with a dazzling look. “Mr. Woking, won’t you fetch me another champagne?” She tapped him playfully on his shoulder epaulettes with her fan. “You were so busy admiring my sister you didn’t notice my glass was empty, did you?”
Hetty made certain she was gone before Mr. Woking could return with refreshments. She and a none-too-displeased Stephen hired a hackney and Hetty was treated to a long monologue on Stephen’s concern about her mother’s health, which surprised but also pleased her. Not least because it was nice when anyone spoke with such thoughtfulness of her greatly unappreciated and darling mother, but also because her cousin would be less likely to notice her agitation if he was so concerned with his benefactor’s wife.
They were nearing the entrance to St. James Street where Stephen’s club was located when she leaned across and put her hand on Stephen’s knee. “You’ve got the blue devils for some reason, Cousin Stephen, and I think it’s my cousinly duty to set you off here so you can drown your sorrows with company more exciting than mine.”
