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“I think there are more amenable partners than Lord Debenham but Araminta would be anyone’s match.”
Discovering she’d mistaken the sequence of her dance steps, Hetty was relieved when Stephen seized her to polka down the center of the two rows of couples. However, her relief turned to disgust when she saw Sir Aubrey lingering near the entrance to the ballroom, an expression of rapt interest upon his face. For the person who was holding him in such thrall was none other than Araminta, looking more than ever like Sarafina the family cat. As the couple broke apart, Sir Aubrey bowed as he took his leave through the double doors.
Stephen gripped her elbow and Hetty spun ’round, squealing in dismay as she trod upon the hem of her dress. Clutching at the skirt, which had separated from the bodice, she sent her cousin a stricken look. “Look what I’ve done! And here’s Mr. Woking, the only other person who’s ever asked me to dance, coming to claim me for the quadrille. Oh, do come up with an excuse, Cousin Stephen, for I’ll be tongue-tied with embarrassment at having to explain what I don’t know how to put into words.”
Stephen smiled. “Poor Hetty, why, I’ll tell him the truth, of course—that you must make a dash to the ladies’ mending room. I hope the damage is not too severe.”
“I think I’d rather spend the rest of the evening closeted in the antechambers where things are a little less exciting than here, where I’m out of my depth,” she muttered as she took her leave.
* * * * *
Hetty had spoken only the truth, she decided when she was safely ensconced in a small room where she was attended to by a hunchbacked seamstress. The only other occupant was a young lady who lay facedown, sobbing on the chaise longue by the window.
“That’s Miss Hoskings. Bin there all night,” the old crone informed her when Hetty’s concern failed to elicit a response from the distraught young lady. “‘Parently the gennelmun what she thought was goin’ to marry her has been makin’ up to another young lady.”
The girl gave a choking sob and half rose, before throwing herself back down upon the upholstery, wailing, “He’s still going to make me an offer and it’s not because he cares for me.” She wiped her face with the back of her hand as she sat up and glared at Hetty, adding, “And I’m going to accept him though Mama says I could do better.”
Hetty took in the girl’s narrow shoulders and bad skin and felt sorry for her. Fortunately Hetty’s skin was a glowing advertisement of her robust good health. Her once over-generous proportions, too, had diminished to the extent that, though still plump, she’d had several gowns taken in during the past several weeks. Darling Mama had said that she’d been just the same when she’d been Hetty’s age and was far comelier after a couple years of marriage than she had been when she was a debutante.
Bolsteringly, Hetty said, “Maybe you could wait a little. I, too, expect to have an offer before the end of the season, for Papa has been generous with my dowry.” She suspected it was the chief reason for Mr. Woking’s interest and the thought gave her no pleasure. “Though I don’t want to marry a man who’s only interested in my money.”
“Better that than be an ape-leader. What could be worse than being an old maid for the rest of my life?” Miss Hoskings asked gloomily after several loud sniffs. “This is my second season and I have three sisters. If I don’t marry soon, do you know how I’ll spend the rest of my days? Tending Papa’s gouty foot, dancing attendance upon my irascible grandmother and looking after everyone else’s needs but my own. Well, I won’t do it. I’ve seen the thankless existence my maiden aunts have endured and being an unpaid companion is not for me. Better a loveless marriage, I say!”
Hetty considered their respective situations and wondered if desperation would one day send her down the aisle with a man who cared only for her money and not a jot for her.
Miss Hoskings, who declared she was not going to emerge from the mending room until the night was over, bade Hetty a gloomy farewell once Hetty’s skirt was mended but Hetty wasn’t sure she felt like reentering the ballroom either. The only person of any interest had left and she had no wish to endure Araminta’s preening self-satisfaction as she recounted her success with Sir Aubrey who, if he really were such a dangerous man, would consequently be of even greater interest to her sister, she supposed. No, Hetty had no chance.
“Make sure you turn the right way. The ‘ouse is a fair rabbit warren of rooms and the gennulmen’s quarters that way.” The old crone stabbed a finger up the stairs to the left. “Even that Sir Aubrey what’s staying ‘ere got hisself lost. Put ‘is head in ‘ere just afore you came to inquire as to which way was the lobby so he could order hisself a carriage.”
Miss Hoskings straightened, her look suddenly interested. “Sir Aubrey is a houseguest, I believe,” she said with a sharp look at Hetty. “Handsome gentleman, don’t you think? And with that unusual hair.”
Just the mere mention of him made Hetty’s heart leap. So Sir Aubrey’s room was just down the passage and up the stairs? She hesitated as the old seamstress closed the door behind her, plunging her into the gloom of the dimly lit corridor.
The stairs beckoned a short distance away.
What would be the harm in a quick look? No one would see her and she could always claim she’d lost her way. She’d be believed and besides, all the chambers would be empty since everyone was at the ball. The night was still young and no one would be returning yet.
Hetty, curious by nature, found this too tantalizing an opportunity to resist. With a furtive look around her, she hurried left and up the stairs, at which point two corridors at right angles disappeared into darkness. Choosing the one to the right, she found herself face-to-face with a series of closed door
s.
Foolish, she chided herself. Of course they were closed and she could hardly open them. As she turned back toward the ballroom, a faint light shining from the crack beneath a door that was slightly ajar gleamed beckoningly.
With a furtive look over her shoulder, she approached it, and when she gave the door a little nudge with her foot, it swung open.
Excitement rippled through her.
“Hello?” she asked in a low voice. She took another step into the room. “Is anyone in here?”
Silence greeted her. A low fire burned in the grate before which was a table, against which were propped several items, including a familiar silver-topped cane. Her breath caught in her throat. The last time she’d seen that cane was when Sir Aubrey had exchanged several words with Araminta in the street as Hetty had been bringing up the rear with Mrs. Monks. Of course Sir Aubrey had not looked twice at her, excusing himself before having to be introduced to the younger sister and the chaperone who’d nearly closed the gap.
Heart hammering, Hetty closed the door behind her and went to pick up the cane.
How fortunate to have stumbled into Sir Aubrey’s room, she thought when she observed the fine coat lying upon the bed, apparently discarded in favor of what he was wearing tonight.
He really was a nonpareil, wearing his clothes as if they were an extension of his athletic physique.
Yet he was dangerous, she had to remind herself. Meaning she should not be here, which of course she shouldn’t, regardless of whether he was dangerous or not.
