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“There you are!” Araminta pounced as Hetty hesitated on the threshold. Her sister gripped her wrist and hauled her roughly into the room. “I’ve been looking all over for you. No doubt you’ve been cowering in the mending room, too afraid a man will look at you and you won’t know what to do. Well, Hetty, you’re just going to have to gain more experience in order to make a gentleman want to pass the time in your company with idle small talk, much less do anything else. Mr. Woking was asking for you, and although I know he’s not much to look at, beggars can’t be choosers.”
“I’m not a beggar.”
“No, you have something in the way of a dowry but then so do many other girls, including me…girls far comelier, meaning you’ll just have to take what you can get. Ah, there he is!”
Araminta raised her arm to hail someone across the room as Hetty asked, “Who?”
“Mr. Woking, of course. He wants to dance with you and you could do worse than to court his interest.”
“But he’s got spots and terrible breath. You wouldn’t want to dance with him, would you?”
“Of course not. I’ve got my sights set on someone far more my equal.”
“Lord Debenham?”
Araminta looked uncomfortable. “I learned a few things about Lord Debenham tonight that make me think Sir Aubrey is the better candidate.” Araminta simpered, adding in a furtive whisper, “He has made his interest very clear and I mean to see that it goes somewhere.”
Hetty’s insides cleaved. Her legs felt shaky and she had no idea whether she was going to laugh or cry. “Cousin Stephen says he’s not a friend of England.” She didn’t know what to make of this statement now, not after what Sir Aubrey had told her about his quarrel with Lord Debenham. She’d only succumbed to his advances through her fear that he was capable of murder.
When he’d walked into his bedchamber and discovered her in the shadows, he’d been covered with blood. He’d admitted just killing a man. Then he’d all but ordered her to submit as he’d toyed with the blade of his cutlass. What choice had she had?
Yet, overwhelming though the experience was, she felt—instead of cowed and humiliated—exhilarated. He’d evoked glorious sensations within her. She’d not known it was possible to feel like that. And he, a man who was supposedly a fiend, had been responsible. That is, before he’d claimed his reputation had been falsely tarnished by none other than Lord Debenham.
Araminta tossed her head. “Cousin Stephen has served in the Foreign Office less than a month. What does he know? Ah, Mr. Woking, here is my sister and she tells me she’s simply dying for the pleasure of partnering you.”
In a haze of confusion and mixed emotions, Hetty went through her dance steps with the stoop-shouldered young man who was clearly at pains to engage her interest by the enthusiasm with which he told her of his expectations.
All Hetty could think of was the rampant endowments of her erstwhile lover and wonder why she was not feeling ruined and violated. She’d never kissed a man before tonight. Heavens, she’d never done anything remotely exciting with a man until tonight. She should be horrified with herself, yet after her initial fear, she’d relished every second.
She lowered her eyes. It would be her secret. She’d carry it to her grave—her one moment of wild abandon. For once, she’d have something over Araminta.
Mr. Woking was speaking to her. She plastered on an attentive smile as she asked him to repeat himself.
“That’s my uncle over there. He’s the member of parliament for Westhaven.” He looked proud.
Hetty glanced in the direction Mr. Woking was pointing and choked on a gasp. “Lord Debenham is your uncle?”
Several gentlemen had their heads bent in earnest discussion. The taller one, with the jet-black locks and the dangerous glint in his eye, surely did not hail from the same planet as Mr. Woking.
“You don’t look anything like him.” The words were out before she could check herself.
Sadly, Mr. Woking did not favor his uncle. Even at his young age his hair was rapidly thinning. His nervous habit of glancing around jerkily, rather like a bird pecking at crumbs, was as far removed from Lord Debenham’s sartorial elegance as Hetty could imagine.
Mr. Woking cleared his throat. “He’s a step-uncle, actually. The brother of my father’s third wife.”
“Your father married three times?” Again Hetty failed to filter her thoughts. Surely he must guess that her surprise did not stem from anything to flatter his father.
The jerky way Mr. Woking rearranged his body at her remark made Hetty think a poker had been rammed up his bottom, though the look in his eye suggested prickly pride. “Lord Debenham is working to rid this country of traitors. Traitors like the Spenceans.” He brought his face closer to Hetty’s, as if he were searching for something, and she forced herself not to recoil from his unpleasant breath. When he straightened, the glint in his eye suggested she’d passed some test. “Have you heard of Sir Aubrey?” He lowered his voice. “Perhaps your sister has said something, for I have been watching Sir Aubrey closely and it would appear he is most interested in your sister.”
Hetty stumbled in his embrace and he caught her close—too long—before she pushed him back, saying proudly, “I think you are mistaken. I’ve noticed nothing.”
“You’d do well to warn her to take care, Miss Partington. Sir Aubrey is my uncle’s quarry. I reveal nothing that the villainous Sir Aubrey doesn’t already know. However you are a good woman, Miss Partington, and so I am entrusting you with this secret.”
“In order to keep Araminta safe?” She rather suspected something deeper was at play here.
“That,” he paused, “and to help deliver justice. Perhaps you’d care to inform me if you notice anything untoward.”
“Like what?”
