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“Dash it all, that is right! You wouldn’t know.” There was a quick glance among the gentlemen before Baron Eldon stepped forward.
“There was a ball to celebrate the engagement of Earl Cheswick some weeks back. Just over a fortnight ago, I do believe.” There was a murmur of agreement. “Well, the fact of it is that Earl Cheswick met his lady through Henrietta Stanton, a bit indirectly it’s to be admitted, but that’s Henrietta’s way most times.”
“I fear I do not understand.”Henrietta’s way? What was the man talking about?
“Henrietta Stanton. Ever since her fiancé left her a few years ago, she’s kept herself busy managing relationships among the rest of the ton. She’s the leading matchmaker of fair society, and a dashed good one at that, for all that she’s been unattached herself since then.”
“I see.” A matchmaker? And what...what could a matchmaker of the ton have wanted with him? He was hardly involved in the Season, or the social scene. “You mentioned a wager, I believe?”
“Yes, quite.” Baron Eldon shifted and stuffed his hands deep into his trouser pockets. “During the engagement ball for Earl Cheswick, Henrietta was speaking with the young lass from the Darnell family. Miss Eva Darnell, I think her name is. Anyway, I haven’t any idea how the conversation began, but the crux of it was that Henrietta said that she could match Miss Darnell with any man she might fancy within three months. Match and see to the altar by the end of Season were the terms, or else Henrietta would retire from the matchmaking scene for good. At least, that was how I heard the matter.”
“And Miss Darnell gave my name? I cannot imagine why. I have no memories of any acquaintance with a maid by such a name.”
“Well, that’s the mystery of it all, isn’t it? I rather thought the maid was speaking in jest, myself.” Eldon looked embarrassed to be speaking of it. Daniel rather thought he’d have preferred not to be hearing it. Nonetheless, he had asked, and he was committed to hearing the tale entirely.
“A jest?” Had his whole association with Hetty—or rather Henrietta—been a matter of entertainment for her? An idle amusement to occupy her days?
“Well, I suspect most of us thought so. But I suppose Henrietta...well, I mean, that is to say—she is taking the matter rather seriously, to judge from that.” Eldon tipped his head at the sculpture. “And well, I can’t speak to the lady’s motivation. Feminine sensibilities and mysteries and all that.”
“Yes. Quite.” He managed to keep his expression composed, but inside, Daniel felt frozen, on the verge of shattering in a truly spectacular fashion. “Well, the foibles of a woman...it has benefited my work, in any case.” He took a larger cloth and cast it over the sculpture, though a part of him was screaming to smash it, destroy it and the lie it represented. “This is quite...illuminating, but I do believe you gentlemen came to discuss some business? I trust you have made your judgments of my skill?”
The next few hours he immersed himself in talk of art, discussing commissions and schedules, payments, and other such details. It was a welcome distraction from the thoughts that hovered just below the surface, waiting to be acknowledged.
Business was concluded over a light repast, with an agreement to have the relevant contracts exchanged and signed within the next few days. After that, Daniel escorted his guests to the door, offering them a polite farewell. Finally, the last of the carriages vanished down the drive.
And his composure, held tightly over his roiling emotions, shattered. He had just enough presence of mind to tell Danvers he was not to be disturbed and to barricade himself in his quarters before the maelstrom of his own inner turmoil swept over him.
There was rage, hot and red and choking. Rage that he had been made the subject of a jest, a young woman’s fanciful amusement and little societal games, as though he were a pawn to be toyed with, or a hapless youth to be guided by callow impulses.
There was humiliation, twisting and deep-seated and so great as to make him nauseous, that he had fallen so easily for Hetty’s—no, for Henrietta Stanton’s—schemes and machinations. That he had, in fact, become rather entangled with her. No doubt she would have used that to sway him to her liking, matching him as she thought appropriate, whether he was of a mind to agree or not.
There was pain, clawing and black and cold, granite and ice to the molten fire of his fury. An ache that cut to the core of him and left all else but his fury frigid and broken in its wake. He had thought he had a true connection with Hetty. He had become quite enamored of her, even if he would never have said such aloud. He had enjoyed their games with words, their daily interaction. Her teasing, her laughter, the match of wits that had sharpened his own and made the days all the lighter—and his nights so much sweeter, if not more restful.
He had been, as Jackson had said, happy. Far happier than he could recall being since his boyhood, and his days before he had enlisted in service of King and Country. And now, it was all ashes in his heart, ashes, and ice.
This then was the answer to his question, the answer she had not wished to divulge regarding her presence at Jackson’s masquerade. Hetty Smith would not have been accorded an invitation to such an event, but Henrietta Stanton, daughter to the Earl of Crawford? Oh, she would have been well-received, and naturally she would have attended as one of Jackson’s guests.
Had she known he would be there, or had their meeting been one of accident? Or, rather, had it been another move in her schemes, another step in the fulfillment of her designs upon his person? Had she spoken poorly of him to her companion that evening so that she might clear the way better for the match she had chosen?
For a moment of twisting, agonizing contemplation, he wondered if Jackson and Patricia had known of Henrietta and her intentions. Another wave of betrayal threatened to wash over him, and he checked it with iron determination.
Jackson would not have so ill-used him, and the same was to be said of his wife. Jackson and Patricia had met under different circumstances, perforce. They might not have known of the matchmaker, Henrietta Stanton. And even if they had, they had no reason to suspect he had ever made her acquaintance, given he had remained in seclusion for the majority of his time in England, on his country estate. He had never given Jackson any more than the most superficial details of Hetty’s appearance, so his friend had never had cause to believe his model was a member of the ton.
And to his knowledge, Jackson had not attended the engagement party for Earl Cheswick. Even if he had, he might not have overheard the conversation in question, and Jackson never did pay much mind to idle gossip.
The awful ache inside him eased a fraction, though only a fraction, as he reminded himself that, false Hetty may have been, Jackson was yet a true companion and a loyal friend. It in no way dimmed the surging pain of betrayal and anguish that filled him, but it gave him some small measure of comfort and stability, a place in which to anchor himself and attempt to control the seething roil of his grief and hurt.
Every fiber of his being desired to return to his workroom and reduce the statue there to dust. And yet he desired to keep it, to berate the image since the lady herself was not available.
He wanted to confront her. A part of him, so fueled by his betrayal, wished never to see her again, wished to give notice of her perfidy to every publication, to every lord and lady, so that she might never be welcomed in any setting. That part wished to meet her in private and demand every explanation from her, though he felt that none could possibly give him, Daniel, any sort of satisfaction, nor offer any sort of balm to his shattered spirit.
He raged around his chambers, fire in his eyes. He flung about his bed furnishings, a crystal glass from his night table shattered, marks left where his fist had hammered into the walls, until finally the storm was spent, leaving him cold and empty and aching in the aftermath.
And in that emptiness, clarity returned and formed a new resolution, a single thought which he seized upon with both hands.
Had I not played the recluse and avoided London, I would have known who Henrietta Stantonwas and what she planned. I would have been able to avoid her machinations and her games.
Yes…had he not kept himself apart, disdained contact with his peers, he would have met Henrietta Stanton long before he had ever encountered Hetty Smith. And he would have remembered and known what she was about when she presented herself to his door. Perhaps she might still have sparked his inspiration and informed his art, but at least he would have avoided permitting his heart to become entangled in the matter.
