Standing before the mirror to remove the diamond pin in his cravat, Hazelmere suddenly turned to his valet, hurriedly packing. ‘Murgatroyd, see if you can catch Jim before he leaves the house. Tell him I’ve left the curricle outside Merion House. If he’s already left for the mews you’d better send one of the footmen after him and come back to me.’
After one stunned moment Murgatroyd was out of the door and down the stairs as fast as dignity would allow. Hazelmere ruefully surveyed his own reflection. If his servants had not already realised the cause of his present mood, the fact that he had walked away and left his greys outside Merion House would doubtless clarify the issue.
Murgatroyd reached the servants’ hall just as Jim, attired in the Hazelmere livery, was preparing to leave. Hearing his message, the entire population of the servants’ hall simply stared. Then all those with any legitimate claim to be in the front of the house headed for the street door. Opening it and looking across the square to Merion House, Mytton, Jim, Murgatroyd and Charles gazed in silent awe at the curricle.
‘My gawd! I’d never’ ve believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself,’ said Jim.
With much shaking of heads, they all resumed their activities, Jim crossing the square to retrieve the precious greys and Murgatroyd hurrying upstairs to inform his lordship that the carriage was being prepared.
In the end, Jim had to walk the bays for five minutes before his master appeared. On his way downstairs Hazelmere recalled the one player in the game who did not know where he was going but should. He went into the library. His eye alighted on a pile of correspondence, delivered that afternoon. He flicked through the envelopes, leaving most unopened. His attention was caught by a plain envelope of poor quality, addressed in a strong hand to ‘Mr M. Henry’. Opening it, he scanned the enclosed pages. When his eyes lifted he remained standing, gazing at nothing, his long fingers beating a thoughtful tattoo on the desk-top. Then, with a frown, he crammed the letter into his coat pocket and sat to compose a suitably informative note to Ferdie. This was not easy. He still could not concentrate properly, particularly when reviewing that interview at Merion House. Finally he wrote a simple set of statements, informing Ferdie that he had to leave for Leicestershire on estate business and would be back in London on Tuesday next, that Tony knew this, that he and Tony had informed their close friends of the attempts on Dorothea over lunch that day and they would assist in keeping an eye on her. He ended with a simple request to Ferdie to look after Dorothea for him.
Signing this epistle, he bethought himself of one last item. Raising his pen, he added a postscript. He would much prefer if Ferdie could manage not to tell Dorothea of their fears for her safety. Smiling ruefully, he fixed his seal to the letter and rang for a footman. He did not have much confidence in Ferdie’s ability to distract Dorothea once she became suspicious, as she undoubtedly would long before he returned. Handing the letter over with instructions that it be delivered to Mr Acheson-Smythe’s lodgings immediately, he strode out of his house to the waiting curricle.
Release
d from that passionate embrace, Dorothea stood by the chair, too stunned to move. Hearing the front door shut, she put her fingers to her bruised lips. Her eyes slowly refocused. Then, drawing a shuddering breath, she went to the door, opened it and, without even noticing Mellow, went up the stairs to her chamber.
Lady Merion, hearing her footsteps, came out of the morning-room. Five minutes after Ferdie had left her she had come downstairs. There was, she had felt, a limit to how long she could leave Dorothea alone with Hazelmere. All had been silent in the drawing-room. Taking a deep breath and waving Mellow away, she had opened the door. Seeing Dorothea locked in Hazelmere’s arms, she had immediately closed it again. With a decidedly pensive expression, she had informed Mellow that she would sit in the morning-room and if anyone should call he was to show them in there. Now, glimpsing the retreating figure at the top of the stairs, she sighed. With a resigned air she rang for tea.
Despite her ignorance of the details of the recently conducted interview, she thought Dorothea would need at least half an hour to cry herself out. Far too wise to try to talk sense to a young lady in the first flush of tears, she calmly reviewed what she knew of the afternoon’s events. None of it made a great deal of sense. She would have to extract sufficient details before she could begin to understand what it was about; she was too old to leap to conclusions.
Finishing her tea, she went purposefully upstairs.
Reaching her bedchamber, Dorothea shut the door, threw herself on her bed and gave way to her tears. For the first time in years she wept unrestrainedly, a mixture of relief, bewilderment and pent-up emotions pouring from her, disappointment and a barely recognised frustration lending their bitter flavour to her woe. For ten minutes the storm continued unabated. Finally, through exhaustion, the whirling kaleidoscope that was her mind slowed down and the racking sobs died. She was propped up against her pillows, dabbing ineffectually at her brimming eyes with a sodden handkerchief, when her grandmother knocked and entered.
Seeing her normally calm and collected granddaughter in the shadows of the bed, her large eyes enormous and swimming in unshed tears, Hermione walked over and plumped herself down on the end of the bed. Dorothea gulped and whispered, ‘Oh, Grandmama, what am I to do?’
Recognising her cue, Lady Merion responded briskly. ‘The first thing you’ll do, my dear, is to wash your face and get yourself a fresh handkerchief. Go on, now. You’ll feel a great deal better.’ As Dorothea rose she continued, ‘And after that I think we’ll have a long talk. It’s time you explained to me just what you and Hazelmere have been about.’
At that, Dorothea’s green eyes returned to her grandmother’s face, but she made no comment. While she washed and dried her face, and then ransacked her dressing-table for a clean handkerchief, the capacity for rational thought returned. Her grandmother undoubtedly deserved an explanation. But there were so many questions still unanswered. Pensive, she returned to her seat on the bed.
Lady Merion opened the conversation with a simple request to be told all about it.
Dorothea grimaced, then drew a deep breath and plunged in. ‘Last night, at the ball, the Prince…well, it was obvious he believed…knew, that…there is…a…connection between myself and Lord Hazelmere. I realise, now, that most people know that some sort of…understanding exists between us.’
‘After that first waltz at your come-out, I should think they would!’ snorted Lady Merion.
‘Waltz?’ echoed Dorothea in confusion. ‘What do you mean?’
Lady Merion sighed. ‘I didn’t think you knew.’ She eyed her granddaughter shrewdly, then said, ‘Over the past weeks your feelings for Marc Henry have been becoming daily more visible. Oh, I don’t mean you wear your heart on your sleeve! Far from it. But no one, seeing the two of you together, could doubt your interest in him. And, given his attentiveness since the start of the Season, his intentions have been quite clear. Why, after your ball, he told me he would offer for you. In his own good time, he said. Just like him, of course.’
Dorothea listened to her grandmother’s explanation, comprehension dawning. It occurred to her that she could do a great deal worse than to appeal to her experienced grandparent for further clarification. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I wondered whether he was…well, merely looking for a suitable bride. He must marry. I gather his family have been badgering him for years to do so.’ Resolutely she drew a deep breath and brought forth her most secret fear. ‘When he met me in Moreton Park woods I think he got the idea from something I said that I had no expectations of marrying. And when I didn’t behave like all the others I thought maybe he felt I would do.’ She paused, gathering strength to continue. ‘I wondered if he thought that, as I didn’t have any great hopes of marriage, I’d be happy to enter into…I suppose the correct phrase is “a marriage of convenience”, which would leave him free to continue with his mistresses as before.’
Lady Merion’s face went blank. Then she threw back her head and laughed. When she could command her voice she said, ‘Well! I’m glad Hazelmere’s carefully orchestrated wooing has got the result it deserved.’
Bemused, Dorothea looked at her expectantly, but her grandmother waved aside the unspoken question. ‘My dear Dorothea, I came into the drawing-room this afternoon while you and Hazelmere were…somewhat engaged. In my experience, a man contemplating a mariage de convenance does not set out to seduce his prospective bride before proposing.’ A grin of unholy amusement still lit her ladyship’s sharp face. ‘After the way Hazelmere’s been behaving over you, my dear, I should think you must be the last person in the ton to realise he’s in love with you.’
‘Oh.’ Hope and a sneaking suspicion that it was all too good to be true warred in Dorothea’s breast. Hope won, but the suspicion was not entirely vanquished.
Lady Merion broke in on her thoughts. ‘Ferdie mentioned some misunderstanding over Helen Walford.’
‘The Comte de Vanée told me she was Hazelmere’s mistress. He denied it.’
Lady Merion almost groaned aloud. She closed her eyes. Finally opening them, she asked, her tone resigned, ‘You asked him, I suppose?’
‘Well, he wanted to know why I cut him in the Park,’ said Dorothea, rapidly regaining her normal equilibrium. ‘He said he’d known her since she was a child.’
‘So he has. Helen Walford’s father is a distant connection of Lady Hazelmere and, as a child, Helen often spent her summers at Hazelmere. In age she is some years younger than Ferdie. She was something of a tomboy, and she often plagued Marc and Tony, who treated her much as they treated Alison. As I recall, they were always hauling her out of some scrape or other, and with no very good grace, I can tell you!