It was, however, Stephen Cranbourne’s disapproving glances that finally galvanized Sir Aubrey into making a decision.
He needed to forge ahead. Either his name must be cleared or he must make a marriage that would see him received in all fashionable and political circles. An alliance of expediency with Miss Partington, particularly if she indeed could lay claim to the letter, would open doors.
A marriage to Miss Henrietta underpinned with the hope of mutual love and desire was doomed to make them both unhappy before the ink was dry on the contract.
He lowered his head to whisper in her ear, “Wild and gladiatorial shall be the order of the day, Miss Partington.” Drawing back, he smiled a knowing smile that equaled hers. “Be prepared.”
* * * * *
Miserably, Hetty slipped through the doorway behind the tapestry. It had been easy to find though it was completely secret, shrouded as it was by a copy of the Bayeux Tapestry. When she passed the ladies’ mending room, the chatter of excited debutantes threw her own mood into greater contrast. Never had she felt so wretched.
A few steps along another corridor brought her to the room Miss Hoskings had mentioned, empty and dark save for the small fire in the grate and a lamp turned low upon the mantelpiece. How inviting the bed looked, she thought, as she sank upon it, closing her eyes. She’d like to lie here like Sleeping Beauty and not be disturbed for a hundred years. By then hopefully all her troubles would be over. Sir Aubrey would no longer exist though no doubt she’d be confronted with his many grandchildren, descendants of his marriage to Araminta. She’d been painfully aware of the patent admiration he’d not troubled to hide when he’d gazed at her sister not ten minutes before.
As ever, Hetty was relegated to the sidelines, despite—or because—she’d given so much.
Well, wasn’t that just typical of her? She’d never understood restraint; she’d always acted upon the impulses of her heart, in the here and now, with no thought to the consequences.
At least
those consequences weren’t of the direst. There would be no child and Sir Aubrey had chosen to accept the reprieve she’d given him in return for his silence. Her reputation was assured even if her virtue was no longer intact. She could consider herself in the same position as she was when she’d embarked upon her season with such mixed feelings—a hopeful wallflower.
A tear trickled down her cheek as she drifted into the sleep of dejected exhaustion.
She was awoken by a surprised, “Good Lord, you’re not the sister I expected. Surely you are not standing proxy for Miss Araminta?” The dark, forbidding tone made her jerk into a sitting position before realization had her cowering against the back of the chaise longue, caught in the thunderous glare of Lord Debenham.
Terror swept in prickling waves across her skin as she cast a frantic look at the door. But they were alone and no help would be forthcoming.
“So, my little bird of paradise appears to be awaiting the attentions of her mate.” Calculation had replaced his anger. The effect was even more terrifying. In the flickering light his jet-black locks formed a devilish contrast with his alabaster skin. He pursed his thin lips. “What an unfortunate coincidence, for I was expecting your sister, who declared every intention of being punctual for our little assignation. But you…” His expression soured. “Much as I’d like to sample your wares, I’ll state my case and leave you to ponder the consequences.”
“Consequences?” Hetty managed to utter on a thread of sound. This man had a terrible secret to hide. He’d already proved himself capable of violence. What would he do to Hetty? He could hustle her out a back corridor and into the public arena, claiming she’d agreed to meet him…unless she acquiesced to some ghastly alternative. For he had the power to destroy her reputation.
He advanced a step, his expression no less threatening until he was looming over her, seeming to suck the very air from the room, from her lungs, and it was all she could do to remain sitting upright. “I trust you are anxious not to bring dishonor to your family?”
Hetty swallowed.
“I could easily see every illusion Lord and Lady Partington have ever entertained about their precious daughter destroyed. Have you reduced to the dung heap of society.”
The hatred in his eye seared her. No man had ever looked at her like this. With such feeling. Until she’d accidentally crossed Sir Aubrey’s path, she’d never elicited anything other than vague, reluctant attention; attention that strayed in Araminta’s direction the moment her sister flashed a calculated smile.
He hunkered down in front of her and gripped her shoulders. The touch of his cold fingers froze the blood in her veins. Hetty tried to scream but there was not enough air in her lungs.
“Pay attention, Miss Henrietta,” he rasped, his hands straying to her neck. “If you do not bring me that letter, while remaining absolutely silent about it, I will ruin you and your family. Your father is not too flush in the pocket right now, is he? Rumor has it he has made a poor investment decision. I, however, have the power to ameliorate his losses.”
His breath warmed her cheek but his words chilled her heart.
“But only if you cooperate, Miss Henrietta,” he whispered, and Hetty cried out in pain as he pinched her cheek. “Only if you fetch me the letter, which I know you will be able to do.”
Trembling like a jelly, Hetty whispered, “Jem was set upon this evening and nearly killed. Y-you were behind that, weren’t you?”
“Jem’s demise was not my object.” His mouth stretched, though not into a smile. “It was the letter I wanted but it was not on his person and he chose not to inform my henchmen of its whereabouts. Now you, Miss Henrietta, are in the ideal position of ensuring that my wishes are carried out and now that I think upon it, I believe it is far more fortuitous to find you here rather than your sister after all.”
Hetty reared back as he stroked her cheek, his handsome, dangerous face pressed against hers as he said softly, “You—and your parents—have everything to lose if I divulge the truth about you.”
A whimper rose in Hetty’s throat. She forced it down. She’d not be reduced to a pathetic, puling child by his threats.
He drew back, his expression softening. “On the other hand, if you cooperate, I have the means to reduce your father’s losses. All I need is that letter.” With the tip of his finger he traced the line of her lips, his expression as rapt as if she were an object of great beauty. “You have the world at your fingertips, Miss Henrietta, for you have the power to make Jem trust you.”
He rose from his haunches to his full height, his tone confident, ugly. “I trust you will not do anything that forces my hand?”