Wicked Godmother (8 page)

‘Where is your home, Miss Metcalf?’ she realized the marquess was asking.

‘Upper Marcham, a small village in Barshire.’

‘And do you see much social life there?’

‘Not since my parents died, which was some seven years ago,’ said Harriet. ‘Before that, they took me to assemblies in Barminster.’

‘I am amazed you are still unwed.’

The candid blue eyes that looked up into his own had an expression of wonder in them, as if still astonished by the whole wide world. ‘Why, sir,’ she said, ‘I have no dowry.’

‘I would have thought your face was dowry enough,’ he said. His voice was warm and teasing; the voice, thought Harriet, of a practised flirt.

‘No one’s face is enough, my lord,’ she said sharply.

‘Come, I cannot believe no one has ever proposed to you.’

‘Yes, they did, when my parents were alive, but Mama considered them unsuitable.’

‘And what did you think?’

Harriet looked at him in surprise. ‘I did n-not think anything,’ she faltered. ‘One must always honour one’s parents’ judgement.’

‘Even if the heart is engaged?’

‘I do not think hearts have much to do with marriage,’ said Harriet. ‘A lady must marry someone suitable. If her heart is also engaged, then she may count herself fortunate.’

‘But you do not seem to think many such fortunate ladies exist?’

‘No, love seems to be something found outside marriage – as in your own case.’

She turned brick red.

‘Some wine, Miss Metcalf?’ he said smoothly while inwardly fuming. But, then, he had only himself to blame. This is what came of encouraging rustic beauties to be impertinent. But it was so very hard to remain angry with her when she looked so ashamed and downcast. Her rare combination of innocence and sensuality was beginning to stir his senses. But it would not answer. He did not wish to be married. He had been married once, such a long time ago, to pretty Dorothy, a tiny charmer, who had died of consumption and saved him the pain of divorcing her for her blatant faithlessness. And Dorothy had once been as innocent as this Miss Metcalf. Women were all the same; once the bloom was lost, they turned into heartless sluts. And Miss Metcalf, for all her innocence, showed a decidedly mercenary turn of mind.

‘I apologize for my last remark,’ said Harriet stiffly. ‘It – it – just came out.’

‘Your apology is accepted,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you will find a husband this Season, Miss Metcalf.’

‘I am only interested in finding husbands for the Misses Hayner,’ said Harriet, ‘although I do not expect any difficulty. Both are so charming and talented.’

‘And where are these paragons?’

Harriet nodded her head in the direction of the right-hand corner of the room. ‘Sarah is the one in blue, and Annabelle is in pink. They are twins.’

Her voice glowed with pride. The marquess put down the quizzing glass he had raised to study the girls. He thought they looked like every other insipid debutante he had ever met. He found himself hoping they were worthy of the love and pride with which Miss Harriet Metcalf viewed them.

‘You are not eating,’ he said, looking at her untouched plate.

‘I have lost my appetite.’

The marquess smiled into her eyes. ‘May I hope that I have taken your appetite away?’

‘No, you may not,’ said Harriet roundly. ‘And what a silly thing to hope for anyway.’

Both stared at each other in amazement – Harriet just as surprised at her rudeness as the marquess evidently was.

‘Don’t apologize again,’ said the marquess. ‘Let us talk about something perfectly safe, like the weather.’

‘Or we can talk to Lord Vere instead of each other,’ said Harriet.

‘Or we could if he were here.’

‘Which he is,’ said a voice behind the marquess. Lord Vere had come up on them and showed every evidence of joining them.

‘I thought you were entertaining Miss Johnson,’ said the marquess, making room for his friend.

‘I was, but I clumsily knocked wine down her gown, and so poor Miss Johnson has gone to repair the damage.’

The marquess gave Lord Vere a thoughtful look, as if wondering whether his friend had tipped wine down his partner’s gown in order to extricate himself.

‘How is your dog?’ asked Lord Vere.

‘He seems a little recovered,’ said Harriet. ‘I feel so ashamed, you know, not having noticed he was unwell. Rainbird, our butler, said he often took away poor Beauty’s bowl of food back to the kitchens himself and noticed it had barely been touched. I asked him why he did not inform me of this earlier, and he said he thought the animal had a poor appetite and normally ate very little.’

‘It is understandable that you should be preoccupied with the serious matter of bringing two young ladies out,’ said Lord Vere, his black eyes alight with admiration. ‘They are a credit to you, Miss Metcalf. They were pointed out to me, and I was impressed by their pretty manners.’

‘How good of you to say so!’ said Harriet. She picked up her fork and absentmindedly began to eat a little food. ‘I confess I have been very worried as to how to go on. I do not have any knowledge of the great world, but people have proved remarkably kind.’

‘I think you bring out the best in all of us,’ said Lord Vere, and Harriet accepted the compliment with a charming, rippling laugh.

The marquess had never been cut out by any gentle man before, but he had to admit that Gilbert, Lord Vere, had the best of him on this occasion. The two subjects closest to Harriet’s heart seemed to be her mangy dog and her giggling god-daughters.

Lord Vere had placed himself between the marquess and Harriet. He turned towards her in such a way as almost to block her from the marquess’s view.

‘I am sorry I shall not have the pleasure of driving out with you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘But may I call on you?’

‘Of course,’ said Harriet with a smile. ‘Sarah and Annabelle will be delighted to make your acquaintance.’

‘Do you plan to go to the opera?’ asked Lord Vere.

‘I must rent a box. I have not yet done so and . . . and I believe the patrons of the opera are very high sticklers, quite like Almack’s, and as I was not very sure how to go about it, I rather put things off.’

‘Miss Metcalf, I would be proud to arrange the rental of a box for you. There will be no trouble with the patrons. London has not seen such beauty for many a Season.’

‘How charming of you to say so,’ said Harriet, her eyes glowing. ‘I shall convey your compliment to Sarah and Annabelle.’

The marquess looked cynically amused. It was obvious to him that Gilbert was longing to tell the naive Miss Metcalf that he had meant the compliment for her but now decided it would be churlish to do so. The marquess also felt a stab of annoyance that she should appear so relaxed and at ease in Gilbert’s company. But Harriet’s only interest in Lord Vere was as a prospective beau for either Sarah or Annabelle. She liked his easy and unaffected manners. He was handsome, but not in the disturbing and compelling way that the marquess was handsome. She felt happy in his company and wished the marquess would go away.

As if sensing her thoughts, the marquess rose, bowed, and took his leave. As he walked in the direction of the card room, he told himself firmly that Harriet Metcalf had proved to be as boring and naive as he had expected. She was not worth another thought.

But neither, it appeared, was any other woman at the ball. The handsome marquess settled down with his friends for a rubber of whist, forgetting even his mistress, Belinda Romney – Belinda, who watched Harriet with jealous eyes and blamed this newcomer to the London scene for the coldness and indifference of her usually attentive lover.

And when I feigned an angry look,

Alas! I loved you best.

JOHN SHEFFIELD, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM AND NORMANDY

What screams, what pinches, what giggles, what oh-you-naughty-pusses were inflicted on Harriet by Sarah and Annabelle after the ball when she told them the story of Beauty’s rescuer. Never had the twins been more in charity with their godmother. Never had their vanity been so rampant. To them it was all too plain. Both gentlemen had cultivated the acquaintance of Harriet in order to secure introductions to themselves. For who could possibly believe that the devastatingly handsome and devastatingly rich Marquess of Huntingdon would be in the slightest interested in the welfare of a cur like Beauty?

And Harriet had behaved just as she ought, that much they admitted as they prepared for bed. There would be a stay of execution. No need to ruin Harriet’s reputation while Harriet continued to perform so admirably. Before leaving the ball, Lord Vere had told Harriet he would call at three in the afternoon; the marquess was to call at a quarter to five.

Both girls argued over the merits of these beaux and then amicably decided that Sarah should have Lord Huntingdon and Annabelle, Lord Vere.

They could hardly sleep for excitement. Dresses were planned. Then there were portfolios of watercolours to be arranged and needlework to be displayed.

The servants discussed the forthcoming visits over breakfast in the servants’ hall the next morning. They gossiped and talked with much of their usual freedom, for Emily, the lady’s maid, was not present, and although only Lizzie, the scullery maid, actively disliked her, the others were only conscious of a lifting of a certain restraint which her presence imposed on the ‘family’.

‘It would be a great feather in Miss Metcalf’s cap if she could secure just one of them for either Miss Sarah or Miss Annabelle,’ said Rainbird.

‘Perhaps their interest lies in Miss Metcalf,’ suggested Mrs Middleton. ‘She is quite beautiful and so sweet and courteous.’

‘Perhaps it would be best not to say such a thing when Emily is present,’ volunteered Lizzie shyly. ‘I do not think she likes Miss Metcalf.’

‘And what do you know of the grend world, you with your scrubbing brush?’ jeered Joseph. Mac-Gregor, the cook, saw Lizzie wince and slammed a cup of tea down in front of the footman with unnecessary force.

‘What do you mean, Lizzie?’ asked Rainbird, casting a threatening look at the footman.

‘Only that there is a certain something about Emily,’ said Lizzie cautiously. ‘Alice was saying the other day that Miss Metcalf was the nicest, sweetest lady any servant had ever waited on, and Emily said nothing, but I saw her lip curl.’

‘That’s because you don’t work hard enough,’ said Mrs Middleton. ‘You have too much time on your hands, young Lizzie, and you indulge in fancies about your betters.’ A lady’s maid, in the servants’ strict hierarchy,
was
a scullery maid’s better. Mrs Middleton privately thought Lizzie a very good worker indeed, but she nourished hopes of elevating the girl should their circumstances change and was apt to cover her very real affection for Lizzie with a brusque and authoritarian manner.

‘Perhaps you are right,’ said Lizzie listlessly, and Rainbird looked at her sharply. The scullery maid’s hair had lost its sheen, and her face was so pale it was almost greenish in the gloom of the servants’ hall.

‘What our Lizzie needs is some fresh air,’ said Rainbird. ‘Go and take a walk in the Park, Lizzie. Dave will help out with your duties.’

‘Can she take thet dog with her?’ asked Joseph eagerly. ‘It don’t do my position no good being seen with a mangy cur like thet. Luke is always teasing me.’ Luke, Joseph’s friend and rival, worked next door as Lord Charteris’s first footman.

‘I don’t mind,’ said Lizzie quickly, seeing Rainbird was about to protest. Lizzie would have done anything to please the feckless and vain Joseph.

‘Well, don’t let the beast near the kitchen,’ said Joseph ungratefully. ‘Meh cat must not be tormented.’

‘Why don’t you marry the flea bag?’ said the cook sourly. ‘The Moocher is the only thing you care about apart from your worthless self. Jessamy.’

Joseph scowled at the insult. Jessamy, a corruption of jessamine or jasmine, was applied to the weak and effeminate. The Moocher rubbed himself against the cook’s legs, and Angus MacGregor absentmindedly bent down and stroked the animal. He, too, was fond of the kitchen cat because the Moocher was a mouser supreme.

It was unthinkable that Lizzie should show her undistinguished presence abovestairs, so Rainbird went to fetch Beauty and told Lizzie to meet him at the top of the area steps.