CHAPTER XIX
THEY made it by a hair’s breadth.
‘Cutting it fine, Mr Allerton,’ Mr Willis observed good-naturedly when they burst into the atrium. ‘I was about to close the doors.’
With an affected air of nonchalance, Timothy offered one arm to Hetty, the other to Trixie, and they swept into the room together.
Trixie heaved a sigh. Almack’s could not, of course, compete with the vivacity of the Opera House, but then there was something undeniably relieving about not having to fear pursuit by Charles I.
Full of relief that everything had concluded satisfactorily, she decided there was no reason she might not still enjoy herself fully and, spotting Miss Corcott in the crowd, soon slipped away.
Hetty, by comparison, was feeling rather worn out.
Such an agitating few hours had caused a headache to begin behind her forehead and she wanted more than anything to go to bed.
The knowledge that she would not be able to do so for many hours was not particularly cheering, nor was the difficulty of deciding whether to inform Trixie’s mother or elder brother of all that had occurred that evening.
She was not confident that Arthur, were he to learn of it, would not do something entirely foolish such as bar Trixie from leaving the house entirely – and Trixie was certainly so entirely foolish as to concoct some kind of escape involving sheets dangling from her window.
Her thoughts almost entirely focused upon this topic, it took her a while to notice that she was being hailed, and the Marquis had to raise his hand into a full-blown wave before the sight properly penetrated.
‘Isabelle is just relaying her doubts regarding a certain Duke,’ he explained in stage whisper when Hetty drew up. ‘He has invited her to visit Witley Manor, but she does not know if she wishes to go. A quandary with which all can empathise, of course.’
Mademoiselle de Nicolet swatted him with her fan. ‘You make me sound so terrible!’
It was not, she assured Hetty, that she was unaware of the honour such an invitation bestowed upon her – and Lady Davenport was of course beside herself at such marked attention.
‘I thought you had a fancy to be a duchess,’ Nicolet said.
Hetty felt that such a private discussion ought really not to be happening in public – there were half a dozen young gentlemen hovering nearby in the hope of pouncing upon Mademoiselle de Nicolet just as soon as she concluded with her brother.
‘It would be very comfortable,’ Mademoiselle de Nicolet said consideringly, ‘and everyone would be so very pleased with me – but I do not think those can be the only reasons to engage myself.’
‘Choose one of the other fellows, then,’ Nicolet suggested. ‘It isn’t as if you have any lack of options – the house is fairly covered in bouquets each morning.’ Then, grimacing, he added: ‘I am beginning to tire of freesias.’
‘As am I,’ Mademoiselle de Nicolet agreed. She sighed, but then – eyeing the gentlemen lingering on the periphery of her conversation – smiled and asked, more loudly: ‘Does this country make bouquets of no other flower?’
This gauntlet was no sooner thrown than taken up.
Mr Fakenham, drawing up, promised eagerly that he should bring her the finest bouquet of tulips she had ever seen, Lord Devereux, castigating tulips as the flower of peasants, vowed he would bring her the brightest roses the kingdom might offer, while Mr Collier wondered what boon she would offer to the winning gentleman.
Mademoiselle de Nicolet tapped a finger against her chin as she considered this.
‘Power has gone to her head,’ Nicolet told Hetty in an undertone. ‘I sincerely pity whichever fellow she does select for a husband – the hoops she will make him jump through!’
His voice was indulgent rather than disapproving, and while Hetty knew that plenty of persons would find Mademoiselle de Nicolet’s ruthlessness unbecoming, at that moment Hetty felt nothing but envy.
What was it that Timothy had said in the carriage?
You ought to consider yourself worth such efforts.
Mademoiselle de Nicolet certainly did. Hetty, however …
As the pain in her head built to a throb, the rather depressing thought occurred to her that when one considered the lengths she had travelled to attract Arthur’s notice, it was she who was jumping through the hoops.
Unaware of this downward turn to her thoughts, the Marquis offered Hetty his hand as the next dance was called. ‘Would you do me the honour?’
Hetty accepted without hesitation. The conversation with Arthur earlier that evening had, in fact, quite fled from her mind, and so it was with some surprise, therefore, that she was confronted with Arthur’s stone-faced expression when the dance concluded, as he insisted that it would be he, not the Marquis, escorting Hetty to the refreshment room.
‘You were meant to be avoiding the fellow,’ he reprimanded her as they walked.
Hetty blinked. ‘Oh, I quite forgot about all that.’
Arthur stared. ‘How on earth could you – I told you I know him to be a rogue!’
For a moment, Hetty considered the effort that would be required to relay all that had occurred since they had last spoken – which had been enough to thrust any conversation, however heated, from a person’s mind – but found herself incapable.
‘Since you could offer no reason behind the suspicion, I can hardly cast him out,’ was all she said.
‘I should have thought my word reason enough,’ Arthur said stiffly.
Hetty’s headache was becoming more difficult to ignore, and this went – though Arthur could not know it – some way to answering for the irritable cast to her voice as she reasoned: ‘You cannot tell me whom to be friends with or not without some evidence, Arthur. Might you not just speak frankly? Do recollect that I cut my eye teeth years ago.’
Arthur did not immediately respond to this. Instead, accepting two glasses of barley water from the attendant, he drew her a little way off to a sofa, where they sat down.
‘Very well,’ he said, in a very low voice. ‘I did not wish to speak of such unsavoury matters with you – and certainly not here – but as my word is plainly not enough for you, you have forced my hand. The Marquis has a mistress in keeping.’
Hetty’s brows rose. ‘In London?’
Arthur pressed the barley water into her hands. ‘I know this must be a shock.’
It was, rather – for this was quick work – and she spared a thought to wish that Nicolet had informed her of this fact rather than leave her open to such a surprising attack.
Arthur continued, ‘In public, he is behaving as if he is in love with you, but his private conduct proved this cannot be the case. It is not difficult to work out the reason why.’
Hetty felt her palms begin to moisten. ‘It isn’t?’
Surely Arthur had not worked out the truth? It was too outlandish.
‘He is a fortune hunter,’ Arthur pronounced simply, easing her nerves for a moment – their deception had not, in fact, been uncovered – before he continued: ‘I have been suspicious from the beginning, of course. Something about the whole thing never made sense to me.’
Hetty’s relief faded. ‘How – how do you mean?’
‘The way he began so suddenly, so assiduously, to court you,’ Arthur said. ‘Even in my brief experience of the man, it seemed so out of character. An ulterior motive is the only explanation.’
Hetty took a sip of her drink, hoping to find it refreshing. It did not: barley water, with all the best will in the world, tasted only of brown.
‘Perhaps,’ she said, gazing down into the glass, ‘perhaps he enjoys my company, or thinks me interesting – or perhaps he even likes the way I look. Do you think those might also be explanations for such interest?’
Arthur’s apologetic grimace served as her answer. Hetty felt it as a physical blow. Was the thought of someone such as the Marquis finding her attractive truly so far-fetched to Arthur?
‘Do you truly think so little of me?’ she asked, except this time, out loud.
Finally heeding the strain in her voice, Arthur ducked his head to properly look at her. ‘Of course you have many qualities, Hetty! I know that better than anyone.’
Such bland and pat reassurance did nothing to appease Hetty’s hurt, and her voice, as she responded, was bitter: ‘Do you? Your behaviour these past days gives me reason to doubt it.’
And yet she had continued to hope, had she not? Had continued on her merry, silly way, crossing her fingers and saying her prayers, waiting and watching for him to consider her worthy – when all along it had been entirely pointless. Mortification rose in her throat like bile.
Arthur knitted his brows together, for he did not understand her meaning, but when pressed Hetty could only shook her head.
‘Are you referring to our disagreement over Belcourt?’ he guessed after a pause. ‘Hetty, I do not wish to speak of that. My decision is entirely final.’
‘It is a foolish decision,’ Hetty muttered petulantly – the temptation to cause him to feel some of the hurt currently paining her was overwhelming. ‘I cannot believe you would so easily cast aside such an important piece of—’
Arthur’s own temper began to rise. ‘You overstep,’ he warned her.
‘As do you,’ she fired back. ‘I did not ask you to conduct such an investigation into Nicolet, you know!’
‘It is my duty to do so.’
‘It is your duty to inform me with whom I may or may not associate?’
‘Yes,’ Arthur asserted, glaring now. ‘Your father entrusted you to our care, and so it is my duty to ensure you do not make a terrible mistake.’
Hetty’s hands clenched around her glass. ‘You truly believe that is the only reason he would – he might—’
Arthur shook his head. ‘I wish I could tell you differently, but for his head to have been turned so suddenly – quite frankly, it is simply implausible.’
‘Simply implausible,’ Hetty echoed. ‘I see. Yes, I see. Well, I – I must thank you for explaining it so very thoroughly; you have made matters very plain indeed. I can only apologise that all your aid was for naught – if we had only known how pointless the endeavour was, then you might have saved yourself a great deal of effort.’
‘I did not say it was pointless.’ Arthur scrubbed a hand across his face. ‘You are deliberately misunderstanding me now, Hetty, and it is becoming very tiresome.’
‘Then the ending of our arrangement ought to relieve you,’ Hetty said. ‘I think perhaps we had best to bring it to a close, hadn’t we? I shan’t expect you to help me any more and you – well, you have already ceased discussing Belcourt with me, haven’t you?’
‘I ought to have done so a while ago,’ Arthur agreed, and if there was one way to further her humiliation, this was it.
After which, all that there was left for her to do was stand up, dust off her dress and re-enter the ballroom.