Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Henrietta paused too long. Aunt Althea, no doubt thinking her niece right behind her, disappeared into a clump of visitors entering St. James Palace.
Her entire family was here to see her presented, and Henrietta had no idea where to go.
For a wild moment, she contemplated telling the coachman to drive on. She could circle St. James Park until the levee was over, sparing herself an afternoon of agony.
But such a desertion would humiliate her family.
Clarinda was so pleased with her husband’s elevation and Henrietta’s entrance into society.
Aunt Althea would never forgive her, and Sir Pelton would look a fool.
Whatever Henrietta Wardley-Hines might lack in grace or delicacy, she did not lack in mettle.
Taking a deep breath, she flung open the coach door and pushed through, headdress, hoops, and all.
She ducked far enough that she managed not to dislodge her wig, but her attention toward the upper extremities neglected the lower.
As she descended the steps, she planted a foot on her enormous train and alighted on the paving stones to the distinct sound of rending fabric.
Henrietta Wardley-Hines, gentleman’s daughter, uttered an exclamation that ought never be voiced in polite company, and never, ever before the palace of the King.
“That, if I am not mistaken, is the sentiment of a lady in distress,” a deep, very amused, very masculine voice said.
Henrietta looked up from the wreckage of her gown to the splendid figure of a man with lean hips and broad shoulders, then up further still to prominent cheekbones, a wide jaw, and insolent, wickedly blue eyes.
He was the most elegantly attired, arrestingly handsome man she had ever seen, and he was quite clearly trying not to laugh at her.
“Someone will have to tell Aunt Davinia that my presentation gown never made it to my presentation.” Henrietta sighed at the sight of her poor abused train.
There was no escape. The broad avenue before the palace was crammed with all manner of chairs, vehicles, horses, and pedestrians.
She could flee down St. James Street, or duck into a shop on Pall Mall, but any number of people she knew might see her with a gaping hole in her hem.
But to go inside and be seen in such a state by everyone coming to attend the Queen—it was not to be thought of.
Her last hope of refuge rolled away, the coachman obliged to remove the carriage by the threatening shouts of those behind in the queue. Her one hope of deliverance was for the street to open and swallow her.
Which it did not.
Her only recourse was to brave her way into the palace. Henrietta regarded the red-brick facade with its octagonal towers and massive one-handed clock.
“I don’t suppose you know where I might find a retiring room,” she addressed the amused man.
He held out his elbow, clad in a gorgeous silk coat embroidered with silver thread along the long formal tails, which draped in the most attractive fashion over a set of knee-buckled breeches. Henrietta tried not to stare at his very shapely male legs.
“If you dare be seen with me, I can find you a spot, and Aunt Davinia need not be disappointed.” His mouth curved with a hint of mischief.
Why shouldn’t she be seen with him? Because they had not been introduced, or because he was expensive-looking and therefore undoubtedly of higher rank? Henrietta couldn’t afford to quibble. She gathered up her skirts, hiding the tatters as best she could, and laid her hand on his arm.
He was firm and strong, and the material beneath her gloves felt warm.
Her cheeks heated as she walked beside him through the archway, past the red-coated guards.
They stared straight ahead, as if wooden dolls, but she swore one of them surveyed her companion with a raised brow.
Had she just fallen into the clutches of a royal duke?
She hadn’t a choice. She stuck close as he strolled into the crush of people milling about a large quadrangle. He appeared unconcerned with the throng, but the assortment of vibrant colors, lustrous gowns, and dazzling headgear made Henrietta feel faintly dizzy.
“The Colour Court,” her escort said, as if giving her a tour. He had a fine, resonant voice. “And through there is the Chair Court, which the royals use, and where the mad needlewoman tried to assassinate the King.”
He drew her through a plain wooden door into a wood-paneled room, oblong in design, with organ pipes set high into the wall and a colored wash of light falling through clerestory windows set with stained glass. They’d stepped into a jeweled secret, and they were quite alone.
“The Chapel Royal?” Henrietta looked about with a thrill of wonder.
“Quite empty, except on Sundays,” her escort confirmed. He pointed to the enclosed box of a pew. “Not a proper retiring room, but private enough.”
“Brilliant.” Henrietta rewarded him with a grateful smile. Her squire positioned himself at the door, and she closeted herself in the pew.
Finding the new tear was an easy task; locating the pins among the yards of silk and lace and repositioning them was less so.
The fabric was heavy yet fragile with age, and she feared the repairs would show.
Charley had scorned her gown; with a self-consciousness new to her, Henrietta wondered what her handsome, elegant rescuer thought.
“No wonder grand court ladies employed ladies in waiting to carry their trains,” she remarked. “They are a nuisance, if not an outright danger. I do believe most female fashion is designed to keep us helpless and thus in subjugation.”
She glanced his way and met a raised brow, amused but not condescending.
“I wouldn’t call male fashions accommodating by any stretch,” he said.
She regarded his. The tight coat outlined a broad chest and shoulders, and his breeches were as beautifully embroidered as his coat, the satin clinging to his thighs and the white silk stockings revealing a muscular curve of calf.
A strange flutter moved through her belly, and when a slant of mockery shaded his features, she realized she was staring.
He must be very accustomed to female admiration.
Still, good tailoring and clever padding could achieve that exceptional silhouette.
She pointed to his heeled shoes with two large rubies set in the buckles. “I cannot imagine those are any more comfortable than mine.”
“I’ll wish my feet cut off before the afternoon is over,” he agreed.
The trace of smugness disappeared into a genuine smile. Henrietta felt as if she were floating above the ground, a strange, new awareness lifting her. She was alone with a man—an attractive man. She busied herself with repairs.
“And why should court functions require such antiquated dress?” She spoke around the extra pin between her teeth. “It’s risky as well as unwieldly. Why, I could smuggle any number of royal treasures out of the palace beneath these skirts.”
“Do you have plans to do so?”
“Of course I don’t mean to. But I could.” Wonderful. Now she was not simply a shambles, but a vaguely treasonous shambles. What a marvelous impression she was making her first time at court.
“Margaret Nicholson, the needlewoman, smuggled in a dessert knife,” her rescuer said. “Assassination attempt. She managed to nick His Majesty’s waistcoat.”
“If His Majesty’s coat has as many layers as my stomacher, there’s no hope of a knife cutting through.” Henrietta stabbed at her hem.
He studied her ensemble over the shield of the pew. His bright blue gaze touched the headdress, which she feared was in sad disarray, the fussy cascade of ruffles over her undergown, the glaring gold trim on her robe of jade green silk.
His gaze lingered on the enormous emerald collar at her décolletage, and his eyes darkened. Her breath hitched.
“You oughtn’t be here alone with me,” he said. “There will be any number of yeoman guards about you can ask for direction to the Presence Chamber.”
His voice echoed in the wooden room, emphasizing their isolation. He had the most thrilling voice, the match for his perfect face. Motes swirled in the shafts of light like the remnants of dreams or fairy dust.
“I haven’t the faintest idea where to go,” Henrietta said, her heart pounding. Nervousness, no doubt. “Please don’t leave me.”
That small, peculiar smile showed again, amusement and something else. He had an expressive mouth to match the bold nose and square, solid-looking jaw. He wore no wig but had pulled his hair back in a simple queue. Not a macaroni, then, for all his elegance.
“I’ll stay,” he said, and it was absurd how pleased she felt about that.
Striking men did not often offer Henrietta escort.
The few who had paid her court at home were neighbors in Rossendale who had an eye on her father’s fortune, or neighbors in Bamford hoping to take possession of Birch Vale.
When their suits were rebuffed, several of these gentlemen had taken pains to illuminate Henrietta as to the failings they had been so kind to overlook.
The enumerations did not make her repent her decision, but they did leave her well aware she was not a woman to inspire admiration.
“Unless, of course, you have someone waiting for you.” The light, floating sensation vanished. A man this rich-looking and well-formed would have an equally rich and handsome wife and half a dozen offspring stowed somewhere.
“There is no one,” he said, a hard edge to his tone, his eyes tightening as if he were bracing himself against this confession. A small thread pulled tight in her chest.
She fastened the last of her pins and stepped out of the pew. “This is my first time in St. James,” she said. “Rather plain for a chapel, isn’t it? I read this is where Charles I spent the night praying before his execution.”
“This is the original chapel from the medieval hospital of St. James,” her companion said.
“Henry III evicted the community of leprous women so he could have the site. George still comes here for services, though Charlotte finds it too cold in the winter months.” He pointed overhead.
“The ceiling by Holbein is quite unique.”
Her eyes caught on the firm, strong neck that showed above his neckcloth as he tilted back his head. His look of concentration as he regarded the ceiling pulled another small, sharp twinge from her chest.
“Oh, my word. That is exquisite.” Holding her wig in place, Henrietta marveled at the intricate pattern of crosses and hexagons, all composed of tiny painted squares.
When she lowered her chin, she found her rescuer regarding her with a strange expression, one that held self-mockery and appeal at the same time.
That self-consciousness stabbed her again. She gathered her train and draped it over one arm as Aunt Althea had taught her. “I suppose you can detect the pins.”
“Not if you hold it this way.” He stepped forward and rearranged the heavy green silk. “But your feather—if you will permit me?”
She inclined her head toward him, the errant ostrich feather dangling before her eye.
He pushed the slender stalk into her wig, and a thrill of awareness moved through her at his nearness, his touch.
The faint citrus tang of eau de cologne washed over her senses, cool as a breeze in summer.
She sighed with relief and something else as he stepped back—disappointment, as if she had wanted him to move closer, rather than away. How absurd.
“You mustn’t be seen with me,” he reminded her. “Your reputation.”
“I suppose so,” she said, fearing to move her head by nodding in agreement.
In the north, it would not be a matter of concern for an unknown gentleman to provide assistance.
But the manners of the London haut ton were nicer and more obscure, at least where a knight’s daughter was concerned.
She could not give her family more reason to be distressed with her, not when they already forgave her so much.
“I don’t know how to thank you.” She gazed up into his face and blinked. “In fact, I don’t know your name.”
“That’s for the best.” He stepped away with a small bow, his sword swinging.
“Go back through the Colour Court and take the grand staircase to the guard room. You’ll know it by the display of weapons.
The Queen’s levee chamber is the third room in.
Give your card to the attendant and he will unite you with your party. ”
She held out her hand, sorry to leave him. She liked this quiet interlude, now that her immediate distress had been remedied. “I am very grateful, Mr.—”
“And here!” A gorgeously gowned lady surged into the room, a trio of meek girls in her wake.
“This,” she proclaimed, “is the Chapel Royal, where King George and Queen Charlotte were married in— Oh, heavens. It’s got a ghost.” She gave Henrietta a stare that made her very conscious that her train was barely holding together, her ostrich feather did not want to behave, and nothing in between could be helped.
“We were just leaving,” Henrietta said.
“We?” The dowager arched one artificially dark brow.
How such a tall, striking man could make himself invisible, Henrietta couldn’t guess, but her rescuer was nowhere to be seen.
He’d stepped in like a knight of old, saved her from disaster on this most important day of her presentation, and then vanished before she could properly thank him.
The afternoon was bound to hold further disappointments, but the greatest, Henrietta already knew, was that she was unlikely ever to see her gallant, interesting rescuer again.