Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
It was well he had moved at once to approach Sir Pelton.
Visiting his club the next day for a midday cold collation and a drink, Darien learned the marquess had been seen consulting with the Duke of Devonshire, the Duke of Ancaster, and the Marquess of Buckingham.
His father, too, was setting the board. And his allies were far more powerful than Darien’s.
“Took my advice, I see.” Perry, chuckling, brought the broadsides to his study that afternoon as Darien worked on a design. “A tradesman’s daughter! That’ll send his lordship round the bend. Told you a Long Meg was the way to go.”
The cold cuts turned in his stomach as Darien saw that London’s prolific and remorseless satirists had gotten Henrietta in their sights.
One cartoon lampooned her presentation, showing her in an awkward curtsy with an idiotic smile on her face as she extended a paper entitled “Petition” while burying the Queen’s face in an enormous ostrich feather.
Beside them, another man, a knight’s badge prominent on his chest, slipped a bag full of coins to a greedy King George.
The caption contained some doggerel verse about Sir Grasping presenting his daughter, a Miss Hop-Higher, while the girl in her enormous, dilapidated gown resembled nothing so much as a fatuous stork.
The second was worse. It depicted Daring with wolfish fangs, paws hanging from the sleeves of his evening coat, facing the stork girl among the pillared displays of Ellesmere House.
A banner of speech extended from his mouth: “Miss Hop-Higher! Do you suppose your father might buy some good graces for my poor self?”
In answer, a fatuous Miss Hop-Higher, in another odious dress, proclaimed, “Lord Daring! I fear your excesses are beyond even the scope of my infamous talents for reform!”
He’d made her a target, without wishing to. More than the wrath that her family might display over the ridicule, he feared how Henrietta might receive the cruel taunts. She had seemed to take pride in being thought eccentric, but no woman would appreciate being made to look a fool.
Darien’s dark mood had his valet sweating as the poor man dressed him for dinner, and it took five tries before Darien was satisfied with the way his neckcloth was tied.
His ire deepened as he drove into Manchester Square, Rufie beside him, to find a knot of people on the sidewalk before Hines House.
Two men in the working man’s fustian leaned against the iron rail that led to the kitchen steps, but as Darien pulled up in his dashing whisky and handed the ribbons to a waiting boy, one of the men straightened and tossed his cheroot onto the pavement.
“Statement for the press!” he called. “What can you tell us about the fire? Do you agree that the topic the Minerva Society proposes is treasonous?”
The second man elbowed his friend in the ribs. “I say, you’re no cit! That’s Lord Daring, you sapskull.” Both took out small notebooks and started scribbling, the first man glancing up as he drew a quick sketch.
Darien resisted the urge to throw the man’s notebook into the street. Manchester Square being new and expensive, street sweepers kept it free of dung and filth, but the gesture would be satisfying.
“Lord Daring nobbing with cits now?” the first man inquired.
“Or Sir Jasper’s handing out loans to the nobles,” the second said around his cheroot. “Buying a title for the reform girl, is he? Did as much for himself.”
It was too bad swords were out of fashion everywhere but at court; Darien wished he had his on hand. “You’d best move along,” he told the men.
The front door burst open, and the two footmen who had accompanied Henrietta to the workhouse hurtled down the steps. They formed a guard around Darien and Rufie while the butler shouted.
“There is no news, you ruffians! There is nothing remotely treasonous in the topic Miss Wardley-Hines has proposed for the upcoming debate of the Minerva Society. You will permit the family’s guests to enter the house!”
“What recourse falls to the dependent when those in power fail to protect those they govern?” one of the reporters asked, chortling. “That don’t reek o’ treason? What’d be your answer in that debate, milord Daring?”
Despite an elbow to the stomach from one of the footmen, the newsman broached the top step to lean into the butler’s face. “What’d be your reaction, pops?”
“You will please disperse!” the butler shouted and slammed the door.
Shouts followed. “Open up! Send someone out! The press has a right to know!” Small stones pattered against the door, and the butler shook his head.
“That’ll need repainting,” he said. “Rude lot.”
The entry hall blossomed with flowers. Bouquets lined the occasional tables and spilled onto the floor. Darien looked around in surprise as the butler took their hats and coats. It seemed an excessive display for a small family party.
Henrietta came to the top of the stairs, draped in a mountain of feathers. “You survived the gauntlet, I see. None the worse for wear?”
The pleasure he felt at her welcoming smile was absurd. Darien tamped it down. “No worse than Brooks’s at the dinner rush,” he said. “The greater trick will be wading through all these flowers. Are you starting a conservatory?”
“Yes, they’re outrageous, aren’t they?” She led them to a large, lofty drawing room adorned with neoclassical frescoes, warmed by oil lamps and rich fabrics. Her tiny cousin perched like a sparrow on a settee fresh from the Chippendale showroom. There was no one else.
“The flowers have been coming all day,” the sparrow said shyly. “And the spectators, too. Hetty’s advert announcing her debate for the Minerva Society appeared in all the papers this morning.”
Darien hoped neither girl, nor her family, had seen the ha’penny broadsides featuring the adventures of Miss Hop-Higher.
His suit with Sir Pelton would not speed if Darien made his family figures of public ridicule, but more than that, Darien didn’t want to see what either of the men with the notebooks would make of Henrietta’s current costume.
Henrietta made the introductions. “Marsi, you will remember Lord Darien from the Ellesmere gathering. This is his cousin, Mr. Rutherford Bales, in orders. Lord Darien, Mr. Bales, my cousin, Miss Marsibel Pomeroy.”
Henrietta held out her hand and shook Rufie’s with a frank smile. “You are the scholar of the family, I hear. Well and good. Lord Darien and Marsi can talk fashion, and you can tell me about your studies.”
Annoyance made Darien bridle. Both of the girls left unchaperoned when expecting a notorious rake for dinner? And how could she possibly find Rufie more interesting than him?
“Do the Wardley-Hines generally have newsmen clustered at their door?”
“Would you like a drink while we wait for Lady Mama to come down? Sir Jasper is in the study finishing up with our man of business. Marsi is having sherry, and I am having a nip of Canary wine. It is my Aunt Davinia’s favorite, and she likes her liqueurs to stand on their own, if you know what I mean.
” Henrietta distributed glasses, then raised her own like a barmaid in the public house. “To new friends!”
“There was mention of a fire,” Darien prodded.
“Yes.” Henrietta took a sip of Canary wine. “Someone burned down the mill at Bamford that I’m trying to buy.”
Darien stared at her. Fires at textile mills were epic disasters, with so many flammables at hand—fabrics, thread, wooden equipment, people. And Henrietta, who had wept over a sickly infant in the workhouse, was drinking wine and flirting with Rufie. Was she a trifle disguised?
“How unfortunate,” he said flatly.
“No, it’s wonderful. I’m certain Steppenfield set it after I outbid him.
He did me a favor, really.” Seeing Rufie’s horrified look, she explained.
“It was an old corn mill, long abandoned, and he likely fired it so Hodge would come down on the price. But I intend to hold firm on my offer, and if Hodge sells to me, I can rebuild with iron framing. Papa’s done so in several of his mills, and it reduces the risk of fire considerably. ”
She noisily sipped her wine. “I’ve any number of improvements I want to experiment with, but I need a mill of my own. I want to try the new style of looms, with one of Newcomen’s steam engines to power them.”
Darien sniffed his glass. The smell was potent. “Does this fire account for all the floral arrangements in the hall?”
“No.” She flushed a pretty shade of rose. “Those are from friends and supporters of the Minerva Society.” She glanced at her cousin on the settee, as delicate as a china ornament. “What can be taking Lady Mama so long?”
Darien set his glass on a mahogany table. “Miss Pomeroy,” he said, “who approved your cousin’s ensemble for this evening?”
Henrietta looked down at herself. Instantly the pleased chatterbox fell away. “I beg your pardon.”
“You cannot wear a day gown into dinner,” Darien said. “Just what impression is this meant to achieve? To make you a stork in truth?”
Miss Pomeroy smiled, mischief in her eyes. “Miss Wollstonecraft believes that the efforts women spend on self-adornment are better devoted to cultivating their minds and rational interests.”
“Miss Pomeroy, I promised to give your cousin the benefit of my advice on matters of dress. Would you think it very wrong of me to do so now?”
“I should think Hetty might benefit from your instruction.” The sparrow’s brown eyes danced with amusement. “If Duprix is with you?”
“I do not see how my dress is any of his concern,” Henrietta snapped.
“It is an offense to taste, and moreover, looking at it will put me off my feed. Come,” Darien prompted, holding out his hand in command.