Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“You’re in the basket if word gets round that you’re toddling up to a gentry cove ken,” James remarked as Henrietta drew her phaeton to a stop before Darien’s house.
“I don’t have much choice, do I? Am I to send over a note saying nice knowing you, but Celeste named you the father of her child, and now her brother is going to call you out? Forgive me if I’m not entirely certain how these things are done. If you’re concerned, you may be my chaperone.”
“And leave the Titans for the sharks and snafflers?” James eyed the crowd of small children who thronged the high wheels of the vehicle, hoping for a job and the bit of copper that would go with it.
“If ’e does tup ye, all I’ll say is I told ye so!
” he called as she ascended the steps and banged the knocker.
The steps to Darien’s house had not been whitewashed that day, just another way in which a bachelor residence differed from a ducal palace, and her own. It had not escaped Henrietta that, as spacious and rich as the Highcastle abode was, Hines House was inferior only in size.
Her father’s wealth, the result of hard work and shrewd investments, rivaled that of the ages-old propertied class.
Little wonder the King used honors and titles to ensure that wealth kept bedfellow with status, and the rest of the unwashed could lie in the gutter, a hierarchy that God and king had perpetuated for centuries.
It was so unjust. Perhaps a further topic for a Minerva Society debate, if her first were a success.
A young man in a golden frock coat and white periwig opened the door. “What a clutter yer makin’,” he griped.
Henrietta handed him her card. “Lord Darien, please.”
The lad scowled at the creamy card embossed with swirls and lace. “What do I do with this, then?”
Henrietta rolled her eyes. “You are a country lad, aren’t you? Give it to Lord Darien and announce me. Trot along now! It’s rather urgent.”
“You’d best come wit’ me then.” The boy turned and walked down a narrow hallway. At the back of the house, he went to a door and announced, “A girl ’ere what wants ye, an’ she gimme a card.” He thrust out the object as if the imprint of Henrietta’s female hand had soiled it.
Darien sat behind a large desk, papers tumbling about him, quill in hand. His hair was unpowdered and pulled back in a simple queue. He wore no neckcloth and only a waistcoat over his shirt.
“Good heavens,” Henrietta said, “you aren’t even dressed! What is the matter with your butler, bringing me to you like this?”
Darien gave her the strangest look, studying her as if he had not seen her in ages and was reminding himself of her features. Then he rose and put down the quill.
“He is my valet, and a useless know-nothing,” he said. “Quinby, I ought to turn you off this second. Don’t you know you are not to bring an unaccompanied female in to see me? Ever?”
Henrietta raised her brows. “I thought unaccompanied females visited you all the time.”
“Not here,” Darien said, taking her arm and steering her away from the window. “Henry, you pea goose, didn’t you bring a chaperone? Don’t you know what this could do to your reputation?”
“James is outside,” Henrietta said, lifting her chin, “and I didn’t have time to swing round for a maid. This is a matter of life and death, Darien!” The familiar address slipped out, but she did not beg his pardon. Had he just called her Henry?
“A matter of your life and death if your father thinks he must force you to marry me.” Darien turned to find his sullen servant had slunk away. “Rufie!” he called in a thunderous summons. “Perry, you worthless sot! Why aren’t either of you in the library for once? I need you.”
Henrietta grabbed the ruffles of his shirt and tugged. “There isn’t time,” she said in a rush. “You must listen to me. I was just at—”
“Rufie!” Darien bellowed again, then focused on Henrietta. “What is the matter? Is someone hurt?”
“You’re going to be hurt!” she exclaimed, pushing his chest. This expanse was very firm, very broad, very warm beneath her hands. “You must leave at once! Your estate—one of your father’s homes—perhaps the Continent— Oh, Rutherford—that is, Mr. Bales. Hello.”
Rutherford rushed into the room, buttoning a black coat. Henrietta blushed and tried stepping away, but Darien kept hold of her arm.
“I regret to say that your cousin is about to be called out in a duel,” she said, knowing Rufie at least would take proper measure of the situation. “You must help him get away before this awful event can transpire. He could be killed, or worse.”
“Or worse?” Darien said, lifting a brow.
“Yes, worse,” Henrietta cried, turning toward him.
“Do not give me that supercilious look of yours. I have just been at Highcastle House to see Lady Celeste, and she told Lord Alfred that you are the father of her baby, and he means to call you out and…and shoot you.” She put her hands over her mouth as a sob welled up.
This was unlike her. She was not at all prone to vapors.
Darien pulled her into an embrace as Henrietta fought down her emotion. “You must leave town,” she sniffled. “I don’t want you to die.”
At last, he had an appropriate response. She felt the tremor run through his shoulders. Then, as she lifted her head to hunt for her handkerchief, she saw that he was holding in laughter.
Another man strolled into the room, in a shabby suit with his hair uncombed. “Who wants to shoot Daring this time?” he inquired.
“This time?” Henrietta echoed. “This is no laughing matter, Daring! How can you be amused by this, you exasperating man?”
“Henry, do not put yourself into such a taking,” Darien replied.
“I am in no danger from Freddy. He couldn’t hit me with a pistol if he were standing where Perry is, and he won’t be idiot enough to choose swords.
In fact I doubt very much he’ll have the liver to call me out at all.
He’ll want to settle it with fisticuffs, and I’m rather handy with my fives. ”
Henrietta stared. “You aren’t at all afraid he’ll kill you?”
“Not in the least.” His lips twitched. “But I appreciate your concern.”
Henrietta sank into a chair. “Well, I did not expect this,” she said. “And here I thought duels were a matter of some gravity.”
“I’ve had my share of them and always escaped,” Darien informed her. “Does Freddy know about the third man? He’s the one he ought to set his sights on. From what I understand, he’s the reason Celeste staged her whole Cheltenham tragedy in the first place.”
A clatter came from a side table as Perry knocked over a vase. “Beg pardon?” he stuttered. “A third man, you say?”
“She said quite clearly you had ruined her,” Henrietta said. “We all heard.”
“But what did she say about the babe? Will she accept my arrangements for it?” Darien pressed.
“We did not exactly have the opportunity for a thoughtful discussion, due to the threats of vengeance and blood,” Henrietta retorted. “But I believe she said her darling would have her but for…er, your progeny.”
“She said that?” Perry bumped against a cushioned chair and then sat down in it. Rufie frowned at him, and Henrietta wondered whether the man was foxed.
“Have you two met?” Darien said. “Henry, my schoolmate and hanger-on, the disreputable Mr. Peregrine Empson. Perry, Miss Henrietta Wardley-Hines, reformer.” He went to a small shelf filled with bottles, above and below it rows of books. “Drink, anyone?”
“Heavens, no, Darien,” Rufie said. “It’s not even noon.”
“God, yes,” Perry said. “A tall draught of whatever you’ve got.”
“Cognac,” Darien said, lifting a decanter. “Henry?”
“Yes, I believe I could use a nip.” She accepted the glass, frowning as his fingers slid over hers. “Why are you calling me that?”
“Henry?” he said, smiling at her with that beautiful mouth. “Henrietta takes too long to pronounce.”
Her brow furrowed. “It’s not proper.”
“Neither is it proper for you to be here in my library, drinking with three gentlemen.”
“Gentlemen.” She snorted. “I suppose it is rather fast of me. Well. Circumstances warrant.” She sniffed the liquid in her glass, swirled it, and tipped the contents into her mouth in one neat gulp.
Then she drew in a long breath, placed the glass on the table beside her, and straightened.
“I suppose, since I have no other news to report, I should be going.”
Darien stared. “Are you rather accustomed to spirits, Henry?”
“What?” She blinked. “Oh, that. Not ladylike? Shame. Am I meant to take a sip, and simper, and protest I am not used to strong liquor?”
“You may do exactly as you like in my house,” Darien answered, “but I am surprised that did not go straight to your head.”
“Of course it did.” She rose, wobbled a bit, and smiled. “Feels wonderful. Oh, Darien— Are these your drawings?”
She moved to a table covered with scrolls full of engineering designs.
She saw Darien make a sweeping gesture to his companions in the direction of the door.
She rolled her shoulders in the thick riding habit.
Glory, but she’d needed a strong drink. She was no longer concerned about Darien’s imminent death.
She was no longer concerned about anything.
She looked around to see that the other two men had obeyed. “Alone, are we?” she inquired.
He set his glass to the side and approached her. “Do you want to be?”
“Of course not. I’ve a meeting with the London Committee for Abolition tomorrow and my debate for the Minerva Society coming soon. It’s trial enough to be taken seriously as a woman. No one would listen to me for a moment were it known I’d succumbed to a rake.”
“What if it were not known?” Darien said in a silky voice.
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Oh, who am I fooling? I could run about shouting like the watchman and no one would believe you’d touched me.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” He moved closer.
She indicated her disheveled attire, her wild hair under the enormous hat, her lumpy and unfashionable habit. “Do you require spectacles, sir?”
He tilted his head slightly. “I’ve done more than touch you, you awful girl. I kissed you.”
“You did? Oh, that. A demonstration only.” She shook her head. “Is this for a mill? Would a wheel that size generate enough power?”
He turned her to face him. She glanced at his hands covering her shoulders. He had such strong, lean hands. The nails were neatly manicured and his fingers lightly callused, as if he did hard work without gloves. She imagined those hands moving over Celeste’s curved body and hunched her shoulders.
“Henry,” he said, and his voice had that low, husky quality she’d heard in the garden. His eyes were a smoky blue and his lids lowered, as if he were sleepy. “I think perhaps you should be concerned that I might ruin you.”
“I’m not concerned in the least,” she said. “I’ve seen what kind of women you fancy.”
His hands fell away, and the smoky look disappeared. He reeled as if she had slapped him in the face.
“Besides which,” she said, turning once more to the drawing board, “you aren’t the sort of man I fancy either.”
“Indeed?” he said in a voice that approached a growl. “What sort of man is worthy of Miss Henrietta Wardley-Hines?”
“I like men of industry, like my father. Men who have a passion, and a talent, and work hard at employing it for the betterment of others.” She turned a paper to examine the sketch from a different angle.
“Men who are called to serve, who feel a higher purpose.” She put the drawing aside and looked up.
“Scholars are my weakness, if you must know. Men like your cousin, actually.”
He looked thunderstruck, his voice rising in volume. “Rufie?”
She drew back, embarrassed. “Not—that is— I meant men like him,” she hurried to say. “I would not presume— Unless— Do you think he might—?”
Darien’s eyes looked almost violet with passion.
His hands came to her shoulders again, but not, this time, in a caress.
He yanked her to him and she stumbled, treading on his toe.
“You are not,” he muttered through his teeth, “going to throw yourself at Rufie.” And before she could think to avert her mouth, he ground his down upon it.
She waited, part of her curious. It was not a scientific experiment this time; he was trying to exert his will.
His mouth moved in that calculated way, demanding something.
A small thread of tension curled low in her belly.
He was being masterful again, trying to master her.
She drew back, and his mouth followed, insistent. The thread of tension grew.
She stood on the edge of something—of tumbling into the abyss that had swallowed all the other scores of women who’d been kissed by Lord Daring.
Not the ones for whom ruination had been fabricated, but the many for whom his reputation was in part deserved.
She ground the heel of her boot into his toe.
He lifted his head. He was breathing hard, but so was she. Some emotion that she couldn’t read swam over his face. His fingers dug into her back, and it seemed he meant to draw her to him again when they heard a sound. Slowly, cold with horror, Henrietta looked toward the doorway.
Rutherford cleared his throat. “Did you…call me?” he croaked.
“Go away, Rufie,” Darien said in a freezing voice.
Henrietta clasped her hands over her mouth, her eyes stretched wide with shock. “Am I…am I compromised?”
Darien glared at her. “Rufie will say nothing,” he snapped. “Henry, I said you oughtn’t be here.”
“I’m not.” And for the second time that day, Henrietta bolted for the door, fleeing the mess she’d created.
James was lying relaxed on his seat in the phaeton, flipping a coin with one hand and holding the ribbons in the other while he chatted with the street boys.
“I hope that was honestly earned and not won,” Henrietta snapped, hauling herself up the high step.
“Ey, now.” James sat up. “If yer goin’ to comb my head, I’ll know the reason. All dished up, are ye?”
“No rake alive has the power to ruin me,” Henrietta said, fighting her way into the vehicle. “Move over, James. I’m driving home.”
He caught a whiff of her breath and his eyes widened. “Not for a minute,” her loyal groom cried, refusing to surrender the reins. “As if I’d put these prime articles in the hands of a girl who’s bosky!”