Chapter 5
“Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant.”
Despite the sweet air of spring, my mood was sour.
I’d positioned myself at a tea table at the Pratts’ garden party, which Sybella’s family hosted annually at their residence on Rosemont Street.
Although private gardens were rare in the city, the Pratts had purchased the adjoining lot and transformed it into a rose garden, complete with a hedge maze.
But even this natural beauty did little to soothe my agitation.
I’d hardly slept the past three days, tossing and turning each night as Father’s order to pursue the abominable Mr. Hawke rattled around my brain.
Even now, as I forced smiles and nods at members of the Swarm who buzzed around me, all I could think of was the scarlet ribbon hidden in my dress pocket.
It was a reminder not to let Edmond Hawke, or any gentleman, get the better of me.
Mrs. Sweete sat across from me with a tilt of her head. “Why are you pouting, Miss Weston?”
“I’m not pouting. I’m strategizing, as any general would before battle.”
“Of course.”
“Speaking of strategy, tell me what you learned.”
My chaperone poured herself a cup of tea, taking no milk or sugar. “I just spoke with Lady Fitzwilliam, who is cousins with a gentleman who plays cards with Mr. Marceaux. She assured me that Mr. Marceaux is not currently courting anyone—at least, not seriously.”
I nodded. “And Cranford? Have you determined why he’s still unwed?”
Mrs. Sweete took a long sip of tea. “Just rumors. But the consensus seems to be that he is simply uninterested in marriage.”
“By that logic, half the men in the ton would be bachelors.”
She took another sip. “Perhaps.”
I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “What have you learned about Mr. Hawke? Is he a libertine? A rogue? Does he prowl around houses of ill repute?”
“I haven’t asked around about him.” Mrs. Sweete placed a watercress sandwich on her plate. “Did you want me to?”
“Of course!” I snapped. “I didn’t think I had to ask.”
Mrs. Sweete eyed me patiently, and I slumped back in my chair, searching the party for Mr. Hawke for the hundredth time.
On the lawn, Mr. Marceaux was playing a game of battledore against the weak-chinned Mr. Bradford.
They hit the shuttlecock back and forth with their racquets while Sybella and a gaggle of unmarried ladies cheered from the sidelines.
Sybella laughed at something one of the ladies said, and Mr. Bradford turned his whole head toward her with a look of pure yearning. Mr. Marceaux scored the point.
Poor Mr. Bradford. He clearly had affections for Sybella. Why, I didn’t know. But I respected him for it. He was the only man in the Swarm who was immune to my charms.
Other than Mr. Hawke. That condescending, no-good, arrogant—
“You’re scowling,” Mrs. Sweete said.
I composed myself and tapped my fingernails on the edge of my teacup.
“We must learn Mr. Hawke’s darkest secrets so Father will remove him from consideration.
I’d like you to be my spy, Mrs. Sweete. Remember, if you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. ”
She sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“While you’re gathering intelligence, I have a plan of my own… that is, if Mr. Hawke ever shows up.”
“Dare I ask what your plan is?”
“Be patient, Mrs. Sweete. You’ll find out soon enough.”
“So be it.” She held out her sandwich. “Would you like a sandwich, Miss Weston?”
“No, thank you. I only hunger for victory.”
“More for me.” She took a bite. “You know, Mr. Hawke withdrawing his offer to dance may not have been personal.”
“Not personal?” I lifted my teacup with a sniff. “It was a targeted attack.”
“I watched him the rest of the night. He didn’t dance with anyone.” Mrs. Sweete dabbed her chin with a napkin. “And during the waltz, I saw him studying the dancers’ feet.”
“Their feet? Why would he—” Mr. Marceaux scored another point against Mr. Bradford at the same time I realized what Mrs. Sweete was implying. I nearly dropped my teacup. “Do you mean to say Mr. Hawke doesn’t know how to waltz?”
Mrs. Sweete shrugged. “I only know what I saw. I leave the implications to you.”
I did love a good implication, especially one in my favor. If Mr. Hawke didn’t know how to waltz, perhaps he had other secrets I could unveil.
“Why, that is wonderful news.” I added a spoonful of honey to my tea, my appetite returning. “After today, I’m sure we’ll have more than enough evidence to persuade Father to strike him from the list.”
“Now is your chance.” Mrs. Sweete gestured behind me. “Mr. Hawke just arrived.”
I dropped my napkin as an excuse to look behind me. Sure enough, Mr. Hawke lingered on the patio, surveying the rose garden. His brow was furrowed, as if the sight of roses offended him.
Just then, Sybella’s father stepped up to Mr. Hawke and offered his hand for a handshake.
Mr. Pratt was a bull of a man, tall and broad and easy to anger.
Along with his fearsome appearance, his wealth and business connections made him one of the most powerful men in London, which is why I was stunned when Mr. Hawke refused to shake his hand.
Goodness, it was as if Mr. Hawke didn’t have a single good manner to his name.
Mr. Pratt generously ignored the slight.
He dropped his hand and nodded instead. The men shared a few short words, then Mr. Pratt lumbered off to greet his next guest. Mr. Hawke, however, adjusted his shirt cuffs and glared at the roses once more.
It was then, when the breeze tousled his hair, that his terrible green eyes found mine.
I snatched up the napkin and averted my gaze at once.
“Will you go speak with him?” Mrs. Sweete asked.
“I never approach an enemy as soon as he arrives on the battlefield. Makes one appear too eager.” I took a long sip of my tea, dabbed my lips with my napkin, then slowly folded it on my plate. “There. That should do it. Enjoy your sandwich, Mrs. Sweete.”
She sighed again. “Enjoy your battle.”
I ambled across the lawn, adjusting my peacock-feather hat so it demurely covered my eyes.
I’d use it as an excuse to accidentally run into Mr. Hawke.
At first, exhibit the coyness of a maiden, until the enemy gives you an opening, I silently recited as I stepped up onto the patio.
Afterwards emulate the rapidity of a running hare, and it will be too late for the enemy to oppose—
“Hel! There you are!” Sybella leapt in front of me and blocked my approach. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
“I’ve been sitting at the same table for the last hour,” I said. I tried to step around her, but Sybella blocked me once again.
“That dress…” She looked me up and down. “Am I going mad, or have I seen it before?”
“I’d wager the former.” I glanced over her shoulder to where Mr. Hawke was now surrounded by not one but three mamas and their unmarried daughters. I was losing my opportunity. “Now, I really must—”
“I know! You wore it to Mrs. Wellington’s tea party last season. I remember because, look!” She grabbed my skirt. “I accidentally spilled some claret on you, remember? You can still see the faint outline here.”
I swatted her hand away. “First of all, there was nothing accidental about that—”
“Sir!” Sybella took the arm of an unsuspecting gentleman walking by. “You must come and admire Miss Weston with me.”
Sybella pulled the poor man into our conversation, and I froze. It was none other than Lord Cranford, one of my candidates. Up until now, the baron had been loitering at the edge of the party, but he had made the mistake of crossing the lawn and had unknowingly been pulled into a war zone.
The baron blinked at Sybella. “I—I beg your pardon, miss?”
“It’s nothing, Lord Cranford,” I said with a hurried curtsy.
When I straightened, I looked up at the baron with a smile.
He had a kind face, with age etched around his mouth and eyes.
His thinning hairline was currently hidden beneath a hat, and despite the warm spring day, he wore a stiff coat, as if a gentle breeze was too stimulating for him.
He carried an untouched glass of lemonade in one hand and his cane in the other.
“Oh, don’t be modest, Hel.” Sybella rested her head on my shoulder, and I fought the urge to send her tumbling into the rose briars.
She pointed to my altered dress, now with shortened sleeves and a new bodice.
“Our dear Miss Weston is reusing last season’s dresses.
Isn’t she brilliantly frugal, Lord Cranford? ”
The baron glanced at my dress, then quickly lowered his gaze to the grass. “I—um… well, I don’t know much about fashion, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, believe me, this isn’t fashion,” Sybella giggled. “It’s thrift.”
I gave her a flat look. The truth was I had placed an order for new dresses using the money Father had given me, but the first gowns wouldn’t be ready until next week. I had to stave off Sybella’s rumors until then. Luckily, I had a plan in place.
“Oh, you didn’t hear about the charity?” I asked.
Sybella tilted her head. “Charity?”
“Mrs. Fitzgerald’s charity for the less fortunate girls of London, of course.
” I stole a glance in the baron’s direction to make sure he was listening.
“I repurposed a few dresses in an effort to raise awareness. We spend so much on new wardrobes each year. Imagine if each lady altered just one dress instead of buying a new one, then donated the funds we would have spent to charity instead.” My lips pursed as I looked Sybella up and down.
“I’m surprised Mrs. Fitzgerald didn’t ask you to participate as well. ”
Sybella’s voice was higher than usual. “You’re wearing old dresses… for charity?”
“I contribute where I can.” I smoothed my skirt and looked up at the baron through my eyelashes. “Do you support any charities, Lord Cranford?”
He swallowed. “I—yes.”
“Which ones? I must know so I can offer patronage as well.”