Chapter 5
Five
Unfortunately, Harry could not leave Lady Huxley’s house on her own.
And now her gown was very bloody, indeed.
She entered the ballroom, and quite a few of the ladies gasped, and one fainted.
Harry thought it likely the lady in question had drunk too much punch, so she, Harry, did not bear any responsibility.
Fainting was rather silly and certainly an overreaction to a few drops of blood.
Of course, if it were one’s own blood and one had lost pints of it, that would be a valid reason to fall down.
Catherine appeared at her side and looked at her questioningly. Harry shrugged and said, “Nosebleed.”
Harry thought her answer rather clever. It was not a lie. She was known to be terse at times, and she was also known to have epistaxis herself. And, yes, her stepmother drew the wrong conclusion, but the conclusion Harry had hoped she would reach. This was subtle, yes, but not a lie.
On the way home in the carriage, Catherine fussed over her, Arabella sulked about missing the breakfast, and Harry chortled to herself. When one was as socially inept as she was, no one would suspect her of subtlety.
Harry felt herself punished for her subtlety when her nose began to drip later that day.
No, not blood. One of those other humors, she supposed, green and vile.
The drip turned to a stream. She had to leave her room to ask her lady’s maid Smythe for a large stack of handkerchiefs so she could stop dripping on her proof.
She thought it odd she had to sit down several times on her way to her bedchamber to ring for Smythe.
Her lady’s maid took one look at Harry and made her get in bed. Then there was a great deal of fuss with Smythe waking Catherine from her post-ball nap and Catherine feeling Harry’s forehead and cold cloths being applied and a tray coming upstairs with a steaming cup of beef tea.
It was most unfair that after the first good night’s sleep Harry had had in weeks, she should develop a cold. It proved rest was rated far too highly. Work, that’s the thing for it.
But her stepmother put her foot down. Literally, Mama Katie stamped and told Harry she was to stay in bed and do what she was told for once in her life. And then Mama Katie collapsed into the chair next to the bed, her face in her hands.
Harry was astonished and meekly drank her beef tea and stayed in her bed the rest of the day. Really, it was quite horrible to waste a whole day.
Thomas escaped from Lady Huxley’s fairly easily.
He could not go into the breakfast covered in blood, but he found a footman in the front hall and explained he had suffered an unfortunate and accidental injury and would the footman please convey his regrets to Lady Huxley for his rude exit and also convey a message to Lord Daventry that Lord Drake had left and would see him later today at his club?
Yes, my lord, the footman would. And Thomas slipped out into the dawn and found his way back to his rooms where Jackson clucked and immediately set to work on his waistcoat, soaking and dabbing, while Thomas ate an enormous breakfast.
Thomas met James later at his club, as promised. Tonight was for the fascinating ladies of the evening at Madame Flora’s. Tomorrow was for calls on the ladies of society. But, for now, illegal whisky and masculine conversation.
“Tom, what did you think of the array of widows at the ball last night?”
“There was one who caught my eye,” Thomas admitted. “Mrs. Catherine Lovelock is everything you said she would be.”
James gestured for one of the barmen to bring more whisky. “The Widow Lovelock? Yes, she is . . . a good deal more attractive than I expected.”
“And she’s very rich. And for me, that has to be the most fetching quality of all.” Thomas took out his handkerchief and wiped his nose and looked at it. Blood? No, just some errant moisture. Good. “Jamie, have you ever heard of a Mama Katie?”
“Mama Katie? Is that the name of the woman who is setting herself up in competition with Madame Flora?”
Thomas shook his head. The peculiar and painfully thin girl who had innocently squeezed his morning erection was not a strumpet. He didn’t know what she was. She had been . . . quite unusual.
James went on, “Well, whatever her name is, I hope she gets her establishment up and running quickly. The devil knows you could use some more variety in your whores. You’ve gone through them all dozens of times at Madame Flora’s.
Now, that would be an excellent investment, don’t you think?
Could a future duke get away with staking a brothel? Can you imagine the perquisites?”
The conversation then devolved into a discussion of buttocks and breasts and birthmarks and who did what with whom.
Thomas thought the rutting that night was nearly as good as the talking about it with James beforehand.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Lovelock.” Thomas and James bowed.
“Lord Daventry, Lord Drake.”
Catherine seemed flattered to have two young lords as callers.
A very pretty fair-haired girl was in the drawing room, as well.
Thomas remembered seeing her at the ball.
A Miss Arabella Lovelock. Mrs. Lovelock’s daughter.
Her first Season. James quickly monopolized the young Arabella, falling easily into a discussion of dresses at the ball two nights ago. Having sisters was definitely a boon.
Thomas sat and spoke with Catherine. She was as vivacious and as witty as she had been at the ball.
She did not flirt, it was true, but Thomas liked that.
The Widow Lovelock was beautiful with no lines on her face and what appeared to be a firm bosom, but from what James had said, Thomas supposed she might be at least forty-five years of age.
That momentarily saddened him because he would have liked to have had children.
But he did have his nephew Phillip as an heir.
The bloodline would hold. What mattered now was saving Sommerleigh.
He pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his nose while Catherine turned away to speak to Arabella and James.
She turned back to him just as he had caught his drip.
“Oh, that’s too bad, Lord Drake. My child Harry has been suffering as well and is indisposed.
It must be the London air. I am sure country air is far more salubrious.
Now, please do tell me more about the geography of Sommerleigh. It sounds a picture.”
So she had a son as well as a daughter. Thomas would like to meet the boy. He imagined a mischievous rascal whom he might teach to fly a kite just as he had taught Phillip many years ago. This could work out quite well.
Over the next weeks, Thomas thought he might be making progress with Catherine Lovelock.
It was hard to tell. He met her at half a dozen balls, and she agreed to be his partner for at least one dance at each ball.
She did not try to divert his attentions to her daughter Arabella.
Likely, she knew his reputation. However, she did not spurn his company for herself.
He called again several times, sometimes with James and sometimes without, and she was unfailingly cordial, nay, even warm in a cautious way.
Threatening letters from creditors had been forwarded from Sommerleigh to London, and Thomas knew he would have to make a move soon.