Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Georg was thoroughly horrified.
At himself, mainly.
He, undoubtedly, was the world’s biggest fool.
A half-witted clodpoll, a simpleton who ran around with both eyes bound.
How on earth could he have made such a cardinal mistake? The signs had been blaring at him like military trumpets signalling the movement of troops, and he had sat there, deaf and blind and utterly stupid.
If a mistake of this magnitude had been made by one of his underlings, he’d have him shot on the spot. There was simply no excuse not to.
Had it not been so very evident from the very first, from the moment she’d stepped out of the mud-splattered carriage?
How had he not seen that every movement had been that of a gently bred duke’s sister?
The pride with which she carried herself, even when she wore a companion’s modest attire. It was in every movement, every glance. The confidence with which she spoke with people.
The efficiency with which she handled everyone at the inn.
He stared at her profile and wondered how on earth he had been so blind as to miss how it resembled Julius’s. The proud, high forehead, the gently tilting nose.
The curve of her lips, the stubbornness of her chin—all typical Stafford-Hill features.
How on earth could he not have seen any of that?
He repressed another groan.
How could he recognise and unmask a French spy from a distance but fail to identify the woman he was to marry?
And what about her?
What devil had got into her that she would string him along in such a manner, make such a fool of him, and purposely deceive him?
It was understandable why she might have told that fib to the innkeeper; her lie must have sprung up in a moment of rashness.
But from the moment he’d introduced himself, what had induced her to hide her identity from him and maintain the charade?
He rubbed his neck.
He was at fault, of course.
The mistake, initially, had been on his side.
He had focused entirely on her companion, mistaking her for his bride, and he had hardly spared her a glance. In fact, he’d treated her rather rudely and brushed her aside as a mettlesome servant.
To treat a duke’s sister like that…and his betrothed, to boot.
He cringed inwardly.
Surely, it must have been humiliating to say the least, and cut her pride to the quick.
His behaviour had been unforgivable.
But she…
She had been roasting him from the very start.
Mocking him, playing him for the fool he no doubt was.
She had had a merry time hoodwinking him, taking on another disguise, acting and assuming an entirely different identity.
He glared at her.
How much of what he had seen of her so far had really been her? He went over every single interaction with her in his mind.
He’d dismissed her as a prim little sugar poppet when he’d first seen her. She certainly had behaved that way.
Yet she undoubtedly had heard his dismissal of her, and quite possibly, that must have riled her.
He paused as an entirely new notion occurred to him.
Had she decided to play the daft poppet simply to rile him?
This demonstrated not only an exceptional eye for detail, as she had assessed and judged his character on the spur of the moment, but also acting talent; that of setting aside her true identity and assuming that of the companion.
But then she’d said that Lady Evie had intended to run away from her betrothed, which was him.
He frowned.
There was a twofold message in there. Firstly, she had known who he was, so she knew whom she was speaking to.
Well, naturally she knew, since he’d introduced himself to her companion in her presence.
Whatever she had said about him then, and of her wanting to run away, had been intentional. She had wanted him to know.
And secondly was the matter of the engagement itself.
She did not want to go ahead with it, evidently.
Very well.
He certainly would not force the matter if she was reluctant to wed him; there was nothing he would loathe more than being married to someone who did not want him.
It just surprised him that the issue was brought up now, of all times. She could have called it off in England and not come here to begin with.
Which begged the question, of course: why did she come? Why had she allowed it to go on for as long as it did? Was it to please her brother? She did not appear to be so biddable.
Once more, he returned to the thought that he really did not know her at all. He had no idea what sort of woman she was, this Lady Evangeline Stafford-Hill.
That was something that he had to remedy.
In this sense he held a clear advantage: she did not know that he now knew who she was.
What if he were to continue the game, but this time on his terms?
What if he were to let her remain in the belief that he was still thinking she was Miss Clara Honeywell?
She felt safe in that guise. Wouldn’t the advantage be that this would allow him to study her, seeing through her guise?
If he exposed her now, he might lose the opportunity to observe her.
It was a contradiction, of course, a paradox.
By allowing her to be someone else, he could discover the truth of who she truly was.
He could test her.
Discover her true intent.
And then decide what to do with her.
It was an excellent plan.
Evie was beginning to feel rather bored.
Certainly, Wolfsthal was a lovely place, a fairytale castle with a pretty garden. Her room was pleasant, too, though a shade more humble than she was used to.
As Clara Honeywell, Lady Evie’s companion, she’d been given a simply furnished room in the darker parts of the castle.
The windows did not face south and the fireplace in her room smoked.
There was a plain, no-nonsense bed, a commode with a pitcher and a bowl for washing, a chair and red-and-white chequered curtains hanging in front of windows that faced the kitchen garden.
It was a practical room. And that was all.
She’d only had a peek into Clara’s rooms from outside, when the maids came and went and left the door open for a moment longer than was necessary.
All the furniture matched the elegant light-blue satin wallpaper, and every piece was exquisitely crafted by Parisian furniture makers.
The bed had a massive baldachin with heavy brocade curtains, and the carpet was thick and soft.
Clara’s rooms were as elegantly designed as any that would have been for the mistress of the house.
Which would have been her, of course.
Evie.
She would have loved those rooms had they been truly hers.
Which of course they were.
She frowned.
And yet it did not feel like they were for her, at all.
She sighed. What was she even doing here?
If it were not for poor Clara, she would have left long ago. She would have returned to Vienna and…what? Rejoined the ballroom-party-concert-celebration madness that had erupted in Vienna.
She had heartily tired of everything already, and the congress had not even officially begun.
Ah, but really, this congress! It was all so dreadfully boring.
All except that moment when Metternich had approached her, of course, asking her whether she wanted to spy for him (she did not). It had alarmed her that for a single moment she had considered it, if only to break the tedium.
She supposed that Hartenberg would have returned to Vienna as well if it had not been for Clara, poor girl. The girl he believed to be her.
She entertained, for a brief moment, the notion of telling him the truth.
Yet leading the poor man on turned out to be more entertaining than anything Vienna had to offer, so maybe staying here in Wolfsthal, as her own companion, was not the worst thing.
Though, truth be told, the novelty had already begun to wear thin.
What kept her in the role of Miss Honeywell now was something else entirely: freedom.
She’d never had so much of it in her entire life.
No governesses and companions following her every move. No social obligations. No shopping with Lady Castlereagh, no tedious political dinners, no having to put on airs and impress anyone at the balls and concerts. Not having to see her brother making moon eyes at his lovely wife, Catherine.
She felt a pang deep down within, which she’d long ago identified as jealousy.
Julius and Catherine. Mira and Atherton.
The heavens had allowed them to marry their one and only love.
That was not something the women of the rest of her class could ever expect.
Women like her were married off to some stranger (like Hartenberg) with not a drop of romance in their bones (like Hartenberg), who would deposit her somewhere (possibly here in Wolfsthal), only to reunite once or twice a year for the purpose of procreation (if at all).
And with some luck, she would give birth to a son.
Only to die in childbirth, which was more than common.
Alas, was this truly to be her fate?
She schooled her shoulders as she stood in front of the window.
But until that came to pass, she was determined to get the most out of it.
Now, she had freedom.
Now, she could, for example, steal outside the house and see what else was on the premises. Go exploring.
Without the shackles of a husband or betrothed.