The Wicked Godmother: HFTS3 Read online

  By ten in the evening, Harriet was seated demurely against the wall with the other chaperones. She was wellcontent. As the duenna of two formidable dowries, she was welcomed into their ranks and regaled with all the latest gossip. It was rumoured the king had been put in a strait-jacket again and surely poor Prinny would be made Regent now. After all, had not King George fancied himself a Quaker this age and gone about in Quaker dress? And he had not shaved for a long time and looked like Mr. Kemble in King Lear. What did Miss Metcalf think of the fashion of wearing aprons over petticoats for undress?

  Harriet chatted away, oblivious of the attention her dazzlingly fair looks were attracting. Many of the gentlemen would have liked to approach her, but she seemed so absorbed in conversation with such a formidable array of harridans that they did not dare. Next to Harriet was Baroness Villiers, a crusty, tetchy old lady whose frivolous granddaughter was at that moment falling over the feet of a guardsman on the floor and laughing immoderately.

  “I wish she would not go on like that,” said the baroness crossly. “Your girls behave like angels. I wish my Amelia would copy their manners.”

  “Amelia appears to please the gentlemen,” said Harriet. “She has such gay, unaffected manners.” She fell silent as she watched Sarah and Annabelle. Harriet had to admit that both were in looks, although she wished that pastel colours, which did not show either girl to advantage, were not quite so fashionable. Sarah was in blue and Annabelle in pink. Sarah was wearing a fine sapphire necklace, and Annabelle boasted a diamond collar. They flirted with their partners to a nicety, all fluttering eyelashes and waving fans.

  What a pair of actresses they are, mused Harriet, and then was appalled at her own thought. London is making me uncharitable, she chided herself. She turned to the baroness and to her horror found herself wishing that the lady would shave, for the baroness’s grey moustache and incipient beard were disconcerting.

  “The Marquess of Huntingdon called on me today,” said Harriet. “He had met my footman walking my dog and immediately saw that the poor animal was sick. He gave me some lotion. The marquess called with Lord Vere.”

  “Humph,” said the baroness. “Lord Vere is very well. Fine family, good fortune.”

  “And Lord Huntingdon?”

  “A rake, my dear. Keep well clear of him. Do you see Belinda Romney over there? No, no, the one dancing with that tall, gangly fellow? Well, Mrs. Romney is his mistress, newly set up. He gave her those emeralds to match her eyes.”

  Harriet looked at Mrs. Romney. She was a voluptuous brunette with creamy skin and roguish eyes. Her gown was hitched up on either side to display a pair of pink stockings, and the material of her gown was so filmy that it was easy to see she had nothing on underneath except the stockings.

  “And what does Mr. Romney think of the liaison?” asked Harriet.

  “He died two years ago, leaving her nothing but debts, so she has done well for herself to secure Huntingdon, and him so lately come to town. He was always generous to his mistresses, I’ll say that for the man.”

  Harriet felt very depressed. Although she had believed the marquess to be a rake, she had hoped to be proved wrong. After all, he had helped Beauty, and that might have shown evidence of a kind heart. But Harriet now could not bring herself to think of him as kind. Mrs. Romney had been left destitute and obviously needed money badly. The marquess had taken advantage of her situation.

  On Harriet’s other side was Mrs. Cramp, who had two hopeful daughters at the ball. They frequently came bouncing up to speak to their mama and ask her if she was well and to tell her about their partners. Even the baroness’s granddaughter, Amelia, came over between dances to chat to her grandmother. Neither Sarah nor Annabelle approached Harriet. In fact, they never once looked in her direction.

  “Here comes Huntingdon and Vere,” said Mrs. Cramp suddenly. “Isn’t Huntingdon enough to make any female swoon? ‘Tis a pity he’s a rake.”

  “Yes,” said Harriet a little sadly. For the marquess, as he strolled into the ballroom, looked the hero of any woman’s dreams, from his handsome face to his small waist and beautiful legs. He was exquisitely tailored and wore his clothes with an air. His face had a slight tan that owed nothing to walnut juice, and his hands were free of paint, unlike those of some of the gentlemen who white-leaded the backs of their hands and painted their palms a delicate pink with cochineal.

  Lord Vere would have set off immediately in Harriet’s direction, but, by ill chance, a gentleman buttonholed him and started to tell the irritated lord a long and dreary story about what Brummell had said to Lord Alvanley. Lord Vere gloomily listened with half an ear while watching the marquess make his expert way around the edge of the ballroom to where Harriet was sitting. “He told me he wanted nothing to do with her,” grumbled Lord Vere.

  “Who? What?” demanded the boring gentleman, pausing in the middle of his story.

  “What does Huntingdon want?” demanded Mrs. Cramp. Harriet looked up in time to see the marquess bearing down on her.

  She looked down again quickly and studied the painted picture on her fan. Then she studied the toes of the marquess’s shoes with interest as he came to stand in front of her.

  “You do not dance, Miss Metcalf?” he asked.

  Harriet raised her blue eyes. “No, my lord, my duty here is as chaperone.”

  Baroness Villiers and Mrs. Cramp exchanged looks across the top of Harriet’s head. They both thought this new member of their ranks a vastly fetching little thing. Huntingdon was a rake with the morals of a tomcat, but it did seem a shame that little Miss Metcalf should have no fun at all. She was surely as young as the debutantes.

  “Get along with you,” said the baroness heartily. “Your charges are doing very nicely. A lady of your tender years does not belong here with us.”

  “Do accept Lord Huntingdon’s offer,” urged Mrs. Cramp, who despite her earlier warning dearly loved a rake. “I shall keep an eye on your goddaughters.”

  “Very well,” said Harriet in a low voice. It seemed easier to go with the marquess than enter into an argument with her new-found friends.

  It was a country dance and went on for quite half an hour, which was more than enough time to allow society to see how very well pretty little Miss Metcalf danced, and how much Huntingdon appeared to be enjoying her company.

  By chance, both Sarah and Annabelle found themselves partnerless for this dance. They retreated to a corner and unfurled their fans so that they could whisper behind them.

  “Well!” exclaimed Sarah angrily. “Who is that divine creature with dreary Harriet?”

  “I asked my last partner the minute I saw him enter the ballroom,” said Annabelle. “That, beloved Sis, is the Marquess of Huntingdon, vastly rich. A rake.”

  “Our dear godmother has no right to be dancing about,” said Sarah. “It is our come-out, not hers. That dress is quite unsuitable.”

  Both girls lowered their fans and glared at the tabinet gown of silver grey. It was admittedly very plain, with little embellishment apart from the three deep flounces and a little string of coral beads that Harriet wore about her neck. The neckline was low, but not as low as some of the other gowns being sported. But the elegance of the line showed her figure to advantage, as did the grace of her movements, although neither girl would admit to noticing that latter asset.

  Annabelle yawned. As usual, she felt sleepy. “Then perhaps it is time to prime Emily,” she said lazily. “Emily is such a good gossip. She passed on everything we had told her about Harriet to the people in the village.”

  Both girls savoured the memory. “Do you remember,” said Sarah, “the haberdasher, Mr. James, who used to turn pink every time he saw Harriet? One would never have thought he would have believed a word against her. But he believed it when Emily told him how Harriet had deliberately courted our father’s affections. Emily must have been very convincing.”

  “I am surprised he believed her,” said Annabelle.

  “Oh, she di
d not tell him direct. She burst into tears in the shop and confided in that old harridan, Mrs. Winter, the colonel’s lady, and Mr. James asked what the matter was. He didn’t believe it at first, but then he got it from one other source before the day was out and then another the next day.”

  “Well, I don’t like the way Harriet is making so free with our money for her wardrobe,” said Annabelle sourly. “She is wearing an expensive gown and dancing with the handsomest man in the room as if she were the debutante and we the chaperones. I am so hungry. We go in to supper after this dance. So shaming not to have a partner.”

  “Yes,” agreed Sarah absentmindedly, her eyes on Harriet. “I think dear Harriet is getting a little too much attention. Emily is very loyal to us. It would do no harm if she were to start to drop a word here and there, as she did in the village. She can start off in the servants’ quarters. And speaking of servants, have you ever seen such an odd crowd? No wonder murder and mayhem have been done at Number Sixty-seven! I saw the cook emerging from the nether regions t’other day, and he looked as if he might slit anyone’s throat. That Rainbird is more like a mountebank than a butler, and they do not treat us with the right deference. Servants should be frightened of their masters. Oh, look, the dance is over.”

  Both girls lowered their fans and flirted with their eyes to such advantage that they soon had two cavaliers at their side to take them into supper.

  They would have been amazed to know that their godmother was thoroughly miserable at the thought of eating her supper in the company of Lord Huntingdon. Harriet had been glad that the steps of the energetic country dance had made conversation impossible. Now it appeared she was expected to take supper with the marquess simply because he had partnered her in the dance preceding it. It was not as if he were a suitable parti for either of the girls. She would never feel easy in her mind if she thought she had been instrumental in wedding either Sarah or Annabelle to such a hardened rake.

  The marquess studied her downcast face and felt himself becoming very angry indeed. He had never quite put himself out so much over any female before and, instead of looking gratified, Miss Metcalf looked as if he were leading her to the gallows rather than into the supper room at a tonnish London ball. His mistress was looking daggers at him, and he knew a stormy scene lay ahead. He wished he had not taken her out of the care of old Lord Brothers. Belinda was delightful, but she was becoming increasingly jealous.

  The supper room was decorated in an Indian theme, draped with yards of silk and set about with palm trees.

  Voices rose and fell. Harriet looked down at a selection of delicacies on her plate and felt she did not want to eat any of it. She was aware of the marquess’s eyes on her face. She was aware too of the strength of his personality, a personality which seemed to be seeking to dominate her. Harriet had been used to being ordered around. Her parents had laid down the law on every subject, and, after their death, Sir Benjamin had fallen into the way of ordering her about. Even Josephine—Miss Spencer—had, on occasion, affectionately called Harriet a widgeon and had stepped in to tackle her problems for her. But since she had come to London, her desire to do the best for Sarah and Annabelle had given Harriet a new courage and independence. Unknown to herself, she was on the brink of discovering she preferred to make up her own mind.

  “Where is your home, Miss Metcalf?” she realised the marquess was asking.

  “Upper Marcham, a small village in Barshire.”

  “And do you see much social life there?”

  “Not since my parents died, which was some seven years ago,” said Harriet. “Before that, they took me to assemblies in Barminster.”

  “I am amazed you are still unwed.”

  The candid blue eyes that looked up into his own had an expression of wonder in them, as if still astonished by the whole wide world. “Why, sir,” she said, “I have no dowry.”

  “I would have thought your face was dowry enough,” he said. His voice was warm and teasing; the voice, thought Harriet, of a practised flirt.

  “No one’s face is enough, my lord,” she said sharply.

  “Come, I cannot believe no one has ever proposed to you.”

  “Yes, they did, when my parents were alive, but Mama considered them unsuitable.”

  “And what did you think?”

  Harriet looked at him in surprise. “I did n-not think anything,” she faltered. “One must always honour one’s parents’ judgement.”

  “Even if the heart is engaged?”

  “I do not think hearts have much to do with marriage,” said Harriet. “A lady must marry someone suitable. If her heart is also engaged, then she may count herself fortunate.”

  “But you do not seem to think many such fortunate ladies exist?”

  “No, love seems to be something found outside marriage—as in your own case.”

  She turned brick red.

  “Some wine, Miss Metcalf?” he said smoothly while inwardly fuming. But, then, he had only himself to blame. This is what came of encouraging rustic beauties to be impertinent. But it was so very hard to remain angry with her when she looked so ashamed and downcast. Her rare combination of innocence and sensuality was beginning to stir his senses. But it would not answer. He did not wish to be married. He had been married once, such a long time ago, to pretty Dorothy, a tiny charmer, who had died of consumption and saved him the pain of divorcing her for her blatant faithlessness. And Dorothy had once been as innocent as this Miss Metcalf. Women were all the same; once the bloom was lost, they turned into heartless sluts. And Miss Metcalf, for all her innocence, showed a decidedly mercenary turn of mind.

  “I apologise for my last remark,” said Harriet stiffly. “It—it—just came out.”

  “Your apology is accepted,” he said. “Perhaps you will find a husband this Season, Miss Metcalf.”

  “I am only interested in finding husbands for the Misses Hayner,” said Harriet, “although I do not expect any difficulty. Both are so charming and talented.”

  “And where are these paragons?”

  Harriet nodded her head in the direction of the right-hand corner of the room. “Sarah is the one in blue, and Annabelle is in pink. They are twins.”

  Her voice glowed with pride. The marquess put down the quizzing glass he had raised to study the girls. He thought they looked like every other insipid debutante he had ever met. He found himself hoping they were worthy of the love and pride with which Miss Harriet Metcalf viewed them.

  “You are not eating,” he said, looking at her untouched plate.

  “I have lost my appetite.”

  The marquess smiled into her eyes. “May I hope that I have taken your appetite away?”

  “No, you may not,” said Harriet roundly. “And what a silly thing to hope for anyway.”

  Both stared at each other in amazement—Harriet just as surprised at her rudeness as the marquess evidently was.

  “Don’t apologise again,” said the marquess. “Let us talk about something perfectly safe, like the weather.”

  “Or we can talk to Lord Vere instead of each other,” said Harriet.

  “Or we could if he were here.”

  “Which he is,” said a voice behind the marquess. Lord Vere had come up on them and showed every evidence of joining them.

  “I thought you were entertaining Miss Johnson,” said the marquess, making room for his friend.

  “I was, but I clumsily knocked wine down her gown, and so poor Miss Johnson has gone to repair the damage.”

  The marquess gave Lord Vere a thoughtful look, as if wondering whether his friend had tipped wine down his partner’s gown in order to extricate himself.

  “How is your dog?” asked Lord Vere.

  “He seems a little recovered,” said Harriet. “I feel so ashamed, you know, not having noticed he was unwell. Rainbird, our butler, said he often took away poor Beauty’s bowl of food back to the kitchens himself and noticed it had barely been touched. I asked him why he did not inform me o
f this earlier, and he said he thought the animal had a poor appetite and normally ate very little.”

  “It is understandable that you should be preoccupied with the serious matter of bringing two young ladies out,” said Lord Vere, his black eyes alight with admiration. “They are a credit to you, Miss Metcalf. They were pointed out to me, and I was impressed by their pretty manners.”

  “How good of you to say so!” said Harriet. She picked up her fork and absentmindedly began to eat a little food. “I confess I have been very worried as to how to go on. I do not have any knowledge of the great world, but people have proved remarkably kind.”

  “I think you bring out the best in all of us,” said Lord Vere, and Harriet accepted the compliment with a charming, rippling laugh.

  The marquess had never been cut out by any gentleman before, but he had to admit that Gilbert, Lord Vere, had the best of him on this occasion. The two subjects closest to Harriet’s heart seemed to be her mangy dog and her giggling goddaughters.

  Lord Vere had placed himself between the marquess and Harriet. He turned towards her in such a way as almost to block her from the marquess’s view.

  “I am sorry I shall not have the pleasure of driving out with you tomorrow,” he said. “But may I call on you?”

  “Of course,” said Harriet with a smile. “Sarah and Annabelle will be delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  “Do you plan to go to the opera?” asked Lord Vere.

  “I must rent a box. I have not yet done so and … and I believe the patrons of the opera are very high sticklers, quite like Almack’s, and as I was not very sure how to go about it, I rather put things off.”

  “Miss Metcalf, I would be proud to arrange the rental of a box for you. There will be no trouble with the patrons. London has not seen such beauty for many a Season.”