Tangled Reins

Chapter Eleven

Next morning Lady Merion remained in bed, unwell after the stuffy atmosphere of Carlton House. Dorothea, unrefreshed by her troubled sleep, went to enquire after her health. Her ladyship immediately noticed the dark rings under her granddaughter’s large eyes and insisted she remain in bed for the rest of the morning. Sure that if she rode in the Park this morning she would meet Hazelmere, and feeling that normal conversation with him was as yet beyond her, Dorothea agreed.

Cecily was undisturbed by the change in plans, as she had arranged to go driving with Fanshawe that afternoon. She wrote to Ferdie to cancel their morning engagement and, at Dorothea’s suggestion, asked him to escort her sister for a ride that afternoon.

When the afternoon came Ferdie and Dorothea duly set off for the Park. Ferdie, not generally observant, noticed that Dorothea was not her normal self. Thinking to distract her, he rattled on about the Carlton House ball and the Prince Regent’s set, and anything else that came into his head. Understanding his benign impulse, Dorothea tried to put on a happier face and to ignore the fact that he, too, seemed to consider her virtually betrothed to Hazelmere.

They had entered the Park and were ambling along the grass verge of the carriageway when, glancing ahead, she suddenly stopped. Breathlessly she cut into Ferdie’s description of Lady Hanover’s new wig. ‘Ferdie, I want to gallop over to those trees. I think there are freesias growing there.’

Precipitately she set the bay mare cantering towards a stand of oak to their left. Ferdie, taken by surprise, turned his own horse to follow. As he did so his gaze alighted on an approaching carriage. It was Hazelmere’s curricle, the Marquis driving his greys with Helen Walford beside him. The brief glimpse of his cousin’s face before his horse moved off was quite sufficient to tell Ferdie that Hazelmere had seen Dorothea’s sudden departure. The appalling fact that Dorothea had knowingly cut his cousin in the middle of the Park dawned on a horrified Ferdie.

‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded as he came up with her by the trees. ‘That was Hazelmere!’

‘Yes, I know, Ferdie,’ replied Dorothea, contrite as she realised that he was really distressed.

‘Well, I’ll be hanged if I know what you’re up to,’ he continued, ‘but I can tell you that cutting people like Hazelmere in the middle of the Park is not the thing at all!’

‘Yes, Ferdie. I’d like to go home now, please.’

‘I should dashed well think so!’ he exclaimed, knowing that Hazelmere would shortly be following them.

On the way back to Cavendish Square Ferdie tried to impress upon Dorothea the magnitude of her sin. Not knowing what had caused her to behave in such an extraordinary way, he felt that if he could induce her to behave with something like contrition when she shortly faced his cousin she might stand a better chance of surviving the ordeal. Ferdie knew, as few others did, that, while Hazelmere appeared to have the easiest of tempers, this was a fiction. The Marquis of Hazelmere had a very definite temper; he just did not lose it often.

Ferdie did not know that Dorothea was already acquainted with Hazelmere’s temper. Seeing him driving his greys with the lovely Lady Walford by his side, she simply could not bear to stay and politely exchange pleasantries with them. Although she knew she had behaved badly and Hazelmere had every right to be angry, she, too, was decidedly aggrieved and was almost looking forward to an interview with his lordship. Luckily Ferdie had no idea of her thoughts-that anyone could look forward to an interview with Hazelmere in a rage was far too bizarre a concept for him to have understood.

Reaching Merion House, Ferdie escorted her indoors, past the interested Mellow and into the drawing-room. There he got a glimmer of the underlying story. Dorothea, pacing about the room like a caged tigress, seemed to the distracted Ferdie to be more incensed than contrite.

‘How dare he approach me while driving that woman?’ she finally burst out.

Ferdie stared. ‘What’s wrong with driving Helen Walford?’ he asked, fearing that her reason must be slipping.

‘But surely you know? She’s his mistress!’

‘What?’ Ferdie positively goggled. ‘No! You’ve got that wrong! Very sure she’s not Marc’s mistress.’

Remembering his connection with Hazelmere, Dorothea paid no attention to him, convinced that he would take his cousin’s side in any argument.

An imperious knock fell on the street door. Ferdie, glancing out of the window, saw Hazelmere’s curricle standing outside.

Seeing Dorothea pointedly move away from the carriageway, Hazelmere was thunderstruck. What the devil was she about, behaving like that to him? Too well attuned to his whereabouts to allow his entirely understandable rage to be evident, it was nevertheless some minutes before he could trust his voice to ask Helen Walford, ‘My dear Helen, do you mind if I return you to your friends? I’m departing for Leicestershire shortly and I believe I’ve some unfinished business to attend to.’

Lady Walford was well acquainted with Hazelmere’s temper, as she had often, in her childhood, been the cause of it. Looking into the hazel eyes, normally warm and amused, and finding them as cold and cloudy as agate, she merely smiled her agreement. She hoped Miss Darent had more backbone than the normal run of débutantes, for she was undoubtedly in for a most uncomfortable interview. The fact that Hazelmere was head over heels in love with her would not, as might be supposed, help her at all. Like all the Henrys, he possessed an unexpected puritanical streak which would lead him to demand of his wife-to-be a far higher standard of conduct than he might tolerate in less favoured ladies. Consequently she feared that his Dorothea was in for a particularly torrid time.

Having set Lady Walford down amid her friends, Hazelmere drove immediately to Merion House. Arriving there, without a word he threw the reins of his curricle to a bright-faced urchin and strode up the steps to the door.

Admitted to the house by an intrigued Mellow, he merely asked, in a deceptively gentle voice, ‘Where is Miss Darent, Mellow?’

‘In the drawing-room, my lord.’

‘Thank you. You need not announce me.’

He strolled across the hall and opened the drawing-room door. Setting eyes on Ferdie, he smiled in a way that made Ferdie decide to do whatever he wished. Holding the door open, Hazelmere said, ‘I believe you were leaving, Ferdie.’

There was no doubt about the command, but Ferdie, recognising the hardness in the hazel eyes, was having second thoughts about the wisdom of leaving these two together. But as he glanced at Dorothea his decision was unexpectedly taken out of his hands. ‘Goodbye, Ferdie,’ she said.

So Ferdie went. He discarded the idea of telling his cousin that Dorothea seemed to think Helen Walford was his mistress. In his opinion, if anyone was going to talk to Hazelmere about his mistresses it had better be Dorothea herself. Hearing the drawing-room door shut with a click behind him, he decided it might be wise to inform Lady Merion of the reason for, and the likely outcome of, the interview being presently conducted in her drawing-room.

Returning to the hall some five minutes later, having explained the situation as fully as he could to Lady Merion upstairs, he found the drawing-room door still shut. Viewing this with misgiving, he departed for his lodgings.

After shutting the door behind Ferdie, Hazelmere moved into the room. ‘Very wise of you, my dear. There’s no need for Ferdie to get caught up in this.’

He paused to strip off his driving gloves and cast them on a side-table. One glance at Dorothea, standing beside one of the wing chairs by the fireplace, her hand clutching its back, informed him that she was every bit as angry as he was. He had no idea why, but the knowledge served to make him rein in his temper sufficiently to ask, in a relatively calm voice, ‘Do you think you could possibly explain to me why you cut me in the Park?’

Despite the calmness, the undertones succeeded in igniting her smouldering temper. ‘How dare you approach me while driving that woman?’

Looking into her furious green eyes, Hazelmere felt, like Ferdie before him, that he had lost the thread of the conversation. ‘Helen?’ he asked, mystified.

‘Your mistress!’ she replied scathingly.

‘My what?’ The words came like a whiplash, and Dorothea winced. Even angrier than before, Hazelmere moved to within a few feet of her, everything about him radiating barely leashed fury. Eyes narrowed, he asked, his voice deceptively soft, ‘Who told you Helen Walford was my mistress?’

‘I don’t think that need concern you-’

‘You mistake,’ he broke in. ‘It concerns me because Helen Walford has never been, is not and never will be my mistress. So who, my credulous Miss Darent, told you she was?’

Looking into the stormy hazel eyes, Dorothea knew she was hearing the truth. ‘The Comte de Vanée,’ she finally replied.

‘A man of little importance,’ he said dismissively. ‘It may interest you to know that I have known Helen Walford since she was three. However,’ he continued, moving forward so that he was standing directly beside her, forcing her to turn from the chair that up until then had been between them, ‘that aside, you have still not explained why, regardless of what you might have thought, you presumed to censure me in such a public manner.’

Although his voice was low and even, Dorothea could not miss the suppressed anger. She knew she had been in the wrong, but his next words banished any notion of apologising.

‘I’ve told you provincial manners will not do in London,’ he continued. But there he stopped, for she rounded on him with such naked rage in her eyes that he was taken aback.

‘How dare you speak to me of manners? Explain yours, if you can! I know you’ve been dancing attendance on me purely to see if you could make me fall in love with you, just because I didn’t succumb to your legendary charm. Oh, Cousin Marjorie explained it all, so-’

That was as far as she got. Hazelmere paled as her words struck him. But as he caught the gist of her argument the already frayed rein he had kept on his passions snapped. In one swift, practised movement he swept her into his arms and his lips came down on hers in a kiss almost brutal in its intensity. Panicked, she struggled, but, as before, his fingers entwined in her hair, holding her head still, while the arm around her tightened, locking her in his embrace. And then, in the space of time between one heartbeat and the next, the tenor of the kiss changed to one of unbelievable sweetness. Her interest caught, her lips parted in response to his subtle command and she found herself floating in a sea of sensation. Dazed, she felt desire flooding through her, growing stronger with every second, rapidly building to a force she, in her inexperience, had no hope of restraining. She realised that she was responding in the most shameless way to his ardent kisses. She no longer cared. The only thought in her disjointed mind was the hope that he wouldn’t stop.

His lips left hers to brush kisses on her upturned face, on her forehead, her eyelids, her chin and her delectable white throat. Recapturing her reddened lips, he gently explored the sweet softness within. She moaned, the sound an audible caress, her arms slipping around his neck, her fingers twisting in his dark hair as she held him to her. Inwardly smiling, he allowed the kiss to deepen, fanning the racing flames of her desire until they coalesced into a conflagration that threatened to consume them both. Then, reaching to the depths of a passionate nature that in every way matched his own, he demanded, and received, a surrender so complete and unequivocal that he knew beyond doubt she would be his, body and soul, whenever he so desired. Entirely satisfied, he drew her closer, moulding her body to his, allowing her to feel the extent of his desire for her.

Dorothea was nearly mindless. Some tiny part of her consciousness was detached enough to be shocked and horrified, dismayed as his experienced hands roamed over her, his practised caresses sending ripples of desire from the top of her head to her toes. The rest of her was in no mood to listen. She supposed he would have to stop some time-but oh, she would enjoy this while it lasted! Still, surely not even Hazelmere would seduce her in her grandmother’s drawing-room? Would he?

The tremor that ran through her jolted him to his senses. He would have to leave her, and soon, if he was to leave her at all. And, as they were in Merion House and not one of his establishments, leave her he must. If he looked into her eyes he would not be able to go. And at the moment he was in no mood to talk to her. He needed time away from her to sort out what had happened-right now he wasn’t sure of anything other than his physical need for her. And that required no words to describe. He knew they had passed the point of easy withdrawal; there was no gentle way to stop now. So, abruptly bringing the kiss to an end, he released her and, disentangling her hands from his hair, put her from him almost roughly, before, turning brusquely, he walked straight to the door, picking up his gloves on the way, and, opening the door, left the room.

In the hall he encountered Mellow. As his face had assumed its normal mien and his hair was cut in a style that disguised Dorothea’s rumpling, Mellow assumed that there had been no major fireworks. He hurried to open the door for his lordship.

Leaving the house, Hazelmere headed across the square to his own mansion. While an observer unfamiliar with him would have detected nothing amiss, he was experiencing a degree of mental turmoil that effectively prevented him from thinking clearly. Anger, frustration, hurt pride and a peculiar sense of elation were only some of the emotions running riot in his mind. He would have to leave, get out of London, before his fevered brain would cool sufficiently to accurately assess just where they now stood. Entering Hazelmere House and seeing Mytton come forward from behind the green baize door, he paused at the foot of the stairs. ‘I’ve decided to leave for Leicestershire immediately. I expect to return on Tuesday next. Send Murgatroyd up to me and tell Jim to put the bays to and have the curricle at the front door in ten minutes.’

‘Yes, m’lord,’ replied Mytton, who, acquainted with the Marquis since that gentleman’s childhood, returned immediately to the servants’ hall to inform the household of his lordship’s orders, adding that their master was in the devil’s own temper. Without further discussion they all sped to their tasks, Murgatroyd almost running up the stairs.

Standing before the mirror to remove the diamond pin in his cravat, Hazelmere suddenly turned to his valet, hurriedly packing. ‘Murgatroyd, see if you can catch Jim before he leaves the house. Tell him I’ve left the curricle outside Merion House. If he’s already left for the mews you’d better send one of the footmen after him and come back to me.’

After one stunned moment Murgatroyd was out of the door and down the stairs as fast as dignity would allow. Hazelmere ruefully surveyed his own reflection. If his servants had not already realised the cause of his present mood, the fact that he had walked away and left his greys outside Merion House would doubtless clarify the issue.

Murgatroyd reached the servants’ hall just as Jim, attired in the Hazelmere livery, was preparing to leave. Hearing his message, the entire population of the servants’ hall simply stared. Then all those with any legitimate claim to be in the front of the house headed for the street door. Opening it and looking across the square to Merion House, Mytton, Jim, Murgatroyd and Charles gazed in silent awe at the curricle.

‘My gawd! I’d never’ ve believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself,’ said Jim.

With much shaking of heads, they all resumed their activities, Jim crossing the square to retrieve the precious greys and Murgatroyd hurrying upstairs to inform his lordship that the carriage was being prepared.

In the end, Jim had to walk the bays for five minutes before his master appeared. On his way downstairs Hazelmere recalled the one player in the game who did not know where he was going but should. He went into the library. His eye alighted on a pile of correspondence, delivered that afternoon. He flicked through the envelopes, leaving most unopened. His attention was caught by a plain envelope of poor quality, addressed in a strong hand to ‘Mr M. Henry’. Opening it, he scanned the enclosed pages. When his eyes lifted he remained standing, gazing at nothing, his long fingers beating a thoughtful tattoo on the desk-top. Then, with a frown, he crammed the letter into his coat pocket and sat to compose a suitably informative note to Ferdie. This was not easy. He still could not concentrate properly, particularly when reviewing that interview at Merion House. Finally he wrote a simple set of statements, informing Ferdie that he had to leave for Leicestershire on estate business and would be back in London on Tuesday next, that Tony knew this, that he and Tony had informed their close friends of the attempts on Dorothea over lunch that day and they would assist in keeping an eye on her. He ended with a simple request to Ferdie to look after Dorothea for him.

Signing this epistle, he bethought himself of one last item. Raising his pen, he added a postscript. He would much prefer if Ferdie could manage not to tell Dorothea of their fears for her safety. Smiling ruefully, he fixed his seal to the letter and rang for a footman. He did not have much confidence in Ferdie’s ability to distract Dorothea once she became suspicious, as she undoubtedly would long before he returned. Handing the letter over with instructions that it be delivered to Mr Acheson-Smythe’s lodgings immediately, he strode out of his house to the waiting curricle.

Released from that passionate embrace, Dorothea stood by the chair, too stunned to move. Hearing the front door shut, she put her fingers to her bruised lips. Her eyes slowly refocused. Then, drawing a shuddering breath, she went to the door, opened it and, without even noticing Mellow, went up the stairs to her chamber.

Lady Merion, hearing her footsteps, came out of the morning-room. Five minutes after Ferdie had left her she had come downstairs. There was, she had felt, a limit to how long she could leave Dorothea alone with Hazelmere. All had been silent in the drawing-room. Taking a deep breath and waving Mellow away, she had opened the door. Seeing Dorothea locked in Hazelmere’s arms, she had immediately closed it again. With a decidedly pensive expression, she had informed Mellow that she would sit in the morning-room and if anyone should call he was to show them in there. Now, glimpsing the retreating figure at the top of the stairs, she sighed. With a resigned air she rang for tea.

Despite her ignorance of the details of the recently conducted interview, she thought Dorothea would need at least half an hour to cry herself out. Far too wise to try to talk sense to a young lady in the first flush of tears, she calmly reviewed what she knew of the afternoon’s events. None of it made a great deal of sense. She would have to extract sufficient details before she could begin to understand what it was about; she was too old to leap to conclusions.

Finishing her tea, she went purposefully upstairs.

Reaching her bedchamber, Dorothea shut the door, threw herself on her bed and gave way to her tears. For the first time in years she wept unrestrainedly, a mixture of relief, bewilderment and pent-up emotions pouring from her, disappointment and a barely recognised frustration lending their bitter flavour to her woe. For ten minutes the storm continued unabated. Finally, through exhaustion, the whirling kaleidoscope that was her mind slowed down and the racking sobs died. She was propped up against her pillows, dabbing ineffectually at her brimming eyes with a sodden handkerchief, when her grandmother knocked and entered.

Seeing her normally calm and collected granddaughter in the shadows of the bed, her large eyes enormous and swimming in unshed tears, Hermione walked over and plumped herself down on the end of the bed. Dorothea gulped and whispered, ‘Oh, Grandmama, what am I to do?’

Recognising her cue, Lady Merion responded briskly. ‘The first thing you’ll do, my dear, is to wash your face and get yourself a fresh handkerchief. Go on, now. You’ll feel a great deal better.’ As Dorothea rose she continued, ‘And after that I think we’ll have a long talk. It’s time you explained to me just what you and Hazelmere have been about.’

At that, Dorothea’s green eyes returned to her grandmother’s face, but she made no comment. While she washed and dried her face, and then ransacked her dressing-table for a clean handkerchief, the capacity for rational thought returned. Her grandmother undoubtedly deserved an explanation. But there were so many questions still unanswered. Pensive, she returned to her seat on the bed.

Lady Merion opened the conversation with a simple request to be told all about it.

Dorothea grimaced, then drew a deep breath and plunged in. ‘Last night, at the ball, the Prince…well, it was obvious he believed…knew, that…there is…a…connection between myself and Lord Hazelmere. I realise, now, that most people know that some sort of…understanding exists between us.’

‘After that first waltz at your come-out, I should think they would!’ snorted Lady Merion.

‘Waltz?’ echoed Dorothea in confusion. ‘What do you mean?’

Lady Merion sighed. ‘I didn’t think you knew.’ She eyed her granddaughter shrewdly, then said, ‘Over the past weeks your feelings for Marc Henry have been becoming daily more visible. Oh, I don’t mean you wear your heart on your sleeve! Far from it. But no one, seeing the two of you together, could doubt your interest in him. And, given his attentiveness since the start of the Season, his intentions have been quite clear. Why, after your ball, he told me he would offer for you. In his own good time, he said. Just like him, of course.’

Dorothea listened to her grandmother’s explanation, comprehension dawning. It occurred to her that she could do a great deal worse than to appeal to her experienced grandparent for further clarification. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I wondered whether he was…well, merely looking for a suitable bride. He must marry. I gather his family have been badgering him for years to do so.’ Resolutely she drew a deep breath and brought forth her most secret fear. ‘When he met me in Moreton Park woods I think he got the idea from something I said that I had no expectations of marrying. And when I didn’t behave like all the others I thought maybe he felt I would do.’ She paused, gathering strength to continue. ‘I wondered if he thought that, as I didn’t have any great hopes of marriage, I’d be happy to enter into…I suppose the correct phrase is “a marriage of convenience”, which would leave him free to continue with his mistresses as before.’

Lady Merion’s face went blank. Then she threw back her head and laughed. When she could command her voice she said, ‘Well! I’m glad Hazelmere’s carefully orchestrated wooing has got the result it deserved.’

Bemused, Dorothea looked at her expectantly, but her grandmother waved aside the unspoken question. ‘My dear Dorothea, I came into the drawing-room this afternoon while you and Hazelmere were…somewhat engaged. In my experience, a man contemplating a mariage de convenance does not set out to seduce his prospective bride before proposing.’ A grin of unholy amusement still lit her ladyship’s sharp face. ‘After the way Hazelmere’s been behaving over you, my dear, I should think you must be the last person in the ton to realise he’s in love with you.’

‘Oh.’ Hope and a sneaking suspicion that it was all too good to be true warred in Dorothea’s breast. Hope won, but the suspicion was not entirely vanquished.

Lady Merion broke in on her thoughts. ‘Ferdie mentioned some misunderstanding over Helen Walford.’

‘The Comte de Vanée told me she was Hazelmere’s mistress. He denied it.’

Lady Merion almost groaned aloud. She closed her eyes. Finally opening them, she asked, her tone resigned, ‘You asked him, I suppose?’

‘Well, he wanted to know why I cut him in the Park,’ said Dorothea, rapidly regaining her normal equilibrium. ‘He said he’d known her since she was a child.’

‘So he has. Helen Walford’s father is a distant connection of Lady Hazelmere and, as a child, Helen often spent her summers at Hazelmere. In age she is some years younger than Ferdie. She was something of a tomboy, and she often plagued Marc and Tony, who treated her much as they treated Alison. As I recall, they were always hauling her out of some scrape or other, and with no very good grace, I can tell you!

‘Helen unfortunately made a most unsuitable marriage. Arthur Walford was a rake and a gamester. He killed himself, much to the relief of everyone. No one knows the full story, but Hazelmere was involved. Helen once asked him how her husband died. He told her she didn’t need to know but should content herself with the fact.’

‘That certainly sounds very like him,’ said Dorothea, sniffing. Clearly Hazelmere’s habit of managing things was a long-standing and deeply ingrained characteristic.

‘Anyway, Hazelmere has always treated Helen exactly as he does Alison. I assume he was astonished that you thought she was his mistress?’

Recalling his face at the time, Dorothea nodded. ‘But why did the Comte de Vanée tell me she was?’

‘My dear, I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to the malicious tongues of certain people you meet. There are more than a few who’d like to cause trouble for Hazelmere and will seek to use you to do it.’ Her ladyship paused, eyeing her granddaughter’s elegant profile. ‘Incidentally, I would not, if I were you, ever bring up the subject of Hazelmere’s mistresses. I grant you, he has had a few. Well,’ she amended, realising the inadequacy of this description, ‘more than a few. A positive parade, in fact, and all of them the most gorgeous of creatures! But, my dear, Hazelmere’s mistresses are very definitely not your concern, and if he follows in his father’s footsteps they’ll be confined to his past. It’s highly unlikely, given how much in love with you he is, that you’ll find yourself having to turn a blind eye to such liaisons in the future, unlike so many other ladies.’

Dorothea inclined her head in acknowledgement of this excellent advice.

Lady Merion, watching her, saw tiredness creep over the pale face. She leaned forward and patted Dorothea’s hand reassuringly. ‘My dear, you’re worn out. I’ll have a tray sent up, and you really should have an early night. We’ll have to consider how best to go on but I think we should leave further discussion until tomorrow.’

Dorothea, feeling strangely wrung out and curiously elated at the same time, nodded her acquiescence and kissed her grandmother’s cheek before Lady Merion, suddenly feeling her age, left the room.

When Trimmer brought her dinner tray to her, Dorothea, contrary to her expectations, was feeling quite hungry. Nibbling the delicate chicken, she pondered her state. None of what had happened should have been a shock. But the fact remained that things had changed. Somehow, hand in hand with the Marquis of Hazelmere, she had stepped from the safe shores of fashionable dalliance into a realm where forces stronger than any she had ever known seemed set to steal her very soul. Thinking of how she had felt in his arms that afternoon, she shivered. He would never let her forget how much she wanted him. He had certainly won that bet. Some part of her rational mind suggested, faintly, that she should be incensed over his subtle machinations which would so easily have overridden any objections from her. But the truth was… The truth was that she had no objections. None at all.

Absent-mindedly she picked up the bowl of Witchett’s special tisane. Sipping it, she relaxed in her chair, the warmth of the fire welcome as night fell. Thinking back, she could not recall a single incident where he had seriously professed any devotion. That had been one of the factors that had drawn her to him. Beside all the others and their protestations of undying love, his calm authority had been a welcome relief. Instead, if she had been able to think clearly where he was concerned, she would have seen the true meaning behind that peculiar warmth which shone in his hazel eyes, the care he had continually shown her, even, as she had discovered the morning after, to the extent of hiring a bodyguard to watch the stairs during the night at that inn. It was not hard to believe her grandmother’s view. But oh! What she would give to hear it, clear and unambiguous, from his lips.

She stared into the fire as if in the flames she would find his face. She had no firm idea of what was to follow and, as she yawned again, realised she was too tired to accurately assess the possibilities. They would have to wait until morning.

Trimmer entered and unobtrusively removed the tray. She helped Dorothea change, then silently withdrew.

Lying in the depths of the feather mattress, Dorothea heaved a deep sigh and snuggled down in the bed. Under the subtle influence of Witchett’s tisane, she dropped into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Dorothea awoke early the next morning, refreshed but strangely lethargic. She stayed in her room, staring out of her window at the cherry trees in the Park, now in full leaf. At nine o’clock she emerged from her bedchamber and descended to the morning-room. Cecily, she was informed, was spending the morning with the Bensons in Mount Street and had cancelled their morning ride with Ferdie. Relieved of two worries, Dorothea gave silent thanks to be spared the traumas of satisfying her sister’s curiosity. Having drunk a cup of coffee and nibbled a piece of toast, she decided it was still too early to go up to her grandmother. On impulse, she called for Trimmer and went for a walk in the square.

The sun was shining, and a light breeze blew wispy clouds across the sky. Revelling in the fresh air, she walked through to the other side of the park, paused to glance briefly at the silent mansion opposite, then briskly returned to Merion House. By now Lady Merion would have left her bed. Ascending the stairs, she was surprised to see Ferdie on his way down.

Having received his cousin’s note, Ferdie had decided that if Dorothea was not to be told of the danger then it was high time someone informed her ladyship of the threats to her granddaughter. He had also been able to set Lady Merion’s mind at rest regarding the inevitable gossip arising from the incident in the Park. At the party he had attended the previous night he had found this had incurred little attention, and what comment there was had described it as just a lovers’ quarrel.

As luck would have it, Lady Jersey had witnessed the encounter. She had immediately afterwards attended a select tea party at Mrs Drummond-Burrell’s and, of course, had bubbled over with the news of Miss Darent’s odd behaviour and the Marquis’s likely response.

While there had been more than a few disapproving comments, the tone had been set by Mrs Drummond-Burrell herself. A friend of Hazelmere’s, she had been impressed by Dorothea and heartily approved the Marquis’s choice. In response to a disparaging remark that Miss Darent had properly cooked her goose, as Hazelmere would never stand for such behaviour, that most steely of Almack’s patronesses had coolly observed, ‘Dear Sarah, I really don’t think you fully appreciate Miss Darent. How often have any of us seen Hazelmere so much as thrown off balance?’ The ensuing silence had assured her that she had captured the attention of the room. ‘I cannot help thinking,’ she had continued, ‘that any young lady who can shake that gentleman’s calm deserves our congratulations. If she can make the Marquis realise that he cannot control absolutely everything, I for one will applaud her.’ Thus Dorothea’s actions had come to be regarded as a successful attempt to defy his lordship, with the likely result being no more than a tiff.

Pausing to exchange greetings with Dorothea, Ferdie said, ‘I’ll call for you at three.’

‘Oh, Ferdie, I don’t know that I can.’

‘Not a matter of can or can’t, you must,’ answered that knowledgeable gentleman. Realising that she did not understand, he suggested, ‘Go see your grandmama. She’ll explain.’

And with a nod and a wave he descended to the hall and, accepting his hat from Mellow, quit the house. Dorothea surrendered her pelisse to Trimmer and entered her ladyship’s sanctum.

Lady Merion had already had much to think about that morning. The news that Dorothea had been the subject of two abduction attempts had shocked the old lady. But, considering the steps already taken to protect her, she could not think of anything more that could be done. She had rejected Ferdie’s suggestion that Dorothea be warned, informing him that his cousin was already the cause of enough turmoil in Dorothea’s life, without adding this to the account. Hazelmere’s absence was not comforting. On the other hand, it would give Dorothea time to adjust to his idea of her future.

She had been pleasantly surprised and not a little relieved to hear of the lack of speculation over the scene in the Park. She particularly appreciated Ferdie’s offer to ride with Dorothea in the Park that afternoon. ‘Won’t do for her to hide away, you know,’ that young gentleman had sapiently remarked.

When Dorothea entered the room Lady Merion smiled and waved her to the comfortable chaise. ‘You’re looking a great deal better, my dear.’

‘I feel a great deal better, Grandmama,’ replied Dorothea, dutifully kissing her cheek and then gracefully sitting beside her.

Noting her calm and confident manner, Hermione nodded. ‘I think it’s time we had some plain speaking.’ Having made this promising beginning, she paused to marshal her arguments. ‘To begin with, I expect you’ll admit Hazelmere has seriously engaged your affections?’

Smiling at the careful phrasing, Dorothea responded easily, ‘I’ve been in love with Lord Hazelmere for some time.’

‘As I said, he’s already told me he intends offering for you. In his own good time,’ continued her ladyship. ‘But what I want to know is, how will you reply?’

A gurgle of laughter escaped Dorothea. ‘Oh, Grandmama. Do you really think I’ll have any choice?’

Lady Merion snorted. ‘To be perfectly honest, my dear, I doubt it. Hazelmere is well aware of your feelings. And, from what I saw in the drawing-room yesterday, your verbal agreement is merely a formality.’ She watched her calm and cool granddaughter blush rosily. ‘Mind you,’ she went on, ‘it’s a nuisance, having a husband who knows too much, but you can’t have everything. Still, I don’t think it’s a bad bargain-his father was just the same, and Anthea Henry was the happiest married woman in town.’

To Dorothea, it seemed safest to accept this assurance in silence.

Deciding that there was nothing more she could do to aid Hazelmere, Lady Merion continued briskly, ‘Very well. Now we must decide how you should go on. You must not give the gossips any reason to suppose that anything other than the mildest of disagreements has occurred between you.’

Dorothea’s brows rose in a thoroughly haughty manner.

‘Quite!’ nodded Lady Merion. ‘But you’ll be guided by me and Ferdie in this matter. Ferdie is so useful at times like these; he always knows how things will appear and what one must on no account do. You must continue to appear at all your engagements as usual, and you must appear entirely your normal self.’ Looking at her granddaughter, she remarked acidly, ‘That doesn’t seem to be causing you any great difficulty at the moment.’

Turning huge green eyes upon her grandmother, Dorothea smiled in a serenely confident way, which, under the circumstances, Lady Merion found oddly disconcerting. ‘Grandmama, I promise I’ll behave at all times in a befitting manner. But you really cannot expect me to be the same as I was before the Diplomatic Ball.’

Lady Merion, not entirely sure of its portent, accepted the qualified assurance. ‘One last thing. Ferdie told me Hazelmere has gone out of town until Tuesday, to one of his estates. Not,’ she continued in response to the question in Dorothea’s eyes, ‘because of your quarrel. He’d already told his friends he meant to depart by yesterday evening.’

Digesting this news, Dorothea decided that, all in all, a few days to polish her newly discovered public persona without distraction would not go amiss. Besides, she was beginning to feel that there were a few tricks left to be played in the game between herself and the arrogant Marquis. When he next appeared, she intended to be well prepared.