A Crime of Manners (2 page)

“No,” she replied with deceptive calm as her temper rose. Pique caused her to condemn even her own sweet mare. “I find them nasty, smelly beasts.”

The squire glared at his daughter, his face turning an unusual shade of purple as he sputtered, “See here now!”

But he got no further, because Winterton, sensing an oncoming familial scene he had no desire to witness, smoothly interjected, “Do you go to London for the Season, Miss Lanford?”

Henrietta opened her mouth to say she had no such plans, when Mrs. Lanford answered matter-of-factly, “Yes, Your Grace, Henrietta will make her come-out this year.”

Both husband and daughter looked at her as if she were touched in her upper works.

Before either could refute her claim, the duke spoke again, looking down his nose at Henrietta. “You will, no doubt, enjoy the amusements London has to offer, Miss Lanford. And one can hardly detect the scent of horseflesh, I assure you,” he ended sardonically.

Henrietta’s cheeks flamed from a mixture of annoyance at herself for making such a silly remark and the duke’s insolence at reminding her of it.

After a few moments, Winterton rose from the table. “I fear I must take my leave of you so I may continue my own journey to Town.” He raised a hand in an imperious gesture. “Pray do not trouble yourselves to see me out. I thank you for your hospitality.”

“The foal will be well taken care of, Your Grace,” Squire Lanford said, rising from his seat.

“I have no doubt of it, Mr. Lanford.” The duke made his bow. “Mrs. Lanford, Miss Lanford, I bid you good day.”

The Duke of Winterton’s traveling carriage waited outside. It was followed by a fourgon, heavy with trunks that Tyler presided over with haughty majesty.

When the duke entered and gave the order, the carriage moved off. Leaning back against the comfortable squabs, he considered his morning. Certain the colt he’d selected would someday win at Newmarket wearing his colors, he felt a sense of satisfaction.

He thought of the squire and Mrs. Lanford unfavorably, condemning them as hopelessly provincial, although he had enjoyed examining the stables with the bluff squire.

A bump in the road brought a protesting squawk

from the other occupant of the carriage. Placed on the seat opposite the duke, Sir Polly Grey, sequestered in his own covered travel-cage, was unhappy with the ride.

In the distinctive voice of the old duke he grumbled, “Giles. A suitable gel. Marriage.”

Giles ignored the bird and wondered idly if the unworldly, artless Miss Henrietta Lanford would have suitors when she went to London. Perhaps with enough Town bronze and that rather charming blush she might be lucky and attract a well-to-do landowner.

Thankfully, her parents had done nothing to push the girl forward, nothing to bring her to his attention. Just the opposite looked to be the way of things. With a wry twist of his lips, Giles recalled the squire’s reaction when Miss Lanford maligned horses. Obviously she took second place to the cattle in her family’s affections.

No doubt he would not meet her again as they would hardly be moving in the same circles in Town. He flicked the memory of the girl from his mind.

* * * *

The second the duke had quit the room, an excited Henrietta rounded on her mother. “Mama! Pray tell me at once if it is true I am to go to London.”

The squire’s jowls quivered with indignation. “Yes, Mrs. Lanford. Tell us how we are supposed to take our leave of three mares ready to foal in the next fortnight to go roistering up to Town! You know very well I cannot abide London at any time, and the thought of doing the pretty to a pack of high-in-the-instep fools discussing politics, gambling on cards, while my dear horses ... It is not to be borne, madam!”

Mrs. Lanford had experienced the uncomfortable feeling a mother has when she realizes she has somehow been remiss in her parental role. The Duke of Winterton’s presence reminded her forcibly that it was past time her daughter had a husband. Not that she considered Henrietta capable of attracting someone of the Duke’s rank and standing in Society.

“Of course,
we
will not go to Town, Mr. Lanford. What a chuckleheaded notion. Henrietta will go to my sister in London, Lady Fuddlesby. Clara is very much of the
bon ton
and received everywhere. She keeps a town house in Grosvenor Square. Count on it, she will find our gel a suitable husband.”

“London ... a husband,” Henrietta uttered faintly. The Fantasy Henrietta’s thoughts rushed ahead to a courtship filled with romantic nights beneath a glowing moon, poems written in her honor, beautifully decorated ballrooms where he would twirl her round and round in his arms in that shocking dance, the waltz.

Still unmollified, the squire asked, “Are you not
thinking of the expense, Mrs. Lanford? Why, I could
expand the stables, improve on the lower pasture.”

For once, Mrs. Lanford’s ambitions were solely for her daughter. “Nonsense. It will be horribly dear, naturally, for Clara will need funds for Henrietta to have a complete new wardrobe, pin money, and oh, any number of costly things. And a decent dowry must be offered. But you are not thinking, Mr. Lanford! It is our duty to see our daughter married well.”

There was no argument to that statement. The

squire heaved a great sigh and said, “Yes, I suppose you’re right, m’dear. Well, it’s off to Town you go then, Henrietta. See that you know what is owed us after all the care we have given you over the years.” Wagging a finger at his daughter, the squire admonished, “If you play your cards right, you might just snare a gentleman from the Four in Hand Club.”

With this speech, the squire considered his duty done and took himself off to sit in front of the library fire with a copy of
Pick’s Racing Calendar
. Mrs. Lanford went to her desk to write Lady Fuddlesby that she was to bring out her niece, and Henrietta floated up the stairs to her bedchamber to dream about her imaginary beau who now wore the Duke of Winterton’s face.

* * * *

Several days later, at Lady Fuddlesby’s town house in Grosvenor Square, a cat walked up the stairs with a letter clamped in his jaw. He was an unusual looking animal. Stark white with a black tail, he had a wedge of black that extended across his eyes, quite like a domino mask.

A push with his shoulder opened Lady Fuddlesby’s bedchamber door, always left ajar for just this purpose. He swaggered across the room to where the lady, seated at her toilet table, applied rouge with a light hand to her round cheeks.

The soft pink of the cosmetic matched the decor of her ladyship’s apartments. Most of the gowns in her wardrobe were of that same hue, pink being her favorite and most becoming color.

Unlike her horse-mad sister, Clara, Lady Fuddlesby was all that was feminine. She could lay claim to great beauty in her youth and, despite the addition of thirty unwanted pounds, was still attractive at three and fifty.

“Oh, my dearest Knight, whatever have you there?” she asked, eyeing the parchment now dented with fang marks.

Knight in Masked Armour, for that was his full name, stood on his hind legs and dropped the missive in Lady Fuddlesby’s plump lap.

Breaking the seal, she said, “A letter from my younger sister. How singular! One wonders how she found the time away from her horses.”

Lady Fuddlesby perused the lines, clucking her tongue and emitting an occasional gasp. Knight sat at her feet in a patch of afternoon sunlight, his tail twitching with interest.

“Oh dear, oh dear. We are to have company, Knight. My niece, Henrietta. You have never met her, for she has spent her life isolated in the country, the poor dear. Goodness, she may arrive tomorrow!”

Perhaps in understanding of this bit of intelligence, and loath to share Lady Fuddlesby’s attentions with anyone, Knight turned his whiskers down. It had just been the two of them these past five years, unless one counted a house full of servants. Viscount Fuddlesby had died of an apoplexy one evening at White’s, over a particularly unfortunate hand of cards.

At the viscount’s death, Lady Fuddlesby had been obliged to pay off his excessive gambling debts. While she was left with the town house, and a sufficient but not large income, she found the cost of living in London and being in Society to be exorbitant. A more clever woman might have managed well, but while Lady Fuddlesby had a kind heart, she was somewhat lacking in judgment when it came to practicalities and economies.

“Well, it seems my sister has made a mull of it. I shall be obliged to introduce the gel to Society and find her a husband. Oh dear, oh dear, I do hope she’s in looks. It does make finding an eligible parti easier if one has beauty, especially when one is a mere squire’s daughter.”

A furrow that had appeared between Lady Fuddlesby’s brows eased. “I daresay I shall come about, Knight. After all, a generous draft on Mr. Lanford’s bank is included, so we needn’t worry the cost, and oh, I am sure Henrietta is a delight since her mama deplores her lack of interest in horses. It will be quite as if I had a child of my own.”

At these last words, a reproachful meow came from Knight’s throat.

“Oh! Forgive me, my darling boy,” Lady Fuddles-by cried. She reached down to scratch behind Knight’s ears, bringing an expression of intense contentment to his masked face.

Lady Fuddlesby straightened in her chair. In her mind she began to go over the upcoming Season’s list of eligibles. She did not get far in these musings before the Duke of Winterton’s name cried out in her brain.

No! Flying much too high, she thought. Still, how wonderful it would be, after all these years.

Clara had made her come-out the same year as Lady Matilda Danvers. They both had been drawn to the seventh Duke of Winterton. Matilda had won him, though, since she had been an earl’s daughter, while Clara was only a plain miss.

Forgetting almost thirty years of a comfortable marriage to Viscount Fuddlesby, Lady Fuddlesby grew agitated at the memory of her defeat.

How gratifying it would be if she could bring about a match between her niece and the present Duke of Winterton. Perhaps she would send him a card, asking him to call ... but she would have to see the girl first and be sure she dressed in the first stare of fashion, and...

“Oh, Knight,” Lady Fuddlesby said, pressing her fingers to her temples, “I fear I am bringing on one of my headaches with all this thinking.”

Knight sauntered over to her ladyship’s bed, jumped up on the pink coverlet, turned around clockwise three times, lay down, and closed his eyes.

“My dear boy,” Lady Fuddlesby crooned as she crossed the room and prepared to lie down next to the sleeping cat, “you always know what to do. A nap, of course, is just the thing to put me to rights.”

Chapter Two

It is a sad fact that not all journeys to London go as smoothly as that of the Duke of Winterton and Sir Polly Grey.

Henrietta, with Megan along to lend her consequence, set out from home on a sunny, if cold, March day. There was no one to see them off except Cook. Mrs. Lanford was already down at the stables with the Squire, feeling her part in her daughter’s removal to Town was complete after writing to Lady Fuddlesby.

In keeping with the fickle English weather, on the second day of their travels the skies clouded and snow began to fall. At first it fell in thick white flakes that melted as they reached the ground. By late afternoon the wind picked up and the snow changed to a swirling mass that obscured the view from the windows of the squire’s traveling coach.

“Do but look, miss.” Megan’s eyes were round with fright. “I wonder how Ben can see where he’s drivin’ us.”

Henrietta wondered the same thing but was not about to voice her fears in front of the maid. “I am certain we shall be perfectly safe, Megan.”

Henrietta could see her breath in front of her when she spoke, the cold having claimed the interior of the coach. Both girls were dressed warmly and wrapped in carriage rugs. Henrietta wore a dark blue wool pelisse over an old-fashioned gown of paler blue. Her hair was tucked up under a matching bonnet that framed her face.

As the women stared out at the storm, the coach pulled to the side of the road and stopped. Henrietta saw Ben’s ruddy face at the window and she lowered the glass, letting in a gust of snow.

“I can’t go on much further, miss. The snow’s not  deep on the roads yet, but I can barely see as far as the horses’ heads. I know of an inn up ahead and that’s where we’re goin’, with your permission,” he said, tugging a forelock.

“I shall be grateful if you can get us there, Ben,” Henrietta said, shivering.

The coach set off again, and a short time later Megan exclaimed, “I can make out some lights. I’m that glad, miss, as I can hardly feel my feet from the cold.”

They pulled up in front of an establishment that proclaimed itself to be the Pig and Thistle. Several carriages were in the yard, other travelers lured by the promise of relief from the elements. When Ben came back to help her down, Henrietta made note of an especially fine coach with a crest on its door. Ben went to see to the horses and avail himself of some gin and hot food while Henrietta, Megan behind her, went inside.

The warmth of the inn was almost painful to Henrietta’s numb hands and feet. Looking inside to the crowded coffee room, she could see a large, welcoming fire burning brightly. The atmosphere was as festive as the gathering of people under a common adversity can be. The fact that everyone was drinking heavily added to the air of gaiety.

She stepped up to the counter and briskly addressed the wiry landlord. “Good afternoon. I require a room for myself and my maid for the night.”

“I’ve no rooms left ’cause of the storm,” he said sternly, looking at her provincial pelisse with disdain.

Henrietta could scarcely believe her ears. What on earth were they to do?

Across the coffee room, Viscount Baddick sat with Mr. Andrew Snively. Mr. Snively was one of those creatures just on the fringe of Society. His acceptance came chiefly from the fact he was cheerfully willing to sit down at the green baize with anyone. As he was an addicted gamester, winning or losing was rarely of consequence to him. He was not above stealing to support his pleasures when his funds were low; the lure of an elderly aunt’s jewel box had precipitated his journey to her country house.