My Sweet Folly (32 page)

“I cannot imagine that she will,” he said caustically. “But I am at Limmer’s Hotel.” He opened the door and was gone.

Folie’s head was pounding when Lady Dingley tiptoed into her bedchamber.

“Mrs. Hamilton,” she whispered. “Are you awake?”

Folie sat wearily up among the pillows. “Yes.” She had been unable to sleep for the pain in her head and Sir Howard’s strange visit going round and round in her mind. “How was the music?”

“Oh, it was delightful.” Lady Dingley came and sat on the edge of the bed, shielding her candle. She was still dressed in her opera finery, a pale cream ostrich feather curling down beside her cheek and a single diamond glittering at her throat.

“You look very pretty,” Folie said, sitting up a little.

“Thank you. How are you?”

“I will survive,” Folie said.

“The servants tell me that Sir Howard was here.” Lady Dingley’s voice was low, but Folie thought there was a note of eagerness in it.

“Yes. But he was—very weary from his journey, and decided not to wait. I’m sure he will be back in the morning.”

Lady Dingley sighed. “Did you tell him that he might stay here?’’

“Well,” Folie said. “To be quite honest—he did not seem to think he would be welcome.”

“Oh no, oh no,” Lady Dingley moaned. “How could he think so? I so wanted him to come!”

Folie lay back on her pillow. “I need a cold compress.”

“Oh—” Lady Dingley half rose. “Let me ring.”

“No...no. I was only funning.” Folie smiled a little. “Dear me. I’m afraid that you and Sir Howard are not quite comprehending one another.”

Lady Dingley looked contritely down at her lap. “I should not bother you; you do not feel well.”

“I’m in no case to be a very good go-between,” Folie said. “He is at Limmer’s Hotel—perhaps you will write him a note in the morning and ask him to remove here.”

Her face flushed hot. “I could not!”

“No?” Folie echoed helplessly.

“I have never—it would seem as if—’’ She put her hand to her cheek. “As if I
wanted
him to stay!”
 

“I thought you did!”

“Yes, but—it would be so...immodest! To ask him!”

Folie made a faint groan. “I suppose it would not be immodest if I were to do it for you.”

“Would you?” Lady Dingley grasped her hand. “Mrs. Hamilton, you are so good at these things. You can make him understand.”

“I don’t know that I speak English any better than anyone else,” Folie said, feeling like pulling the covers over her head.

“Mrs. Hamilton...” It was just Melinda’s tone of voice, that soft plea.

Folie sighed.
 
“Yes, yes, yes. In the morning. I will write a note.”

“Oh, you are a peach!” She hopped up from the bed like one of her teenaged daughters. “I hope you are feeling better very soon.”

No doubt,
Folie thought, turning over and pulling the coverlet up to her throat. The light from Lady Dingley’s candle vanished as she pulled the door shut softly. Toot kissed Folie’s nose and curled up next to her pillow.

“Do you suppose you will be up to Vauxhall Gardens?” Melinda asked anxiously at breakfast.

Folie sipped her steaming chocolate. “Yes, I feel much better. And nothing would persuade me to miss the fireworks!”

“You must stay inside all day,” Melinda said. “Just to make certain you are perfectly recovered.”

“I vow I shall do nothing but coddle myself.”

“Perhaps you will write letters,” Lady Dingley said.

Folie smiled wryly. “Yes, certainly I shall. The Misses Nunney must be wondering what has become of us!”

“And—”

“I have not forgot!” Folie said. “Or perhaps you would prefer to dictate?”

“Oh, no!” Lady Dingley made flustered gestures with a slice of toast. “No, no, I have complete faith in you.”

“Of course!” Miss Jane exclaimed. “She got us an introduction to Lord Morier.”

“And she got us this house!” Cynth added.

“And a ferret!” one of the younger girls cried.

“Mama can do
anything,’’
Melinda said proudly.

“Yes, I am serving the moon on a silver platter for supper tonight. What will you have for dessert?”

“Lord Morier!”

“Buckingham Palace!”

“An
elephant!”
the youngest shrieked, laughing.

“You must apply to Mr. Cambourne for an elephant,” Folie said. “I believe he has several in his stables. As to the rest—” She made an elaborate bow in her chair. “Your wish is my command.”

But later, as she sat at her desk overlooking the back garden, the blue shawl still pulled close about her shoulders, she found herself at a complete loss in delivering Sir Howard to Lady Dingley. She had tried several times to explain his wife’s modesty to him, but it all appeared so ridiculous when she attempted to write it down, and she felt like such an inexcusable meddler, that she finally decided that such things could only be said in person—if at all.

At last, all she wrote was,
We have a box reserved this evening for the fireworks at Vauxhall. Number 23 in the Grove, at seven. If you can come there, we will speak in private to your advantage, I believe. F. H.

She folded it, sealed it with a Cambourne House wafer, and went to summon a footman.

Robert looked up from the newspaper at a knock on his door. For the past several days, he had been poring over every periodical in London, looking for any mention of the Prince Regent’s condition. There were several; he had marked and saved them.

The prince was certainly incapacitated—he had not appeared lately anywhere in public. The reasons given ranged from “the Prince is presently engaged with religion, and reads daily a chapter or two of the Bible with Lady Hertford,” in the Tory papers, to a scathing description in the progressive
Examiner
that accused the regent of being a libertine, a despiser of domestic ties, a gambler, in debt, and—worse—corpulent. Everything
but
mad.

“Who is it?” he called through the door, running his finger down the columns.

“Boots, sir,” a boy’s voice piped. “Message for you.”

Robert had taken care to recognize the hotel servants. He knew this one, and opened the door, digging for a shilling. The envelope was blank outside, gummed shut. “Who brought this?” he asked, handing the boy a shilling.

“Dunno, sir. Porter give it me.”

Robert closed the door, sat down again and opened the packet. The letter inside was sealed; he instantly recognized his own crest on the wafer.

The handwriting sent an electric surge through his veins.

We have a box reserved this evening for the fireworks at Vauxhall. Number 23 in the Grove, at seven. If you can come there, we will speak in private to your advantage, I believe. F. H.

He pulled his watch from his waistcoat. It was already quarter past six. How she had known where to find him, he had no notion, but the very idea that she had gone to the trouble to discover it made his heart lift in the most absurd way. He had not hidden his new whereabouts: one of the best suites at the elegant Clarendon. Perhaps she had asked Morier, or Lander had tracked Robert down for her.

He touched the familiar double period at the end of the second sentence, and held the note up to his face, taking a deep breath. Patchouli. He smiled fiercely.

She might have decided to believe him. She might.

Folie shivered, sitting in the supper box. They had taken a boat across the Thames to Vauxhall, joining a pretty procession of little vessels just at sunset, with a spring breeze rippling the water. But the breeze had turned chilly as the sun went down, and though she delighted in the festoons of lanterns and the music, she was glad she had brought the kashmir shawl. The gardens were much larger than she had expected, crowded with people strolling and admiring the lights, parties large and small. She hoped that Sir Howard would be able to locate them. She had written the note with no very clear idea of the nature of the place.

She also had no very clear idea of what she was going to say to him, or how she would arrange any privacy, either. She was not overly enraptured with her role as mediator. But Lady Dingley kept glancing at her expectantly, as if somehow Folie might produce Sir Howard out of thin air.

Melinda suggested that they take a turn around the Grove, the area enclosed by the long colonnades. Folie hesitated, but Lander gave her such a frown that she relented and joined Melinda and the girls under his protection. Lady Dingley said she would stay with their maid to hold the box. Folie brightened at that. She hoped that Sir Howard would just stroll up and speak to his wife, and they could settle it all between themselves.

Amid the brilliant lights and the promenading crowds, it was easy to lose track of her own party. Lander, she could see, was almost beside himself when any of them lingered or wandered out of the main path. She smiled encouragingly at him—as annoying as he could make himself with his mother-hen worries, it was rather charming of him. At least Folie did not have to do the shepherding. She could relax and enjoy the scene.

It was truly lovely, like nothing she had ever seen before. From the rotunda, outlined in lights, the lilting strains of Handel filled the air with joyful sound. Melinda’s face lit with an ecstatic smile. She stopped. When Lander put a gentle hand on her elbow to urge her to keep up with the party, she turned to him, lifted her arms and twirled him about in a light dance step, smiling up with such an enchanting expression that Folie saw him dazzled for an instant, before his face turned to stone and he stepped back with a servant’s stiff bow. Melinda just laughed at him and curtsied, drifting ahead, dancing alone. It was all so beautiful and dream-like that Folie did nothing to discourage her, only made a note that she ought to remind her stepdaughter not to be thoughtless with the servants, Lander in particular, who had stood as their good friend so often.