To Dream of Love (12 page)

Agnes waited for the outburst that she was sure would greet these words, but to her surprise, none came.

“You are probably right,” said Cordelia mildly. “Let me think.”

Agnes waited anxiously.

“Fond of this Prenderbury, are you?”

Agnes blushed. “Mr. Prenderbury is a true gentleman who has favored me with a certain amount of his attention.”

“Humph,” said Cordelia thoughtfully. She studied Agnes’s face while her companion lowered her eyes and fiddled nervously with her fan.

Cordelia leaned forward. “Think on it, Agnes,” she said. “How would you consider the opportunity to entertain Mr. Prenderbury here, meeting him not as a penniless spinster but as a lady with a tidy little
dot?”

“I have no dowry,” said Agnes, looking at her mistress in surprise.

“But you could have one … if you will but perform a small service for me.”

“Which is?”

“Contrive to poison Harriet’s mind against Arden. I have a list of his previous mistresses and can tell you all about them. You will use this information as ammunition. Pity her, in a delicate sort of way, hinting at all sorts of dark secrets in Arden’s past until she asks you outright what you mean. Then you will drop the poison in her ear, drip by drip. She will believe
you.”

“Monstrous!”

“If you do not do this trifling service, which would result in your freedom from the contract, not to mention a dowry and possible marriage to Prenderbury, I will see to it that you lead the life of a drudge. Jobs for servants are hard to come by. None in this house would dare to raise a finger to help you.”

Agnes shrank back in her chair.

Cordelia surveyed her with satisfaction. “You’ll do it, won’t you?” she said softly. “I know you will.”

Agnes stared at her like a rabbit hypnotized by a snake.

“Lean forward, my dear companion,” murmured Cordelia, “and let me instruct you how to strike fear into the virgin soul of Harriet Clifton.”

Cordelia had never been so popular.

The news of Harriet Clifton’s engagement burst upon the ton like a thunderbolt. At first, they were inclined to be maliciously delighted that heroine Harriet had snatched the prize from her sister, but when they quickly realized that Cordelia was on good terms with Harriet and seemed delighted with the forthcoming marriage, they turned against Harriet, calling her an upstart, scheming minx who had entrapped London’s most eligible bachelor.

Gossip that Harriet had cheated her sister began to ripple. No one quite knew who had started this gossip, for Cordelia had set rumors about so cleverly that none of it was ever traced back to her.

Harriet was indifferent to shame or blame. Despite her protests, Aunt Rebecca had accepted the marquess’s generous allowance and had become positively rejuvenated with all the excitement of taking Harriet from mantua-maker to milliner. And Cordelia, who had planned to shine in contrast to the countrified Harriet, gritted her teeth as a new, modish little sister began to appear.

Aunt Rebecca was quite won over by this new, affectionate Cordelia, but although Harriet was inclined to think—or wishfully think—that Cordelia had changed her ways, there was something about the atmosphere of the house on Hill Street that set her teeth on edge.

Nonetheless, despite the fact that neither she nor Cordelia was honored with vouchers to Almack’s Assembly Rooms, that holy of social holies, she was invited to a great number of balls and parties, and she was beginning to enjoy her status as an engaged lady … the curiosity of the ton overcoming their dislike of her.

The marquess was present at most of the functions she attended, always polite and attentive. He never saw her alone and showed no signs of passionately seizing her in his arms again.

Although he seemed somewhat remote, Harriet began to hope that the state of marriage might be more comfortable than she had anticipated. Married men seemed to spend most of their time in their clubs or in the House of Lords or on the hunting field. She was glad to be free from all those upsetting feelings that had made her feel so dizzy when the marquess kissed her.

For the marquess’s part, he was enjoying the unaccustomed novelty of charitably seeing a young lady well fed and well clothed. In marrying Harriet, he was convinced he was doing a very magnanimous thing.

And so this engaged couple who had so nearly been on the brink of love, failed to see each other as individuals, and each was quite content with the chaste courtship.

The weather had been unusually cold and not at all conducive to romance. Several of London’s finest succumbed to the influenza that was raging through the streets, but fear of death did not prevent the ladies from going out in all weathers in nothing but the scantiest of muslin gowns.

There were white frosts at night, and in the red dawns, when society yawned its way to bed, the sooty birds puffed out their feathers and huddled on the branches of the park trees.

It is a well-known fact that no one is truly bad, and so it was that even such a one as Cordelia, Lady Bentley, was subject to pangs of conscience. Although her affectionate manner to Harriet was an act, it was very pleasant to have a sister to gossip to and to go shopping with.

As the marquess continued to be formal and chilly toward Harriet, as Cordelia herself began to attract the attention of the very rich and very old Archie, Lord Struthers, the more Cordelia held back from instructing the shivering Agnes to go ahead and poison Harriet’s mind.

And then all at once the weather turned warm and balmy. The normally poisonous London air was now full of the scent of flowers and leaves. Blackbirds sang on the rooftops, and sparrows squabbled and splashed in the puddles between the cobbles. In the twilight, the light at the end of the streets was smoky blue.

Harriet and Cordelia were to attend a rout at a Mrs. Harper’s. Mrs. Harper, a rich widow from Boston, had broken with tradition by serving refreshments at her routs. Furthermore, her mansion on Chesterfield Street boasted a double staircase, so one did not have to spend most of the evening fighting one’s way up or down.

Harriet was wearing a very smart gown of green and gold striped gauze. Her long black hair was elaborately dressed in one of the latest Roman styles. The dress was wicked in its simplicity and seductive in its effect. The low neckline made the most of her small bosom, and the skirt was cut daringly short to show a glimpse of ankle.

All her old jealousy came rushing back when Cordelia saw that gown. She felt her own creation of pink sprigged muslin was too fussy and sugary by contrast. But it was not the gown that hardened Cordelia’s heart. It was the look in the marquess’s eyes on seeing Harriet when he called to escort her to the rout. Cordelia at once saw the admiration in his eyes and, what was worse, the tenderness.

The streets outside were thronged with carriages bobbing through the dark, the wavering light of the parish lamps occasionally striking fire from the heavily bejeweled occupants inside.

The air was sweet and warm. The marquess was wearing a corbeau-colored coat and knee breeches. There was a heavy sapphire ring on his finger, and a fine sapphire blazed among the snowy folds of his cravat. He carried his bicorne under his arm. Beside him, in marked contrast to his elegance, sat Lord Struthers, a Scottish peer, the blue of his coat stained with snuff and reeking of brandy and damp dog. Unlike many of the Scottish aristocracy, he had made no attempt to anglicize his vowels, so his conversation seemed to be nothing more than a series of yaps and barks. His corsets creaked abominably, and one pudgy hand in its doeskin glove groped in the darkness for the comfort of Cordelia’s knee.

Aunt Rebecca and Agnes had been left behind.

The carriage swayed and lurched over the cobbles, and the marquess’s leg brushed against the hem of Harriet’s gown. She wondered why that fleeting contact should make her tremble.

Harriet often wondered why the members of the ton did not lose the use of their legs. Chesterfield Street was practically next door, but they had to sit confined in the carriage while the coachman patiently waited his turn.

“We could have walked,” said Harriet. “It would only have taken a minute.”

“No one walks, my little mouse.” Cordelia laughed. “Isn’t she sweet?” she mocked, flashing her large blue eyes at the marquess. “So unsullied and countrified!”

Harriet stiffened as she recognized the old familiar venom creeping back into Cordelia’s voice, but the marquess said equably, “That is her greatest charm.”

He was all at once intensely aware of Harriet, aware of her freshness and youth.

When they finally alighted from the carriage and she took his arm and allowed herself to be led into the house, he glanced down at the calm, beautiful oval of her face under the shining black tresses of her hair and felt a surge of pride and a sudden, fierce feeling of passion.

“We are to be wed in a month’s time,” he whispered to Harriet as they mounted the stairs.

Her step faltered and she said, “So soon?”

He frowned down at her, and she stammered, “I m-mean, Aunt Rebecca s-said nothing.”

“She knows nothing. I have just decided to have an early wedding.”

“But all the arrangements,” said Harriet. “And who am I to invite? And who is to give me away? There are so many things to think of.”

“I have a very good secretary,” he said. “He will handle all the arrangements. You should ask Mr. Prenderbury to give you away. He seems to be the only male relative you have. I will ask him for you.”

Harriet’s eyes looked enormous in the oval of her face. “So-so th-there’s nothing really I have to do?”

“No, nothing.” He smiled down at her suddenly and her heart gave a lurch.

They had only been at the rout for half an hour when Cordelia appeared beside them, her eyes very bright, declaring that she was bored beyond belief and Lord Struthers had proposed they should all go on to Vauxhall.

“Have you been to Vauxhall?” the marquess asked Harriet.

“No, never.”

“Then you should go at least once. I will send my servant ahead to reserve a box.”

Vauxhall Gardens on the south bank of the River Thames, was famous for its fireworks and displays. Gone were the old days of the last century, when evening dress was de rigeur and society went on a stately promenade before the fun of the evening began.

The taste of Londoners had progressed without improving, and they were no longer satisfied with the placid joys that had delighted earlier generations.

There was a firework platform erected at the eastern end of the grounds, a firework tower, and a mast sixty feet high from which the “ethereal Saqui” descended the tightrope in a blaze of blue flame and Chinese fire. The ethereal Saqui was in fact, a very solid-looking lady of masculine appearance who was dressed in a Roman helmet surmounted by enormous plumes, a tunic of classic cut, and white linen trousers tied around the ankles and who descended the tightrope on one toe.

A great many of the trees had been cut down, and a large part of the Grand Walk was covered by a colonnade with cast-iron pillars. There were orchestras playing lilting music and singers singing sentimental ballads. There was even a hermit enshrined in one of the groves.

All classes came to Vauxhall, and although society enjoyed the privilege of dining in boxes in the rotunda, the rest mixed freely on the walks, and highly painted, raucous prostitutes hawked their wares and startled the shy Harriet by even producing businsess cards, which they pressed on the marquess and Lord Struthers.

There was a restless, nervous atmosphere. Old Lord Struthers seemed to enjoy it all immensely.

As they approached the boxes down on the Grand Walk, a party of young bloods, led by Mr. Postlethwaite, came whooping along. Harriet was jostled to one side, and when the party rearranged themselves, she found Cordelia was walking on ahead, clinging to the marquess’s arm, while she herself was left to follow with Lord Struthers.

“Aye,” said Lord Struthers, sighing and gazing after Cordelia, “yon bonny bird has stolen ma hert awa’.”

“Indeed?” said Harriet politely, not having the faintest idea what he was talking about.

A frown creased Harriet’s smooth brow as they sat around the table in the box and watched the jostling throng below. The marquess and Cordelia seemed comfortably ensconced on one side of the round table, and she and Lord Struthers on the other. Cordelia flirted lightly and expertly with the marquess, claiming Harriet had stolen Lord Struthers away, to which Lord Struthers replied gallantly with something that sounded like “Och, ach, ech, uch.”

Lord Struthers consumed a large amount of Vauxhall’s famous rack punch very quickly, lolled back in his chair, and began to snore. Cordelia was whispering something in the marquess’s ear, and he gave a slow smile.

Color flamed in Harriet’s cheeks and she turned her head away.

Perhaps he had only become engaged to her to secure Cordelia as his mistress! But that was ridiculous. If the marquess was bent on marrying someone, then he could always marry Cordelia if he wanted her
that
badly.

There was a grating of chairs. Harriet looked up. The marquess had moved his chair around next to hers and was leaning over her to shake Lord Struthers awake.

“Rouse yourself, Struthers,” said the marquess. “I am going to take my fiancée for a promenade and you cannot neglect Lady Bentley.”

As she left the box, Harriet turned around to say good-bye to her sister. Cordelia’s eyes were as hard and as blue as the marquess’s sapphires.

Harriet began to long for the old narrow life of Pringle House, where the discomfort was caused by hard work and poverty rather than people.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To watch the fireworks.”

“You did not ask me if I
wanted
to watch them.” And, to Harriet’s horror, her voice sounded pettish to her own ears. Still hurt by his behavior with Cordelia, she added, “You are very kind, my lord. But there was no need to leave the box for my sake. I was under the impression you were enjoying yourself very well where you were.”