Chapter Four
On the way home in the carriage, Henrietta longed to question her aunt about Christian Hartley, but she resisted. They climbed the stairs to bed, and she could wait no longer.
“Aunt, who is Mr. Hartley’s family?”
Her aunt’s shrewd brown eyes studied her. “You liked him then?”
Henrietta wriggled. Really, must her aunt scrutinize her so? “I’m not at all sure I did like him. I found him mildly interesting.”
“He’s the only son of Sir Gerald Hartley, an honorable gentleman who passed away some years ago.” Aunt Gabrielle paused at the top of the stairs. “Christian must be close to thirty. He’s been in the diplomatic service for some years. He was at one stage assistant to the British Ambassador in Paris, I believe. A mystery man, or so described by some disappointed ladies of theton. I was surprised to find him there tonight. He rarely attends such events.” She frowned. “I can see how you would find him attractive, but he is not a suitable match for you.”
Henrietta hovered at the door to her bedchamber. “Why not?”
“He’s said to be a rake. You’ve heard of them, I’m sure.”
Henrietta had a vague idea that they drank a lot and bedded far too many ladies who were not their wives. Was that all? “What exactly is a rake?”
“They do not make good husbands, Henrietta. They move in less than first circles.”
“But,” Henrietta said impatiently, for this was like learning an entirely new language, “What is less than the first circles?”
Aunt Gabrielle’s eyes took on a dreamy, unfocused appearance, as if she remembered an experience of her own with a rake, in her youth. “Opera dancers and the demi-monde, my dear. the world Mademoiselle Garnier inhabits if you like.” Failing to make it any clearer, she kissed Henrietta’s cheek. “Go to bed, it’s very late, and tomorrow you must practice your curtsy while wearing a hoop skirt.”
Her aunt disappeared into her chamber at the end of the corridor where her dogs waited. Henrietta had only the vaguest notion what that world might be like, but it was most intriguing. A more colorful world perhaps than the mannered and polite world of theton. Mademoiselle Garnier came from that world that Christian obviously preferred.
She suspected Aunt Gabrielle had meant to warn her, but her usually sagacious aunt had erred. She had made Mr. Hartley seem even more attractive. A man of mystery.
Henrietta sauntered into her chamber, remembering Hartley’s smile and the teasing laughter in his eyes. His blue-gray eyes. She was barely aware of Molly helping her prepare for bed. Christian wasn’t conventionally handsome. His intelligent face was narrow, with sharply defined cheekbones and chiseled jaw. But there was something commanding about him that made her heart flutter madly.
It was likely they would meet again, he seemed certain of it. And, for some reason, she suspected he was seldom wrong.
* * *
Verity traveled alone to her hotel in the hired carriage. She had received many invitations tonight, to the horse races, dinner, and parties, plus a few suggestions of something more intimate. It seemed that here in England, doors were opened for actresses where a bourgeois Frenchwoman could not go. She was a novelty, she supposed. Fate had thrown Lord Beaumont right at her feet. When she gazed into his steady brown eyes, she felt the pull of attraction, mutual she was sure. Something told her he might not be a man she might manipulate easily. She sighed and stared out at the dark London streets that were quieter than those in Paris.
She curled her fingers around her painted fan determined to remain focused on the reason she came to London. Danton had promised to release her father from prison if she brought the viscount back with her to France, and the success of the venture hinged on her taking Beaumont into her bed. An act which would cheapen her and turn her into the kind of woman she’d never wanted to be. Women were born with the knowledge of how to seduce a man. She must offer him the apple as Eve did Adam. But it would take more than a seduction to lure such a man to France. She would have to be clever.
It began to drizzle, a mist swirling around the carriage, the air murky and damp. She snapped open her fan. If the plan succeeded, she would no longer go unblemished to her marriage bed. What would the future hold for her? Years spent in the theater moving from one lover to the next? She fanned herself vigorously. She had never wished for that. Father would be crushed to know she’d been forced to become a courtesan after his defiant actions led to his arrest. He had nurtured her so carefully, ensuring she was as well-educated as any of the male students at the Sorbonne. But the world had changed. A French woman from a respectable home no longer expected the old courtesies to apply to her. It was hard enough to just stay alive.
The carriage pulled up at the hotel, and she snapped her fan shut. These fearful thoughts would not deter her from her aim.
“Please have a bottle of iced champagne sent to my chamber,sil vou plaît.” She cast the porter a grateful glance from under her lashes, and he bent absurdly low from the waist. With the flicker of a smile she climbed the stairs. Exhausted, she doubted she would sleep tonight.
***
Henrietta’s stomach rumbled. It had been a long time since breakfast, and she had been far too nervous to eat luncheon. Sponsored by her aunt, she waited in the Presentation Drawing Room of St. James’s Palace to be announced by the Lord Chamberlain. She fiddled with her long white gloves, uncomfortable in the embroidered, high-waisted white gown with its awkward wide hoop. It was difficult to hold one’s head up with the headdress of ostrich feathers. She had been made to stand for hours, for no one sat in the queen’s presence. When her turn came at last, she managed her deep curtsy to the queen quite respectably and answered
her brief questions. She then had to back away without turning. It proved
appallingly difficult to achieve this with any semblance of grace while carrying the long train over her arm.
When she walked into the ante chamber where society gathered, her father gave her an encouraging wink and came to kiss her cheek. “You look every bit as beautiful as your mother on our wedding day,” he whispered in her ear.
She doubted it, but her heart gave a skip of pleasure. Her mother had been just eighteen when she married her father, and it was Henrietta’s eighteenth birthday next week.
“You are now a candidate in the marriage mart,” Aunt Gabrielle informed her, her dark eyes shining. “I hope it proves to be the beginning of a wonderful life.”
Henrietta scanned the crowded rooms for a sight of Mr. Hartley and was relieved not to find him there, for she didn’t look her best in this dreadful gown.
