Lord Kemble now deceased, had gained his knighthood for his service in the navy. His widow stood waiting in the entry hall, eager to present her special guest.
“So rarely are we honored with a visitor of this stature to our community,” she gushed. “And to think that he plans to remain among us.”
Lord Fortescue stood beside her, handsome in beautifully tailored dark evening clothes, his linens white against his olive skin. “And such a prepossessing personage,” Lady Kemble added with a flirtatious glance in his direction. She introduced Hetty’s father to the baron. Then Lady Kemble’s glance alighted on her, and her features took on a disgruntled expression. “Miss Horatia Cavendish.”
Hetty forced her knees into a curtsy after taking note of the small bruise on his forehead and the cut which had almost healed.
“My pleasure, Miss Cavendish.” He bowed. His gaze flickered over her from her hair to her chest and back to her eyes. She had not forgotten those blue eyes. She searched them for a sign he recognized her but saw nothing beyond politeness.
He moved on to greet Mr. and Mrs. Shelton, who had arrived after them. Hetty might have been an aged dowager for all the interest he showed in her. Perhaps it was that cursed bit of net. After the first studied glance, he’d looked right through her. And he a practiced rake! She fumed, ignoring the fact she should be relieved. Her breasts suddenly seemed pale and exposed, and she pulled her shawl closer.
Hetty entered the salon on her father’s arm. Beside the fireplace, her godfather, Eustace, held court, and her father went to greet him.
Apparently, Lady Kemble had cast her net wide, bringing suitable personages from the surrounding towns. Some twenty guests milled about in the long room and several had brought their daughters. The three young ladies watched Lord Fortescue in frank admiration.
Eustace left her father and came to kiss her hand. She noticed his limp. “My dear, you are the belle of the ball this evening.”
“You flatter me, Eustace. I hardly compare with some beautifully gowned ladies here tonight,” Hetty countered with a brief smile. “Is your gout bothering you very much?”
“It has been troublesome, my dear. Thank you for noticing.”
“I’m so sorry. Have you tried that remedy the apothecary suggested?”
“I try everything, but little seems to help, save laudanum.”
“Are you pleased to have your relative returned?” Hetty was surprised he had not mentioned the possibility of an heir when he’d come to dinner last.
He smiled. “But of course. Handsome is he not?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
Curious as to what Eustace might make of him, she said, “Do you think him a good man?”
His brows rose. “Good? I pray it is so. He has been unable to supply me with proof that he is Baron Fortescue.”
“But surely, he’s the baron.” Hetty had never doubted it herself. He knew the Fortescue history and could describe the estate as if he’d lived there.
“He might have been a servant of the baron’s,” Eustace said with a frown. “After all, this time, I require evidence as does the Committee of Privileges.”
Hetty eyed Lord Fortescue doubtfully as he moved gracefully through the room. He looked every inch the aristocrat. “Could a servant be so at ease in society?”
“There are upstarts everywhere, my dear.”
“But the family likeness…”
Eustace shrugged. “His father’s hair was brown. Not coal-black.”
“But his mother was French,” Hetty said. “What about his eyes? Are they not unusual?”
“The family does produce blue-eyed children, but they are common enough.”
Hetty didn’t find the color of his eyes at all common. “He would most likely tell you more about his family should you ask him.”
Eustace raised his ginger eyebrows. “I’m surprised that you defend him on such short acquaintance. I cannot afford to be so trusting.”
Hetty gave a start. “I heard he has a sister who lives in Paris.”
“Oh? And where did you hear that?”
