“He told Fanny, or her mother.” Hetty blushed at the lie.
“I have written to the Duchess Châteaudunn who will be able to confirm or deny he is who he says he is.” Eustace gave a sad smile. “Poor girl, this whole business has concerned you more than it ought to. You are wasted stuck away here in the countryside. Your father must be persuaded to let you go to London.”
“He refuses to consider it.”
“He doesn’t trust your aunt’s ability to care for you, believes her to be a bit of a flibbertigibbet. Too wrapped up in her literary society. But I shall also be in London. Perhaps that might sway his opinion?”
Hetty doubted it. It would be wonderful to stay with her aunt, especially while Eustace was there, but her father had been adamant, and she saw no reason why he would change his mind. She snuffed out the faint hope before it burst into flames. Watching her godfather greet guests, she marveled at how he put others at ease. Even Sophie, the doctor’s shy daughter, blossomed under his attention.
The guests laughed and chatted, more than was usual. Lady Kemble had been right, the village of Digswell had never seen Lord Fortescue’s like, at least not since his father had lived here, and few could remember those scandalous times. At twenty-two, Hetty certainly didn’t.
The baron moved among the guests, bowing gracefully, and, after a brief conversation, left spellbound expressions behind him. He approached the small group where her father stood chatting. She held her breath, fearful that he intended to mention Simon to her father. If she could speak to the baron, she might find a way to prevent it.
Fanny rushed up to her, dainty in a gown of jonquil satin with an overdress of spider-gauze, her blonde ringlets bouncing. “How lovely you look, Hetty.” She peered and frowned. “But what’s that thing on your head?”
“Net. You’re like an angel, Fanny. That gown is perfect for you.”
“Mama had it made by a dressmaker in London,” Fanny said, hitching a glove up her arm.
Hetty smiled fondly at Fanny, then her gaze swept the room, searching for an opportunity to speak to the baron alone.
Lady Kemble sailed toward them like one of Nelson’s frigates, on which her husband had once served. She gave her daughter some unspoken direction with a lift of her eyebrows and a jerk of her head.
“It appears your mother wants you to mingle,” Hetty said. “We must compare notes later.”
Fanny grinned and moved away.
The chatter around the room centered on Lord Fortescue’s encounter with the highwaymen. Digswell in Hertfordshire was some twenty-two miles from London. It lacked a toll road, the closest being at Ayot Green, and nothing so dangerous had happened within the environs for some years. It was as though his lordship brought trouble with him, riding into their midst wreaking havoc, especially for her. She appeared to be of no special interest to him, but an appeal to his better nature might work. Apart from his rakish ways, he’d shown himself to be trustworthy.
“Have you summoned the magistrate?” Lady Kemble asked Lord Fortescue with an exaggerated shiver. “And given him a good description of the rascals?”
“But of course. I expect they will be miles away from here by now.” He glanced at Hetty, and a tiny frown puckered his brow.
Hetty lowered her eyes and busied herself with smoothing her gloves. When she looked up again, his gaze still rested on her. Was that a speculative look in his eye? She could not allow the conversation she’d intended having to take place in her father’s presence. As soon as a waiter approached with a tray of champagne flutes, she backed against the wall and dropped her fan into an urn.
“Oh dear,” she said to her father. “I must have dropped my fan as we came in, and it is close in here with all the candles lit. Shall I go and see?”
“No, my dear,” her father said. “I’ll tell a servant to find it.”
As he moved toward the door, someone claimed Lady Kemble’s attention. Hetty seized her moment and stepped closer to the baron. “My lord, I’m sorry to see you have suffered an injury. As it occurred a few miles from our home, I am anxious to learn more of your dangerous encounter.”
A dark brow peaked above his amused eyes. “Enchanté, Miss Cavendish, although it has been blown out of all proportion, I assure you.”
He offered his arm, and they strolled away from the throng. Everyone watched them, and no doubt thought her extremely forward when they walked out of earshot to the far end of the long salon.
Hetty said, “I have a favor to ask of you, my lord.”
“A favor?” He smiled. “When so charming a lady asks such a thing of me, how can I refuse?”
Hetty frowned. So, he switched the charm on and off when required? “Please do not mention your acquaintance with our groom, Simon, to my father. Papa was away from home that night, and I am the only one who knows Simon rode his horse.” She searched his face for a sign he might have discovered her ruse. If he had, he hid it well.
“I see.” A gleam brightened his eyes. “We shall share your secret, no?”
“If you wish to put it like that,” she said, growing cross.
“You obviously have a close friendship with your groom, Miss Cavendish.”
“No, I… He has been with us for some time and does confide in me, yes.”
