“He is an invalid. We don’t see much of him.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
The coach drew up outside her aunt’s in King Street.
Guy took her chin in his hand and pressed his lips to hers as Lord Strathairn’s footman opened the door.
At her door, Guy bowed. “Sleep well, Hetty.”
The maid opened the door, and Hetty walked into the front hall where her aunt lurked. “Well, how was it?”
“Very pleasant,” Hetty said, following her up the stairs. “The mansion was beautiful, and Lady Eleanor and I enjoyed a lively conversation about Keats’ poems.”
“Oh. You must tell me all about it at breakfast.”
In bed, Hetty put her arm under her head. She didn’t fit into that world, but it was an exciting one. She feared returning to the farm would be very hard indeed.
*
When the hackneystopped outside Count Forney’s palatial home, Guy paid the jarvie and stepped up to the door. He presented his card to the butler.
“You are expected, my lord.”
Guy followed the butler to an impressive salon decorated in the extravagant Napoleonic style the Regent had adopted at Carlton House, the furniture a combination of oak, ebony, gilt, painted bronze, and marble. The walls were papered in a chinoiserie pattern of birds. It was a showcase for a beautiful woman like the countess, perhaps, but too ornate for Guy’s taste.
The count was not one of those French émigrés who had arrived with barely the shirt on their backs and found it hard to survive. They flocked together at Grillon’s Hotel in Albemarle Street where the Constitutional Monarch of France, Louis XVIII, had stayed in ’14.
Count Forney was wealthy and openly displayed his penchant for Bonaparte, which, while unpalatable to the English, wasn’t a crime. The Regent himself was known to have a deep respect for Bonaparte although he’d refused the general’s invitation to meet with him when aboard theBellerophonin Plymouth Sound. Guy suspected it was because Prinny had never stepped onto a battlefield and believed he would not present well beside the famous general.
A gilt-paneled door opened, and Count Forney, a narrow-faced, swarthy Corsican entered. He bowed with an exaggerated flourish. “Lord Fortescue. I must apologize for keeping you waiting.”
He spoke in French with a slight accent Guy couldn’t place. “Not at all, Count,” Guy said in English. “You wished to see me?”
“Oui,please be seated, Baron.” Forney waved Guy to a Louis Quinze chair. The count was dressed more elaborately than Englishmen favored these days, with lace at his cuffs and a waistcoat embroidered in a pattern of golden bees.
The count’s eyes were yellowish-brown which lent him a wolfish air. “You wish to speak in the English?”
“We live in England now.”
“Oui!England. I prefer it in the autumn when the shadows in the wood grow long.” He paused for a long moment and studied Guy. “May I offer you a fine French brandy?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“A rumor has reached my ears that you were a confidant of Bonaparte’s, Lord Fortescue.”
Guy stared at him. “You are mistaken. I’ve never met him.”
The count poured liberal portions of brandy into two balloon glasses and placed them on the marble and gilt table. He sat opposite Guy, crossed his legs, and gave a tight-lipped smile. “How odd.”
Guy shifted in his chair. “Rumors are often false, is that not so?”
The count swilled the golden liquid in his glass and put it to his lips while Guy, with growing uneasiness, left his untouched on the table. “I have it on good authority you were part of a group of men instrumental in Bonaparte’s escape from Elba.”
Guy leaped up. “Absurd!”
“You wish to deny it?”
“I do.”
