“A business concern, perhaps?” Aunt Emily suggested with a hopeful lift of her brows. “Never mind, Mr. Wordsworth is to arrive soon. You’ll enjoy meeting him, I’m sure.”
In normal circumstances, Hetty would have enjoyed it immensely, but her own concerns intruded. When Guy had thought her to be Simon, he had confessed to all sorts of amorous adventures. Had she shocked him? Was it possible to shock a rake? Her mind whirled, and when introduced to the slim, brown-haired man of some forty-five years who would once have thrilled her to the core, she offered him an abstracted smile.
All through Mr. Wordsworth’s scholarly conversation and her aunt’s animated replies, Hetty pondered Guy’s behavior. He waged a war within himself. The passionate rake was a conventional man at heart. She wondered which would win where she was concerned.
The week proved busy with trips to the mantua maker and the modiste for further fittings, in between sojourns with her aunt to the museum and the Tower. She saw little of Guy, who came to take tea with them on only one occasion. He was busy searching for a suitable London house. But on Saturday, they were to attend Eustace’s dinner party.
Chapter Fifteen
Hetty wore anotherof her new evening gowns to Eustace’s dinner, a delicate white silk embroidered with silver thread.
Guy complimented her, spoke briefly to her aunt, then escorted her to the carriage.
“You seem distracted,” she said. He’d merely smiled at her when she complimented him on the clever arrangement of his neckcloth.
He tucked her hand in his. “Not at all. My thoughts are always with you.”
She doubted it, but was charmed by it, nevertheless.
The carriage pulled up at a townhouse in Curzon Street where an elegantly dressed couple climbed the stairs.
Eustace greeted Guy and Hetty at the door, seeming more animated than usual, and escorted them to the drawing room where the guests chatted and drank champagne.
Hetty’s fears that she would face the critical judgement of theTonagain, faded when they were introduced to an interesting group of people: the Earl of Liverpool, England’s prime minister and his countess, a famous actress, the editor fromThe Times,the reverend from St. George’s in Hanover Square, and a foreign prince who clicked his heels and bowed over her hand.
In the dining room, mouthwatering aromas blended with the scent of hyacinths in a silver bowl. Fascinated, Hetty hung on every word as they conversed during the lavish and delicately flavored courses. Liverpool spoke emotionally about the state of the country, the depression, and political uncertainty, social discontent and unrest and the difficulty of reform, while the dishes were brought and covers removed.
While a footman poured gravy over her veal olives, a rousing discussion began on the veracity of the social movement called the Luddites, who opposed progress and the loss of jobs. Its members were known to have destroyed or damaged machinery in the industrial northwest of England. The unsuccessful march of the Blanketeers was mentioned.
“Blanketeers. That is a curious name, Mr. Randall,” Hetty said to the man beside her.
The publisher from Fleet Street, nodded. He explained how four hundred spinners and weavers marched from Manchester to London to hand the government a petition. They were named thus because they carried their blankets with them. Most were turned back or arrested by the magistrates and yeomanry before they reached Derbyshire.
Hetty was incensed for them. “And not one made it to London?”
“Rumor has it one protestor did arrive and handed over his petition.”
“I’m glad,” Hetty said. She found it terribly sad.
The mention of Bonaparte’s name produced murmuring around the table. While the prime minister declined to comment, Mr. Randall expressed the view that the French general would never escape Saint Helena where he had been sent last October.
Further down the table, Guy remained silent. She thought he looked unhappy. He was yet to reveal his true feelings about Napoleon Bonaparte. The discussion of politics came to a halt when the famous tragedian, Sarah Siddons, a forthright older lady, declared they’d all become too serious. An amusing discussion followed concerningBertram,the current play on in Drury Lane, which continued through the dessert course. Then the ladies rose from the table and left the men to their port.
After an hour, Eustace’s guests began to depart. He saw them to the door. Rain had begun to fall, and footmen scurried about with umbrellas. Hetty looked for Guy, who had not emerged from the dining room. Finally, she went in search of him. She found him in the library seated behind a satinwood desk, scanning a sheath of papers.
“What on earth are you doing?” she asked shocked.
He dropped the papers into a drawer and rose, crossing the room to her. “Now don’t frown at me. We don’t have time for this. Come, we must say our goodbyes to your godfather.”
She stepped in front to him. “Don’t be so insufferable. You were spying on him.”
Voices sounded in the corridor outside. Eustace said in a loud voice, “I can’t think where they’ve gone.”
Guy pulled Hetty into an embrace and pressed his mouth to hers.
“Well, here they are,” Eustace said, smiling, the reverend at his side.
Guy bowed. “I apologize for my poor manners.”
