Which was closely followed by the odious notion that anyone could consider her in some wayattachedto the ugsome Mr Maddock who was now spluttering in what she hoped was outrage also.
Hebe fisted her gloved hands so tight the leather squeaked. “I am no man’spottage, Lord Ernest, and do not feel any compunction to call upon me.” She raked his personage with scathing eye. “For rarely do I find the time to accommodate every ass who likes to hear himself bray.”
Mr Maddock winced and the horses snickered, but with a distinct twitch to his lip, Lord Ernest merely tugged his cravat further awry and leaned forw–
“Oh, Lord Ernest,” a breathy voice lamented from somewhere behind Hebe’s shoulder. “Oh, how truly heroic. Oh, my knight! Oh!”
Oh, good grief, and Hebe spun to survey a velvet-clad goddess with rouged pout, a gentleman’s beaver hat in one hand, a gold-finialled cane in the other.
“Lady Conway,” the rake drawled before his head tilted to one side. “And ladies?”
For behind the goddess swarmed a gaggle of handmaidens, a wave of coloured silks and fine feathers jogging in their direction.
Hebe stood her ground, Mr Maddock hid behind his curricle wheel and even this rake of hearts raised a startled eyebrow.
Their panting and pink-cheeked leader batted poor Lady Conway aside with a flick of yellow kid glove and then nigh dropped at his lordship’s Hessian boots in supplication.
“Oh, Lord Ernest, us ladies of Portman Square were picnicking across the park when we spied your most courageous act.” She clasped hands to prodigious bosom. “You must let me assist you to my home in order to recover your strength… With some champagne, perhaps?”
A lady in olive green thrust her aside. “Mine is nearer. Number fifteen. And I have brandy.”
“I have a soft couch…” another called from the back. “For you to rest upon.”
Their voices rose with invites of liqueur, sustenance and to bathe his weary body, squabbles ensuing as to the exact distance to their homes.
Hebe glanced to Lord Ernest, who seemed almost alarmed, and she stifled a laugh, studying his flushed profile to determine what all the flap was about.
No idea.
Perchance, unlike the other ladies, Hebe knew what such handsome looks and seductive prose could conceal.
Deceit and betrayal.
“Er, ladies,” he pleaded, swinging his arms wide. “How welcoming of you all but pray do not ask a man to choose between such delightful temptations. Therefore…why do we not all attend the theatre together this night?”
A murmur of assent swelled.
“And of course,” he enthused, swivelling to herself. “You also, Mrs Locke. I do so hope you will join us?”
Hebe blinked.
The dissolute coxcomb.
Stepping forward, she straightened that irritating skew-whiff cravat. “I’m afraid I must decline, Lord Ernest, for I am curling my hair in papers tonight.”
Gasps abounded.
And she turned to her erstwhile driver. “I believe I’ll walk from here, Mr Maddock.”
At that moment, the usurped Lady Conway stomped her way through the Portman Square ladies and thrust the smart beaver hat and cane to his lordship. “You left these in the shrubbery.”
Hebe hoisted a brow as the lady turned on her heel in a swish of lavender skirts and marched off. “It appears, my lord,” she murmured, “that your own pottage has alas gone cold.”
She tensed as he claimed her hand and raised it to his lips.
“Every once in a while, Mrs Locke, I enjoy the bite of cold.” His expression was indefinable. “If you change your mind about the theatre…” He bowed, low and lingering. “I remain forever your devoted servant.”
And the insufferable rake winked.
