Hero wrinkled her nose. “Vaguely. She died four years ago, didn’t she?”
“A little over three years ago. You wouldn’t have moved in her circles anyway. She was quite fast for a young matron, but then she was a Trentlock,” Cousin Bathilda said darkly. “Always a feckless lot, the Trentlock family, though quite comely, of course. That must’ve been what turned Mandeville’s head. Anne Trentlock was a beauty, no doubt about it, and the family is old and very nicely situated. Everyone thought the match a good one when it was announced.”
Hero couldn’t suppress a shiver. Everyone thought her match was a good one. “What happened?”
“Lord Griffin Reading is what happened.” Cousin Bathilda shook her head. “The man is wild, has been ever since his father’s death. The old marquess died when Reading was at Cambridge. Reading immediately left and began living the life of a young roué in London. He associated with the worst sort of lowlifes, seduced married ladies, and was nearly involved in two duels. And through all these scandals, Mandeville was a rock of loyalty. He wouldn’t hear anything against his brother even when Reading began to be refused invitations.”
“And then?”
“And then Mandeville married Anne Trentlock. It was the match of the season, and naturally Reading was invited.” Cousin Bathilda sighed. “It was a year before you came out, dear, but I was there. Anne couldn’t take her eyes off Reading—everyone remarked upon it. There was speculation that she would’ve set her cap on winning Reading instead of Mandeville, had it not been for Mandeville’s title.”
Hero frowned. “What did Reading do?”
“He acted no differently than usual, but of course he must’ve taken note of Anne’s infatuation.”
“And Mandeville?”
“What could he do?” Cousin Bathilda shrugged. “I suppose he tried to keep them apart, but Reading is his brother. It was inevitable that eventually Reading should find an opportunity to seduce his brother’s wife.”
“Inevitable only if he was a complete cad,” Hero muttered. This story was depressing her terribly. She’d known Reading was a rake, but to do such a thing to his own brother was simply appalling.
“Well, yes, but by then we all knew what he was.” Mignon whined and batted a paw. Cousin Bathilda absently scratched her under her chin. “When Anne died in childbirth, the brothers weren’t even talking to each other. And there were rumors about the babe. A mercy it did not live, really.”
“What a horrible thing to say,” Hero whispered.
“Perhaps so—your compassion does you credit.” Cousin Bathilda pursed plump lips. “But we must be practical, I’m afraid. Had the child lived with his father uncertain, it would have been a terrible burden, both for Mandeville and for the child himself.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Hero murmured. She wrinkled her nose. She hated this kind of practicality, though—the kind that would bless the death of an innocent baby.
Cousin Bathilda leaned forward in the swaying carriage and patted Hero’s knee. “That’s all history now. Just remember to keep well clear of Reading and the past will be forgotten.”
Hero nodded. She parted the carriage curtains to look out, but the night was black and all she saw was her reflection in the glass. Dying in childbirth was awful enough, but how much more terrible to die having betrayed one’s husband? She let the curtain fall. That was a fate she had no intention of following.
The ride home took another twenty minutes, and by that time, Cousin Bathilda was nodding and little Mignon was snoring in her arms.
“Goodness!” Cousin Bathilda yawned as they descended the carriage steps. “What a lovely ball, but I’m for bed now, I fear. I’m not like you young things that can stay up until all hours!”
They mounted the white marble steps of the neat town house Maximus had bought for Hero, her younger sister, Phoebe; and Cousin Bathilda three years ago. Until then, they’d all lived with him at Wakefield House in one of London’s most fashionable squares, but Maximus had said that it wasn’t right for three ladies to be rattling about a bachelor’s mansion. Hero suspected that this was Maximus’s way of ensuring his own privacy, but she didn’t object. While their town house wasn’t as palatial as Wakefield House, it was quite elegant and comfortable.
Panders, the butler, opened the front door, bowing over a round little belly. “Good evening, my lady, ma’am.”
“More like good morning, Panders,” Cousin Bathilda said as she handed him her wrap and gloves. “Have one of the footmen take Mignon for her before-bed constitutional and then bring her to my rooms.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Panders took the little spaniel in his arms, succeeding in remaining grave even as Mignon bathed his chin with her tongue.
“Thank you, Panders.” Hero smiled at the butler and relinquished her wrap before following the older lady to the upper floor.
“I am so very proud of you for making this match,” Cousin Bathilda said outside her room. She yawned again, delicately patting her mouth with one hand. “Oh, dear, I’m quite done in. Good night.”
“Good night,” Hero whispered, and turned down the hall to her own room. It was well past midnight, but oddly she didn’t feel at all sleepy.
She opened her door and wasn’t too surprised when Phoebe’s mobcapped head popped up from the covers of her bed. “Hist! Hero!”
Phoebe was the youngest of the Batten children and looked nothing like either Hero or Maximus. Where both Hero and Maximus were tall, Phoebe was short—barely an inch over five feet—and rather on the plump side, much to Cousin Bathilda’s consternation. A fine cloud of curly light brown hair, already falling from her night braid, framed her face, and her eyes were hazel behind small, round spectacles. In her white lawn night rail, she looked all of twelve, though she’d been seventeen for half a year now.
“What are you doing still up?” Hero closed the door behind her, then kicked off her slippers. Four candelabras lit the room, making it bright and warm. “And what have you done with Wesley?”
Phoebe hopped from the bed. “I sent her away. I’ll play maid and you can tell me all about the ball.” Phoebe wasn’t yet out and hadn’t been allowed to attend the engagement ball—much to her vocal disgust.
“Hmm. Well, I don’t know that there’s much to tell,” Hero began.
“Oh, don’t tease!” Phoebe was already working at the hooks to Hero’s bodice. “Was Mrs. Tate there?”
“Yes, and you wouldn’t believe her gown,” Hero said, relenting.
“What? What?”
“Scarlet. Almost the same shade as her hair. And her bodice was so low it was nearly indecent. I swear I saw Mr. Grimshaw stumble over thin air he was so busy craning his neck around to ogle her bosom.”
Phoebe giggled. “Who else was there?”
“Oh, everyone.” Hero helped take off her bodice, and then they both began on the tapes fastening her skirts. She kept her eyes on her fingers and made her voice casual. “I met Mandeville’s brother.”
“I thought he lived in the north of England?”
“He came down for the ball.”
“Is he like the marquess?”
“Only a little. They’re both tall and dark, but other than that, they’re completely different. Lord Griffin Reading has such pale green eyes, startling really. His face is more lined than Mandeville’s and thinner. He seems merrier, laughing and joking, but I think he’s less happy than Mandeville. And the way he moves…”
Hero looked up and realized that despite her carefully neutral tone, she must’ve given something away. Phoebe was watching her quizzically. “Yes? How does he move?”
Hero could feel heat stealing into her cheeks. She made a production of stepping from her skirts and shaking them out before draping them over a chair for Wesley to clean and put away tomorrow. “It’s rather odd. He seems to be doing everything slowly, and yet when he wants, he’s faster than other men.”
“Like a cat,” Phoebe said.
Hero straightened and looked at her, eyebrows raised.
“You remember that big marmalade tom that hung around the stables at Wakefield House?” Phoebe began to work on Hero’s stays. “It was always sleeping or lounging about, but when it saw a rat—bang!—it would be off like a lightning bolt and have that rat in its jaws in seconds. Is Lord Griffin like that?”
“I suppose so,” Hero said, remembering how fast Reading had moved just before Lord Pimbroke had entered the sitting room. “Like a great cat.”
“He sounds lovely.”
“No!” Her voice was overloud, and Phoebe looked startled. “I’m sorry, dearest. It’s just that Cousin Bathilda spent the whole carriage ride home warning me about Reading’s reputation. You must stay away from him.”
Phoebe pouted. “I never get to meet the really interesting people.”
Unfortunately, Hero had a little too much sympathy with Phoebe’s complaint. She might be out, but she was allowed to mix with only the very best of society—no one with even a hint of scandal.
“There are plenty of perfectly respectable people who are interesting as well,” she said to Phoebe with more confidence than she actually felt.
Phoebe looked at her doubtfully.
Hero wrinkled her nose and capitulated. “At least one can look at the scandalous people while conversing with more respectable gentlefolk.”
“It doesn’t sound as interesting as meeting them.”
“No, but I assure you watching Mrs. Tate’s progress across a ballroom full of silly gentlemen is quite fascinating.”
“Oh, I wish I could’ve been there.” Phoebe sighed.
“Next season you’ll be eighteen, and we’ll have a grand coming-out ball for you,” Hero said as she sat at her dressing table.
Phoebe picked the pins from her hair. “But you’ll be already married by then and off doing married-lady things. I’ll have only Cousin Bathilda to accompany me, and you know I love her, I truly do, but she’s so very old and—oh!” Hero glanced in the mirror in time to see Phoebe’s head ducking behind her. “Dash it, I’ve dropped a pin.”
“Don’t worry about it, dear.”
“But it’s one of your emerald ones.” Phoebe’s voice was muffled.
Hero turned on the stool and saw her sister on her hands and knees, patting the carpet. Hero’s heart squeezed. The emerald pin was right in front of Phoebe, not more than a foot from her nose.
Hero cleared her throat, feeling a sudden constriction. “Here it is.” She bent and picked up the pin.
“Oh!” Phoebe stood and pushed her spectacles up her nose. A frown marred her sweet face. “Silly me. I don’t know why I didn’t see it.”
“Never mind.” Hero gently placed the pin in the glass dish on her dresser. “It’s dark in here with only the candlelight.”
“Oh, of course,” Phoebe said, but her frown deepened.
“Shall I tell you how the ballroom was decorated?” Hero asked.
“Do!”
So Hero went into great detail about the decorations at Mandeville House, the refreshments, and each dance she took part in as Phoebe brushed her hair. Gradually her sister’s expression lightened, but Hero’s heart remained heavy as she watched the reflected light of the four candelabras in her mirror.
They made the room as bright as day.
ST. GILES WAS a veritable hellhole, especially after the bucolic beauty of the Lancashire countryside, Griffin mused early—very early—that morning. He guided Rambler, his bay gelding, through the darkness and across the stinking channel running down the middle of the lane. He couldn’t take the shortest route to his destination, because some of the alleys that way were too narrow to accommodate a man riding a horse. And he’d be damned if he left Rambler anywhere here. The horse would be stolen before his master was out of sight.
