The Barefoot Baroness

Chapter Seventeen

Laura leapt up from the desk. "Hyatt! You can't come in here!" she exclaimed.

"Then you come out," he demanded. "I want to speak to you."

His tone brought her anger to the boil. "I have nothing to say to you, sir," she replied, tossing her head.

He took a quick peek up and down the hall to make sure he was unobserved, before striding into her room and slamming the door. "I take leave to disagree, Miss Harwood. When I make a lady an offer of marriage, I expect the courtesy of an answer, one way or the other."

"I see you are eager to reclaim your freedom. In that case, you may consider yourself reprieved. And if I may just make a suggestion, Lord Hyatt, in the future you should be more discreet as to where you embrace a lady, and these nominal offers would not be necessary."

"I did not consider it a nominal offer!"

"In point of fact, you did not offer at all, despite your behavior, so it is unnecessary for me to refuse. You have done what society requires, and saved your somewhat questionable reputation by pretending your intentions were honorable. Now you may go."

He stiffened at her angry words, which accused him of trifling with her at best and even hinted at an attempted seduction. "I don't give a damn what society thinks!" he said angrily.

"You have made that amply clear, sir. I, however, do have some concern for my reputation. My concerns are best served by not seeing you again. Good day."

"Just what, exactly, are you accusing me of?" he demanded, fire in his eyes.

"With regard to myself, I am accusing you of nothing worse than a lack of propriety. What charges your relations with Lady Devereau lay you open to is your concern."

"I am not in the least concerned about Lady Devereau."

"It is perfectly obvious you care for nothing but yourself," she sneered. It occurred to Laura that, barring the fact that Hyatt had his shoes on, she was now in much the same position as that infamous lady. Hyatt had once more come slipping into a lady's room, closing the door behind him. Anyone might pass and hear his voice. She would be ruined.

"There is nothing between Marie Devereau and myself," he stated categorically. "And I have done nothing to jeopardize your reputation either."

"We disagree on what constitutes nothing," she said haughtily. "You forget my lack of a scarlet past. A gentleman's forcing his way into my bedchamber and closing the door is not a mere nothing to me. So perhaps you would be kind enough to leave," she said.

She made to brush past him to open the door. Hyatt reached out and grabbed her wrist, to swing her around facing him. "You are swift to accuse, madam." His dark eyes burned into hers. At this close range, she could even feel his breath on her cheeks. "It seems to me that if anyone was trifling with anyone's affections in this affair, I am not the guilty party."

She wrenched away. "I suspect you are always the guilty party where ladies are concerned, Lord Hyatt."

He swallowed his anger and sorrow and said mildly, "Then I can only wonder that you lowered yourself to indulge me for two whole days. But then your formidable propriety will no doubt save you from the taint of even Lord Hyatt's degeneracy. Good night, Miss Harwood."

He opened the door and flung himself out. It was only by good luck that he was not seen. His temper was too high to consider anything but his anger at first. It was not until he had stepped out into the garden to cool off that the folly of his deed came over him. He had not meant to be so caustic. He had gone fully expecting to clear up whatever small misunderstanding had arisen and to leave an engaged man.

Instead of that, he had caused a flaming row. But damn, she had made a mighty high mountain out of an innocent call at her room. She had accused him of everything but theft. Who the devil did Miss Harwood think she was?

In her room, Laura went on trembling legs and closed the door behind him. Her insides were shaking worse than the ship in the picture. She felt she had been well and thoroughly battered against those rocks and was slowly sinking into the frothing waters of the icy Atlantic. But it was over now. She would not have to talk to Hyatt again. She would never even have to see him again. Tomorrow she and Mama would remove from Charles Street, and she would once again put the turmoil of the London Season behind her. If any whisper of this weekend reached London, it would soon be forgotten. Hyatt, or perhaps Olivia, would institute a new and more interesting scandal for society to gape and gasp over.

To avoid having to talk to anyone-Mama or Hettie or Olivia-Laura undressed and went to bed, where she relived the awful moments when she had confronted Lord Hyatt and turned him off. Every word exchanged was etched sharply in her mind. "I did not consider it a nominal offer!" he had said. But of course he had to say that, to save his handsome face. If he had truly loved her, he would not have crept into Marie Devereau's room in stocking feet. After two hours of tossing and turning, she finally slept.

She awoke the next morning to a leaden sky. Wind moved the branches of the trees in the park, warning of approaching rain. All the guests were in a hurry to leave and resume the pleasures of the London Season. Hyatt had either left before them or remained away from the table. Laura didn't care which, but was only thankful that he had at least enough sensitivity to avoid her.

The remaining guests had to come out and see the Turtle at close hand. They bestowed laughing admiration on its size, conformation, and sturdy construction. The Duke and Duchess of Castlefield came along to wave good-bye. They nudged their eldest son forward with a promise to bring his brothers to call on the baroness very soon. They were so very sorry the twins had not been here this weekend. Olivia accepted the attention as her due and left with a smile on her face.

"You have not forgotten we are attending Mrs. Simpson's rout party this evening, Laura?" She said, as the Turtle bowled comfortably through the park of Castlefield. Three other rigs dawdled impatiently behind, determined to get ahead of it before they hit the open road.

"Did your aunt not tell you? I shall be returning to Whitchurch at once. Mama and I shall pack as soon as we return."

"Then you accepted Lord Hyatt! Congratulations! But could you not be married in London? Who will go with me to all the balls and parties if you leave?"

"Accepted Hyatt!" her mother and Hettie exclaimed in unison. "Laura, you never mean you got an offer from Hyatt!" her mother gasped. Hettie directed a narrow-eyed, measuring stare on Laura.

"He did offer, Mama. I declined," Laura said.

"Are you mad?" her mother asked.

"Don't urge the match on her," Hettie said. "Hyatt is not quite the thing. He was carrying on with that Devereau woman last night. I had it of Mrs. Campbell and felt obliged to inform Laura."

"What a pity!" Mrs. Harwood said, wishing Hettie had kept her gossip to herself. Hyatt was too good a parti to shuck off without at least attempting to reform him. "But that is no reason to go tearing off home, Laura. There is still plenty of time. You may nab someone else."

"Yes, why don't you stay, Laura?" Hettie said.

It was an olive branch. Laura realized that her mother was unaware of their argument. That being the case, it would look very odd for her to insist on going home. Yet to continue the round of balls and parties seemed not only pointless but a torment.

"I think you were insane to refuse Hyatt," Olivia said. But she soon reverted to more interesting matters, such as Simpson's rout that evening. She would see John there, and they would skip off to the Pantheon masquerade. She knew now that it was unexceptionable for her to go. Laura would go herself, if she had the chance. The older ladies felt they had to recommend caution, but that did not prevent them from doing whatever they wished. Why should she miss out on the treats, when this was the only Season she would ever have?

It was a long, tedious drive home, with people gathering by the roadside at every village to gawk at the Turtle, and the cavalcade forming behind it. The groom adapted the kindly idea of pulling into a side road at each town to let the other carriages past, which delayed the slow crawl of the Turtle even further. With a stop for lunch, afternoon was well along by the time they reached London. Hettie Traemore was not the only one who was ready for a nice cup of tea and a little lie-down.

Laura felt as if she had been beaten with clubs. She ached all over, and to complete her misery, she had agreed to accompany Olivia to the Simpson's rout. Well, that was why she was here. She could hardly remain in London if she abandoned her duties. Despite her misery, she had no real desire to dash home to Whitchurch. Staying was bound to throw her in touch with Hyatt, and she was curious to see how he behaved.

After a careful consideration of her position, she decided that she would behave exactly as she used to vis-a-vis Hyatt, before the lamentable party at Castlefield. She would treat him as a friendly acquaintance, no more, no less. If she cut him, people would begin to ask questions. Word of the affair at Castlefield might seep out. She had every hope of keeping it quiet. Her mother, Hettie, and Olivia were the only ones who knew she had received an offer. Only Olivia knew the whole of it, and she was proving uncharacteristically discreet.

Before dinner, the baroness went to Lord Montford's attics to root through his trunks for a mask. John had got her a domino and a plain blue mask. She wanted a finer mask, preferably one fashioned of egret feathers. Lord Montford's trunks held no egret feathers, but she chanced upon a peacock fan, which was even better. With the fan concealed under her skirt, she went to her room and spoke to Fanny.

"We have to make a mask out of this," she said.

"What do you want a mask for? I wager this is Miss Harwood's idea, to hide your pretty face. I don't know why you pay any attention to that harpy."

"This has nothing to do with Laura. In fact, you must not mention it to her. Ask no questions, Fanny. Just do as I say."

Fanny examined the large fan. She was a wizard with the needle, but this challenged even her ingenuity. After several attempts she had separated the feathers and reassembled them into something resembling a mask. She bent the feathers in such a manner that two eye holes were achieved, tacked them in place, and added an elastic band to go around the head. It was not quite the thing of beauty Olivia had been envisaging, but she was in such high spirits that she kissed Fanny and told her she did not know what she would do without her, which was all the reward Fanny ever wanted, or ever got.

Mr. Meadows called immediately after dinner to welcome the ladies home. When he learned their evening's destination, he added himself to the party. He listened eagerly to hear whether Talman had come up to scratch. When nothing was said, he assumed he had not. Later, to his boundless relief, Laura confirmed it.

After all Olivia's trouble with the mask, John Yarrow did not attend Simpson's rout. He sent a billet-doux with another fellow, who slipped it to Olivia during a country dance. She read it as soon as she could get away. John had stayed over a few days in the country. His host had got up a horse race, and naturally Olivia would not want him to miss that. He was desperately mad to see her again and would certainly be back by Wednesday, and if not Wednesday, Friday for sure, for he would die if she took up with some other fellow.

On four successive evenings the peacock fan was tacked to Olivia's underskirt. It was much too big to fit into her reticule. From its place of concealment, it attended two routs, a ball, and the opening of a new play at Covent Garden, usually in company with Mr. Meadows, who was tolerated, but could not feel he was advancing his suit an inch. Olivia grew impatient with her absent lover. Finally impatience gave way to fear that she had lost him. The country host might have a sister; certainly he would have female neighbors. If John ever came back, she was ready to not only go to the Pantheon, but to dart to Gretna Green or the Outer Hebrides or Africa with him, if that was what he wanted.

Lord Rodney and Lord Rufus were brought to call at Charles Street, where they found it hard to believe that this listless creature had cut such interesting capers at Castlefield. All a take-in, by Jove. They wouldn't have the baroness if she came with a gold mine. The Turtle seemed the proper vehicle for this slow top. Their only question was why Talman hadn't nabbed her himself, since she was just the dull sort of lady he favored.

Laura Harwood also spent an enervating week. On two occasions she had the opportunity of being civil to Hyatt, who was so polite in return that she feared he was making fun of her. He bowed once from across the room, just before he asked Lady Debora Holmes to waltz with him. On the other occasion, they actually exchanged words.

"Are you enjoying the Season, Miss Harwood?" he enquired, when he met her at the refreshment table at Mrs. Esmond's ball.

"Very much, thank you," she replied. "And you?"

"I usually manage to enjoy myself," he said. When this was analyzed for the ninth or tenth time, Laura found it to be egotistical. He 'managed' not to be bored, when he was the center of attention everywhere. How very obliging of him.

It was at the play at Covent Garden that the final blow fell on Laura's ill-fated romance. Lady Meaford, who had remained a friend since the weekend at Castlefield, stopped at their box during the first intermission.

"Have you heard the latest on-dit? This might interest you, Miss Harwood, since you are a friend of Hyatt."

Laura's heart hammered mercilessly. She was going to hear that he was engaged-that he had offered for Lady Debora. She willed herself to show no more than polite curiosity. "What is that, Lady Meaford?"

"I hear Lady Devereau got her portrait from Hyatt after all," she said. "She has removed it from Somerset House. I wager that is why she stormed into the duchess's rout that night. She will never take no for an answer, that one. I wonder how she convinced him to give it up." Her knowing little smile suggested what means Marie Devereau would naturally employ, and what would convince Hyatt.

Laura gave a cynical little laugh, while her heart broke to splinters within her. So that was Lady Devereau's reward for Hyatt's nocturnal visit in his stocking feet. For some foolish reason, the stocking feet bothered her as much as the rest. It lent a touch of slyness, of familiarity with the ways of adultery, to the liaison.

Wrapped up in her unhappy thoughts, Laura did not notice that John Yarrow was at the theater. Everyone else in the house knew it, for he and his friends made a great clamor. They laughed loudly through the dramatic scenes and hooted during the comic ones. In Yarrow's box, wine was passed with reckless abandon, not only during the intermission, but during the whole performance. Olivia spotted him the instant he arrived, of course. Soon she trained her glasses on him and was in alt when she saw him return the compliment. There was much staring at each other through the glasses for the next hour.

Yarrow did not feel his presence in Mrs. Traemore's box would do his cause any good, so at intermission he sent a message with Angela Carstairs, asking where Olivia was going after the theater.

"Home, for I fear I shall have a megrim," Olivia said, with a broad smile.

"Oh, no. We are all going to Peckford's rout party first. The food is horrid at the Pantheon, and very dear. We shall leave from Peckford's."

"John said I should have a headache and go home."

"Have a headache, and I'll take you home," Angela suggested.

"Mrs. Harwood and Laura would insist on taking me home."

"Then don't tell them. Leave a message with some other friend."

Mr. Meadows, occupying the fifth seat in the box, cupped his ear, but could not hear over the others' chatter.

When Olivia noticed, she smiled to disarm his suspicions. Could she trust him not to go darting off to Laura with the news that she had left? "I'll manage it somehow," she promised Angela. "Don't leave Peckford's without me."

"Foolish girl! You are all John has talked about all night. I swear he can't open his mouth without singing your praises. Miss Hanson would be very jealous if she could hear him."

"Who is Miss Hanson?" Olivia demanded.

"Why, she is the neighbor of the fellow he was visiting all week. A regular Incomparable. But you need not fear. Her papa sent John packing for some reason or other. They are so poky in the country there is no standing it. I must dash."

Olivia was thrown into conniptions of jealousy. She must get away somehow tonight, or she would lose John forever. Yet it seemed an impossibility. Between Laura, Mrs. Harwood, and Mr. Meadows (for Aunt Hettie would go home immediately after the play), they would watch her like a hawk. Her eyes slid to John's box, where she could see she was missing out on a delightful evening. John was making paper balls from his program and shooting them down into the pit. There, he had hit that bald man right on the head. How they all laughed. She longed with every fiber of her being to be with youngsters who knew how to enjoy themselves, instead of stuck here with this dull lot.

She could hardly force a smile when Mr. Meadows drew a box of her favorite bonbons from his pocket and passed them to her. She didn't even thank him, but just accepted them and popped half a dozen into her mouth, one after the other, while she gazed at John through her glasses.