The rain began to come down in hard drops, splattering the Thames. Kesseley wandered up to the Strand and into the tavern with those old crosshatched panes like in Henrietta's house. He ordered a brandy and set his pocket watch on the table. The coal quietly hissed in the chimney. He leaned his head back over the edge of his chair and closed his eyes. Henrietta filled his mind. She had looked so fragile when he left. He wished he could have kissed her and assured her the best part of him would always love her.
He wished...
Everything was hopeless now. He had put his life into this knot. He could only tighten the strings until it couldn't come undone. Until he could finally silence that damned hope niggling inside him.
Five minutes before eight, he gulped down the remainder of his brandy and restored his watch to his chain. Leaving the tavern, he lowered the brim of his hat and strode against the slanting rain back to the protective ledge of the print shop by the hackney stop. When a hack didn't arrive after a minute, he turned to read the prints under the gaslight that was mounted beside the door. The same illustration was repeated in the windows like wallpaper. Kesseley's jaw tensed as he studied the caricature. Atop a bed, a diminutive lady with long black curls and clad in a loose chemise played cards with several foppish gentlemen. At her side, covering her bared breast with his hand, was Kesseley. He could scarce read the caption for the black spots blinding his eyes. The Little Companion. The Little Companion.
How dare they! Henrietta was an innocent. She had nothing to do with anything. The lecherous illustrator had had the good sense not to leave any initial, else Kesseley would have hunted him down and put a bullet through him, then gladly hung for it.
He had to get back to Curzon Street and stop her. Then the terrible realization sunk into his mind. He was too late! The ball had already started.
He had to get to her before the others did.
With no hack in sight, he took to his heels and rushed into the darkened park.
Henrietta came to a halt in the grand entrance of the Duke of Houghton's London mansion. She had never seen such opulence firsthand and had to turn about on her heel and marvel at the architecture. The house was like a regular cathedral on Piccadilly. Every little detail was a masterpiece. Above her were stacked balcony upon balcony, all lined with tall Greek columns. She had to squint to see the ceiling. Framed in gilded stucco ovals were murals of angels hovering about the masts of British battleships. A marble stair that ran the entire length of the back wall led to a platform flanked by statues of Greek goddesses in flowing gowns. From there, the stairs split into two smaller staircases that wound in graceful curves to the floor above.
"Come," Lady Kesseley said, tugging Henrietta's arm. She seemed unmoved by the splendor about her, as if it were commonplace. Henrietta realized she was just the mere daughter of an eccentric astronomer. She didn't belong in this world. Yet Kesseley and his mother were welcomed with open arms. It was so easy for her to forget amongst the radishes and sheep that Kesseley was an earl. That he had even loved her or been her dearest friend was a miracle.
Now the only way she could love Kesseley was by letting him go into this beautiful world and praying for his happiness.
As Henrietta lifted the ruffled edge of her gown to mount the stairs, Lady Kesseley squeezed her elbow. "Let us stay together. I need you."
Guests mingling on the balcony turned their heads as she and Lady Kesseley approached. Their conversation stopped, fans shot up like walls. When they passed through the tall double doors and into the ballroom, a hush rippled through the room in a concentric circle around her.
"What has happened?" Lady Kesseley cried.
Lady Winslow and the princess broke through the crowd and rushed forward. Lady Sara glided across the glossy wood floor, a rustling flutter of white silk. But His and Her Grace reached Henrietta and Lady Kesseley first, having pushed past the line of yet-to-be-welcomed guests.
The duke made a slight, hurried bow, his eyes like sharp nails in his doughy face. "My dear Lady Kesseley, so wonderful to see you. There is an extraordinary rumor circulating this evening. Of course, it can't be true. However, perhaps your companion would care to stay in the library-it would be more comfortable for her."
"W-what?" Henrietta said, confused.
"I have heard no rumor," Lady Kesseley said, a shrill edge to her voice.
The duke and duchess looked at each other, each wanting the other to speak.
Lady Winslow reached them, all the usual languidness gone from her voice. "I didn't know until I got here just a few minutes before. I sent a footman to try to stop you. It seems a scurrilous caricature of Henrietta has been circulating in London this afternoon."
Henrietta didn't understand. What had she done? The only thing she could think of was that someone had seen her alone in the park with Mr. Elliot. "The embrace was innocent, I assure you."
The duchess let out a shriek. Houghton gave his wife a squelching glance, and she covered her thin mouth with her hand.
"I believe you will find the library most accommodating," the duke said and grabbed Henrietta's arm so tightly it hurt and pulled her back onto the balcony. He motioned to a footman with his free hand. "See to Miss Watson's comfort."
"No!" Lady Kesseley cried, catching up to Henrietta. "Miss Watson is a well-mannered young lady. I beg you, you must let her stay and show everyone these rumors, whatever they may be, are unfounded."
The duke's fat cheeks turned crimson, not expecting opposition. He spoke in a fast, harsh whisper so that the guests crowding the ballroom door couldn't hear. "Lady Kesseley, it has been alleged in the lewdest way that Miss Watson is your son's mistress."
"Make her leave, Papa!" Lady Sara wailed.
The guests crowded at the ballroom entrance, like buzzards waiting in trees.
Henrietta felt dizzy, hot perspiration moistened her skin. "No, it's not true," she said faintly.
"Of course it's not." The duke kept his grip on her arm. He dragged her toward the shadows of the mansion's left wing, hidden behind four tall Grecian columns. "But given the forthcoming union-"
"Henrietta!" Kesseley's rich timbre echoed through the hall. Those on the stairs gave way to him as he took the grand staircase two steps at a time, water dripping from his hat and coat. He raced across the balcony. The duke pulled Henrietta to his chest, like a shield.
Kesseley stopped short and glared at Houghton. He held out his hand to Henrietta. "Miss Watson, come away."
"But we are supposed to be engaged!" Lady Sara cried.
"Quiet, Sara." The duke's voice was smooth and controlled. "Kesseley, I think we need to discuss this calmly. I'm sure it was all just a malicious rumor. I'm just trying to protect the gel."
Kesseley's eyes flickered over the scene-Henrietta could see the thoughts speeding through his mind as fast as lightning flashes. "Come away, Miss Watson," he whispered again.
She could scarce see, but she felt the stares of everyone heating her skin. The duke shoved his protruding belly into her back.
"No, don't do this," she said. "You're marrying Lady Sara."
"I never-"
"Let's not lose our tempers and put anyone's reputation in danger," Houghton warned.
Henrietta twisted her neck to look up at the duke and pleaded in a whisper. "Please let me go home. Please." She couldn't let her presence wreck Kesseley's engagement evening.
"For God sakes, man!" Kesseley cried.
The duke didn't bend. He dragged Henrietta along the balcony, farther from the curious guests. "We're just going to the library to talk, then we'll all go back to the ballroom with Miss Watson beside us," he said in a low authoritative voice. "Tomorrow no one will care about this caricature or whatever it is. They'll just wonder if they're invited to the wedding. We can all have what we want if we just play the cards right."
"I will not allow you to play play Miss Watson's reputation," Kesseley spat. Miss Watson's reputation," Kesseley spat.
"No, Lord Kesseley, you played her reputation. I'm merely offering to salvage it," Houghton replied.
"No, please," Henrietta begged. "You can make the engagement announcement. I don't care if I'm ruined. I want to go home."
The duke tightened his grasp on her arm. "Don't be foolish, Miss Watson."
From across the room, a low menacing male voice cut through the tense air. "I think the lady asked you to let her go," it said.
On the far side of the balcony, among the columns, a man waited in the shadows.
"Who's there? Show yourself!" the duke demanded.
The man stepped forward. The light from a candle sconce fell at a slant across his face. Mr. Elliot's wild white hair was slicked back in an old-fashioned queue. His beard was gone, revealing a hard cleft chin and two soaring cheekbones. A pale white scar sliced down his left cheek. His eyes glowed like those of a coiled cobra from the stories he had told her of India. Houghton's cool controlled demeanor vanished. His voice boomed like thunder. "Lord Damien! What the hell are you doing here?"
"What I wasn't strong enough to do two decades ago. I'm saving a lady."
Henrietta's eyes shot to Lady Kesseley. The color drained from the lady's face, and she started to sway, her eyes rolling up in their sockets.
"Kesseley, your mother!" Henrietta screamed.
Too late. Lady Kesseley's body crumpled. Her head made a sickening thud as it struck the marble floor.
"Mama!" Kesseley cried and fell to his knees. He frantically rubbed her temples with his thumbs. Her eyes fluttered. She reached up and weakly took his arm. "Tommie," she whispered. Kesseley pulled her onto his lap.
"I've got you, Mama."
Tears ran from her eyes. "Why did he come back?"
Mr. Elliot-Lord Damien, whoever he was-backed away, all his chivalry gone, his face contorted with a mixture of panic, fear and helplessness. His eyes sought Henrietta, pleading for something. What? Was she supposed to save him now?
She jerked against the duke. His fingers easily gave way. She looked at Lady Kesseley buried in her son's arms weeping, then at Mr. Elliot. "You're Lord Damien? The horrid rake? The inspiration for Lord Blackraven?"
The man in question bowed his head. A rumble of excited whispers resounded in the great hall.
Henrietta felt the little faith she had fleeing away. Nothing made sense. She reached for her mother's pendant, feeling only skin and bone. "I'm so tired."
Kesseley's head jerked up. Their eyes met. She saw her name form on his lips, those lips that could be both gentle and rough, capable of entrancing her or slicing her heart.
She had come here tonight to let him go. It was the only way she could think to love him now.
Release him. Let it all flow away.
"I'm so sorry, Kesseley. I ruined everything for you again. Take care of your mother. I can no longer be her companion. I'm sorry," she whispered, turned and ran.
"No!" he shouted to her back.
The guests streamed from the ballroom, their bodies crashing against hers as she pushed her way to the opposite stairs.
Kesseley shouted her name, begging her to wait. She covered her ears and rushed down the curving staircase, and out into the street. The rain splattered her face and soaked through to her shift.
A hackney was pulling to a stop. She ran up to the driver. "Can you take me to The Green Man Inn near Greenwich Park?"
"It'll be a whole crown for me to get there and back."
"I've only got a half crown. But my father can pay you at The Green Man. He can pay you extra. Please?"
The driver leaned down from his seat and yanked Henrietta's hair, pulling out a pearl and several strands of her hair.
"I'll be keeping this pretty pearl, just to be making sure he pays alright," he said, grinning wide enough to display his black, crooked teeth.
Henrietta pulled herself inside the carriage, hearing the seam of her gown rip. The man clicked at his horse, and the hackney took off. She wrapped her arms around herself to try to stop the cold shivers convulsing her body. The hackney turned by the Duke of Houghton's estate. Out of the rain-streaked window, she could see Kesseley running down the twin rows of boxwoods at the entrance of the mansion. She slid back into the shadows and covered her eyes.
Chapter Twenty.
A footman in green livery ran out from The Green Man Inn and opened the hackney door. Henrietta latched on to his hand and stepped down, feeling her heart slow. She had made it to safety. The rain was coming down harder, and she shouted above its roar, asking the hackney driver to wait.
The inn had red walls with etchings of castle ruins scattered about. A glossy black wooden balcony ran around three of the walls. Men sat about in chairs, glasses of ale on the tables beside them. Their conversations were no louder than whispers. Henrietta's presence caused several curious stares. She crossed to a small window where a bored attendant sat, reading a journal. He motioned to a footman, who led Henrietta up the stairs and down the hall to a small paneled room.
Her father and Mr. Van Heerlen sat at a table with discarded china and silver, a bottle of wine and several stacks of paper. They shot up, surprised, when they saw her.
She ran to her father and wrapped her arms around his thin frame. His scent filled her, reminding her of home and everything safe.
"My daughter, whatever is the matter? You're all wet. We were coming to get you tomorrow."
"Oh, Papa," Henrietta repeated over and over as she buried her face in his cravat.
"Hush now," he said. "You're back with me. Old papa. You haven't seen our new work." He gestured to the papers.
Henrietta ran her finger along the numbers and symbols on the pages, grounding herself in the universe so much bigger than her problems. Planets, stars and comets millions of miles away from her, moving in the silence of space. "It looks wonderful. I'm so proud."
She told him about the hackney driver outside, and her father went to his chamber to retrieve the money. She and Mr. Van Heerlen were alone.
The hem of her gown dripped water on the floor. She crossed her arms over her chest. Cold bumps were all over her skin. "Mr. Van Heerlen, I apologize that you should see me thus."
"Not at all." He pulled his chair closer to the hearth. "Come sit by the fire. You are too cold."
"Thank you," Henrietta said feebly. He pulled the blanket off the back of the chair and nestled it around her shoulders. The soft fabric of his shirt brushed her skin.
Henrietta grabbed his hand, surprising him. "I have received your letters, sir, with your sentiments. You should know that something terrible has happened. I'm not quite sure of the exact details, but my reputation has been compromised beyond repair. I am disgraced, it seems."
He put his index finger to his lips, as if to quiet a child. "Did I not warn you of London? Now you understand my concern. How I wish you had stayed at Rose House. I knew it would all end thus. But I was not in a position then to stop you."
"But you understand the meaning of my words."
"I do." He knelt down beside her and tilted his head. "Still I am unaltered in my feelings. Now rest. Tomorrow will wash all this away."
She doubted whatever sins she carried would be washed away in the London rain. Nothing made this ugly town clean. The coal would be in the air again tomorrow, the gutters swelling with brown, stinking water and waste. And her name would be whispered in parlors all over Mayfair. But she wouldn't be there to hear it.
Henrietta started. "I need to send a note! They don't know where I am!"
"No, you must rest. I will take care of it." A protective glow manifested in his eyes. "I will take care of you, dearest Miss Watson."
Kesseley flung open the door of the house at Curzon Street, slamming the knob into the wall. The house was dark. No sound but the splatter of rain against the windows.
"Henrietta!" he called, hearing only his echo. "Henrietta!"