Page 52 of Henrietta

Mr Hargan flushed. ‘I wondered at it myself when I visited the gardens, and asked Mr Fairbairn, the gardener, you know?’

‘I do know him. A sight too well, I should say!’ The suggestion had, however, visibly cheered Timothy, who felt this information would certainly impress the lady in question. ‘She may, of course, have been so taken with my new neckcloth that I shall not need to use the information.’

He raised his chin so that they might more fully admire it, and all agreed it was his best yet – though Hetty, eyes upon Trixie, did not spare it more than a passing glance. Trixie had borne Mademoiselle de Nicolet’s rapid ascension well, thus far, but the loss of Lord Devereux – who had been quite Trixie’s most assiduous admirer – did not seem to be sitting as well, given Trixie’s fixed regard towards where this gentleman was currently murmuring into Mademoiselle de Nicolet’s ear.

Trixie gave a great toss of her head. ‘They are all such sheep,’ she said dismissively, forcing her eyes away. ‘Worse, they are boys, and I have no time for boys any more.’

Hetty was pleasantly surprised by this attitude.

‘I much prefer gentlemen who have been about the world a little,’ Trixie continued.

Hetty was unpleasantly surprised by this attitude. She cast her mind about, wondering to whom, exactly, Trixie might be referring. As far as Hetty knew, all of her suitors were generally of the younger set and she could not think of any regular member of Trixie’s court older than eight and twenty.

‘Do you speak from experience?’ she enquired lightly.

Mindful of the need for secrecy, Trixie shook her head. ‘Oh, no! It is just a – a hypothesis, only.’

‘I do not think it a good one.’ Hetty said. ‘Older men can be so very tiresome: most of them have gout, you know.’

‘Gout?’ Trixie repeated. ‘Do you mean – as Henry VIII did?’ She was much struck by this: Anne Boleyn might be, to her mind, the height of elegance, but she had a great horror of Henry VIII.

Hetty gave a sage nod. ‘Exactly so.’

Madame Catalani concluded her aria to even greater applause, and though many further appeals were made of her, she descended from her stage and indicated to Lady Castlereagh that the dancing might begin again. The cotillion being announced as the next dance, Timothy checked his cravat and squared his shoulders. ‘Sand is cosier for the plants, did you say, Hargan?’

‘Ah – not quite, but—’

Timothy was already across the room. Lord Devereux, soon finding Mademoiselle de Nicolet stolen from under him, raised his head to search the crowd. Eyes landing upon Trixie, standing at that moment without a partner, he smiled, and made to move in her direction. This, however, Trixie could not abide. However indifferent she purported to be, she would not permit his lordship to offer her second place.

‘Mr Hargan, dance with me at once,’ she ordered.

Mr Hargan turned pale. ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t—’

Trixie turned a dismissive shoulder upon him. ‘Major!’

Major Morgan clicked his heels. ‘At your service!’

They left for the dance floor together.

‘You do not dance at all, Mr Hargan?’ Mrs Morgan wondered. ‘Ever?’

‘I am just – The way I step upon toes.’ Mr Hargan shook his head miserably. ‘It is best that I do not.’

‘I should not mind.’ Hetty felt a sudden surge of a kinship towards the fellow, for the agony upon his face was one with which she was well familiar. ‘Perhaps you would find it helpful to practise with someone whose opinion does not signify in the least.’

Mr Hargan hesitated. He had not yet given up hope that Miss Clithero’s opinion might, one day, signify something. Perceiving this struggle upon his face, Mrs Morgan sprang into the breach. ‘My feet are miniscule,’ she boasted. ‘I shall give you a hundred pounds if you can even find them to step upon.’

Mr Hargan, demurring, began to retreat. Mrs Morgan, relentless, gave pursuit, and Hetty watched the chase, smiling for a moment, before letting her eyes stray across the room to the Marquis de Nicolet. They had not yet had a chance to speak that evening. The Marquis, though an enthusiastic co-conspirator, was proving an inconsistent one. He might be staunchly against marriage, but flirtation was his bread and butter, and he was so enjoying a bantering back and forth with Lady Jersey that Hetty did not think he would be able to recollect her name.

It was at this moment that Arthur arrived. Mr Hargan having made immediate good on his promise to introduce Arthur to Mr Coke of Norfolk – a gentleman who had seen his own estate grow into an annual income of twenty thousand pounds solely through use of experimental farming practices – and Arthur had dined with this gentleman that evening. He had spent a pleasurable but mentally taxing few hours being schooled in modern farming methods whilst being plied with champagne, before making his way across the city to join the rest of the family. It was there he found Hetty in forlorn repose at the sidelines, watching the Marquis flirt with another lady. Good God, this fellow! How many flirts did he have in keeping?

He made his way swiftly to her side. ‘I am sorry.’

‘Arthur!’ She beamed, turning towards him. Then, comprehending his words, asked with a wrinkled brow: ‘What reason have you to be sorry?’

Arthur gave a rather grim nod over her shoulder to Nicolet and Lady Jersey. Flirtation was not a crime, perhaps, but …

‘Hmm? Oh!’