Page 7 of The Courtship Trap
“My dear, there comes a time when a beautiful woman has passed her prime …” His leer found hers, and Harriet nearly flinched at the malevolence in their icy depths. “Belinda’s time has passed as, apparently, has yours.”
His gaze swept over her in contempt, a silent rebuke over the attire she now wore. Harriet shifted uncomfortably. She knew she was still elegant, Signora Ricci being an artiste of women’s wardrobes, but no longer … alluring … since she had opted for a different presentation to the world.
Her father was venting his ire, she reminded herself as she steeled herself against his venomous cut. He had intended to use her as a pawn to make a second match that was advantageous—to him, not her—but Harriet was not participating in his schemes again. Not now that she was a widow of independent means.
Feeling rather desperate, Harriet lunged in a bid to end the meeting. “I wish to have her address.”
Lord Hargreaves shrugged, his lean shoulders lifting with a deliberate nonchalance. “I could not say. I bid her to depart the house I keep, and I know not where she went.”
“Then give me the gifts you took from her, along with the money owed per your arrangement, and I will find her.” Harriet could hear her voice was a little shrill. It would not do to reveal any emotion, but her composure was eroding within his stifling presence.
“I would not concern myself if I were you.” It was worded as advice, but the menacing threat caused the last of her cool resolve to crumble.
“I shall inform Mother if you do not honor your agreements!”
Her father arched an eyebrow before breaking into laughter, appearing genuinely amused at the thought.
“My dear, are you going to travel all the way to Wiltshire to upset your goose of a mother? I think not. From what I hear, she is too foxed these days to keep up her correspondence.”
Curses!
He was right—that was a ridiculous threat to make. It was just so bloody appalling what he had done, but losing her temper would never work. Not with the Viscount of Hargreaves.
Trying to recollect the stratagem that her Mentor had advised, she tried again.
“Belinda Cooper is a gracious woman. She took care of your needs these many years. Surely, you wish to do right by her as her former benefactor. She earned those gifts, and you promised her a settlement when the time came to end the arrangement.”
Lord Hargreaves stared at her, unmoved by this appeal to his better nature. Probably because it did not exist.
Harriet sought a different tactic, her mind working to find a more selfish reason for him to keep his commitments. “If word gets around, women will not be willing to enter similar arrangements with you.”
“It is none of your business, Harriet, but rest assured my current mistress has already moved in, and she is delightful.” He paused, piercing her with those irises of frost as he inspected her face in minute examination to deliver the killing blow to her self-esteem, his point as clear as crystal. “And young.”
He was masterful—precise—in his attack on her vanity, Harriet forcing her hands to still in her lap lest she reach up to check the delicate skin around her eyes and ensure no lines werevisible. She might be a widow, but she was yet a young woman—young enough to bear children. Somehow her father’s razor-sharp barbs made her feel like an old hag.
It was his special gift to shred the confidence of any who dared confront him.
Blazes!
Harriet genuinely liked Belinda, having met her on several occasions at private events. The other woman often played cards with the Carlton Set while waiting for the viscount to return from discreet meetings in some quiet drawing room or tucked-away study within those aristocratic homes.
Harriet had truly hoped to mitigate the situation after hearing the whispers of her father’s perfidy toward his loyal mistress of so many years. Perhaps assisting Belinda would finally assuage the gnawing shame of Harriet’s past, representing an opportunity for redemption. But it had been a wager against the odds to attempt this. Appealing to his good nature was a laughable endeavor.
Despite the low odds of success, the disappointment still ran deep as she admitted failure. If she were to effect a rescue of the wronged woman who was the current subject of high society’s whispers, she would need to find another way because the contemptuous viscount was not going to lift a finger in aid.
Sebastian walked upto the door, and raising the brass knocker brought it down with a hard tap before stepping back. He was a large man of six foot five and most were intimidated by his stature, so he usually did his best not to loom in doorways and startle others.
After a minute or two, he stepped forward to knock again, signs of activity being absent. As he raised his hand, the door unexpectedly swung open to reveal … well … he was not certain what had just been revealed.
Instead of the customary footman or butler, he found his gaze dropping to find a short, stout woman with a frizzle of gray hair escaping a limp white mobcap. An apron covered her gray-brown dress, and the dress sleeves were rolled up to reveal the scars of old burns on her strong arms, along with a faint scar curved around one of her eyebrows which were arched in question.
She tutted, craning her head back to view him with exasperated curiosity.
“Blimey, ye’re a big ’un, ain’t ye?”
Sebastian stepped back again, realizing he was towering over the … servant? If he were not standing on the steps of a gracious townhouse just off Grosvenor Square, he would have sworn the older woman was a tavern maid.
“Lord Sebastian Markham, to see Lady Slight?” He proffered a card, wondering if he perhaps had the wrong address.
