Treacherous Temptations(40)

“Bah!” Sir Richard raised a hand. “The tales were grossly exaggerated. Besides, his peccadilloes are no concern of mine when he is in a unique position to secure my nomination for Speaker. Indeed, I have invited him to join us later this evening—to preview the goods, so to speak.”

Bad baron? Preview the goods? Mary gazed down at her gown in stupefaction. Nausea swept down upon her and bile rose into her throat.

“So that is your aim?” asked the countess.

He shrugged. “Did not our own First Lord of the Treasury begin as the Speaker of the House? Besides, the gel won’t suffer for it. She has to wed someone, after all, and everyone on this list is a gentleman of considerable standing. She’ll have a title, and with lands a plenty she may rusticate and breed heirs wherever she chooses.”

“So she is to have no say at all in her choice of husband?” Barbara remarked.

Mary had come to London resigned to her marriage, but it had never crossed her mind that she would have no say in the matter, or that Sir Richard would use his position of trust to exploit her for his benefit. All seemed poised to play out precisely as Lord Hadley had warned it would—Sir Richard would select her bridegroom from one of his political cronies— a man just like himself.

Sir Richard laughed an obnoxious bark. “What the devil would a nineteen-year-old virgin know of men anyway?”

In reality, Mary didn’t know men at all, as her experience with Lord Hadley had already proven. Although only hours ago she had convinced herself she could be content with someone she cared nothing about, now she acknowledged the lie. Their voices had become barely intelligible, reduced to a mere buzz drowned in her ears. Her hands were clammy and tightly clenched at her side, and with every inspiration, her chest tightened until she could barely breathe at all.

“Where the devil is the girl anyway?” Sir Richard demanded.

The countess flicked her gaze to the doorway, her eyes widening the moment she lit on Mary. “But my dear Sir Richard, she is already here.”

“There you are at last.” Sir Richard rose from his chair to greet Mary with a counterfeit smile on his puffy and jowled face.

Dear God was there no escape from this place? From her fate? Mary’s mind raced for any means to do so, and acting purely on instinct, with no thought beyond the moment, she hiked up her skirts and fled!

Blinded by a torrent of emotion, she burst out the front door and into the street, narrowly avoiding a collision with a passing hackney. The driver bellowed but Mary was deaf to his curses. With no direction, no plan other than escape, she ran. Ducking sedan chairs, and weaving through the sea of pedestrians and street vendors, she continued until her legs burned and she thought her lungs would burst. Still she pressed on.

Why, oh why, had she ever come to this godforsaken city? She hated this place with a deep loathing—the arrogance of the aristocracy, the filth of the streets, the masses of humanity that engulfed her in apathy.

Her mind raced as fast as her legs. Perhaps she could go into hiding. But she would need money and Sir Richard controlled all of it. Maybe she could find employment, but how, with no references and no contacts?

Out of breath and out of ideas, Mary slowed to a walk and then stopped altogether. Her attention darted to the hustle and bustle of pedestrians, shouting street hawkers, burly chairmen, and rumbling coaches, who paid her not the least heed.

She spun in a circle, her gaze riveting on the countless rows of unfamiliar buildings, and realized that she hadn’t the foggiest clue where she was… And ironically, in a city of nearly half a million people, Mary had never felt more alone.





Chapter Fifteen


“Monsieur le Comte de Chavigny,” Hadley entered the ambassadorial residence and swept the Comte a low bow, complete with his adopted Italiante flourish.

“Bon Soir, mon cher ami, Conte di Caserta!? The Frenchman embraced him with a broad smile. ?It has been a long time since we meet, non?”

“Not since I was last in Paris. Two years ago, I believe,” Hadley replied.

“But here you are now! How charming! You must sup with me, oui? My table boasts a bounty you will not find elsewhere in this gastronomic wasteland.” He made the declaration with an exaggerated Gallic gesture.

“I will be delighted to be your guest this evening, Monsieur…if you will also be mine.”

“Oh? What have you in mind, my friend?”

“Would you care to attend the theatre with me? I have an especial interest in John Gay’s new production. It is called the Beggar’s Opera. Have you heard of it?”

The ambassador laughed. “But who in London has not? The rabble has packed the house every night since opening. I marvel that your English ministry allows such a scandalous burlesque! In France, perpetrators of such grotesque political parody would quickly find themselves installed in the Bastille. And this Craftsman! Bah! The very presses would be dismantled and the building that shelters such dissenting dogs, burned to the ground.”

“But here in England, there would be mass rioting should such a thing occur, for Englishmen take their freedoms of speech in dead earnest, Monsieur.”

“Indeed, my Di Caserta,” he smiled, “there is far more than a narrow channel that separates our nations when it comes to political ideology. Speaking of which, is it business or pleasure that has brought you from Rome to London?”