Lemon danced nervously on the outskirts of Hyde Park, and Henrietta leaned low to soothe the beast. “You do this all the time, darling. You’ll prance to make my skirts shake just so, and tomorrow the shop will be full of women ordering new habits. Nothing has changed.” Her words were false vibrato. Henrietta had changed. Her own nerves left her rigid in the saddle, and Lemon felt it, dancing to run them away from harm.
“We are not cowards,” she lectured the mare, pulling herself tall. Go away, nerves. No need for you here! “Mercy!” She spied the Duchess of Valingford’s open carriage. Lady Willow sat across from her, glassy eyed and disinterested in her surroundings, and her mother—the dragon herself—leaned close to a man on a horse, sharing a confidence. “Oh, no.”
The tableau before her was the origin of her demise, then; the first whisper of gossip that would bring her down. Henrietta peered more closely. To whom did the duchess speak? “Not Stubly!” Henrietta groaned. “Anyone but Stubly.” The gossip would not change his perspective of her. His low opinion of Henrietta’s morals was the very reason he’d ended up in a duel with Tobias the night she’d met Grayson. He would spread the gossip with ravenous glee. Everyone would know, and soon.
No invitations to balls or teas or musicals.
No friends visiting her at home.
No friends. Except for Ada of course, but she was so far away in the country.
No customers ordering riding habits tomorrow.
No ton snapping up her father’s wares, which meant no shop, no factory, no dream.
And yet, she couldn’t sink fully into gloom. The duchess’s gossip would stem from only one truth: Grayson was, unequivocally, not marrying Lady Willow.
Elation shot through her, and Lemon stilled beneath her as Henrietta’s nervousness fled. She could weather much loss, could help her family survive it, with Grayson beside her. She’d go to Grayson, tell him she was no longer afraid.
But first, she urged Lemon into a canter and rode through the park with her head held high. She looked neither left nor right and nodded a greeting only to those who accidentally caught her eye. She barely breathed, and by the time she reached Rotten Row, she waved to the groom who followed sedately behind her. “Take Lemon for a moment please, Thomas?” A copse of trees near the serpentine called to her, a refuge from the narrowed eyes and sharp tongues she’d imagined during her ride. There was surely nothing cowardly about taking a bit of a break before turning around and facing critics once more. “I’m merely going to step over there for a moment.”
The footman frowned. “It’s not wise, miss.”
“I’ll be fine. I’m not going far, and I’m coming right back. I need to stretch my legs, and the flowers look lovely.”
His head dipped in a curt nod.
The ground beneath her feet felt solid and cool. The buzz of gossiping aristocrats faded behind her. This corner of the park was quiet, peaceful, and she reveled in the cool afternoon shadows between the trees. She breathed the shadows in and out, losing count, and pushed back tears. She didn’t deserve to cry. She was the seamstress of her own misery, after all.
She heard the voices first, snickering in the afternoon air, bouncing through the trees. “There she is, lads.” Stubly sauntered toward her, rumpled as if he’d not yet returned home after a night of carousing and leering. He pulled a flask from his pocket and took a sip of something before passing it to a Corinthian nearby. “The whore.”
They surrounded her, six in all, and she swung in a circle, trying and failing to keep them all in her vision at once.
Stubly alone made her skin crawl, but being encroached upon by six made her feel close to retching there in the grass.
“Pretty as ever, Miss Blake.” Stubly tipped his hat. “Bow to the lady, lads.”
A chorus of snickers erupted. “The last time we crossed paths your deuced brother and Lord Rigsby thought they could best me.”
“They did best you, Stubs, to my recollection,” one of the other men laughed.
“Shut up, Jolly!” Stubly snarled.
The laughter stopped. The circle around Henrietta tightened.
Instinct screamed at Henrietta to bolt for a hole in the circle, to run fast and hard and hope for the best. Instinct also told her to stay still. Stubly and his friends were not known for their brains. Perhaps she could outwit them. She stood her ground. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Although I don’t know if men who use such language deserve that moniker.”
They laughed again.
She forced a smile. “Now, I bid you good day. I must be getting back to my grandmother. She’s waiting for me.” She strode forward with more confidence than she felt.
Stubly inched closer. “No, she ain’t. I’ve been watching you since you entered the park. You’re alone. And now you’re mine. I’ve waited long enough. Then the other gents can have you, too. You won’t mind.”
She ran. Meaty hands grabbed her waist.
“No!” Henrietta kicked out and was rewarded with a cry and a groan. Not Stubly’s though.
He twisted her arm behind her back and pulled her up against him, whispering in her ear, “I like a little fight.” His breath reeked of stale liquor, and he clearly hadn’t used his tooth powder in days. She gagged at the wretched smell. “Last year, the world thought you too good for the likes of me, didn’t they? But I knew better,” he sneered. “Now the truth is out.” His lips, wet and sticky, pressed against her ear. “I can do what I want with you, and no one would bat an eye.”
