Page 46 of Fortune Favors the Frivolous (Matchmaking Mischief Makers #2)
H enry was impressed as he wove his way through the throng of London’s elite gathered for Lady Townsend’s spectacle.
The afternoon sun reflected off the enormous blue-and-gold balloon that dominated the clearing, its silk envelope fully inflated, straining against the ropes that tethered it to earth.
Temporary pavilions with fluttering pennants had been erected along the riverbank, while liveried footmen hurried through the crowd bearing silver trays of refreshments.
What a magnificent setting to put right all wrongs!
Henry spotted Venetia immediately, standing near the balloon basket in her white gown, looking as delicate as porcelain against the robust chaos of the scene.
“Ladies, let me procure you refreshment,” he said, his genial tone belying the churning in his belly.
In the next few hours, he and Caroline required a great deal of luck to ensure Venetia would neither succumb to pressure nor suffer crushing disappointment if they revealed the possibility of a liberation that might not be forthcoming.
Only Mr. Rothbury knew the answer to that—and he wasn’t here.
Still, Henry was not going to allow his optimism to be diluted.
“Please don’t leave me, Henry.”
Henry had been about to procure Venetia a glass of lemonade when her plaintive request made him turn to see Lord Windermere advancing towards them. There was a malevolent gleam in the older man’s eye, and unconsciously, Henry balled his fists.
“Windermere,” he said, his tone barely polite. “And Barnaby,” he added, not bothering to keep the acid from his words. “What an extraordinary afternoon our hostess has laid on for us.”
“She has indeed,” Lord Windermere said, glancing about. A knot of finely dressed revelers stood just feet away—Lord Liverpool was speaking with Lady Ponsonby and Sir William Elford.
“And look who else I happened to come upon,” said Windermere with an undisguised sneer. “Why, it is the Princess Katarina von Esterházy. Otherwise known as the mysterious lady in blue.”
Dear Lord—there she was! The same young woman who’d destroyed Henry’s reputation at Lady Henderson’s ball.
For the first time, his optimism faltered. Where were his supporters? Caroline’s sister-in-law had discovered proof the young woman was an actress who’d been paid. Yet clearly, the rumors had not been sufficiently quashed.
“Henry Ashworth, where is your honor?” Barnaby taunted him. “The princess has been waiting for redress, but yet again you have let her down.” He raised his voice just loud enough for their neighbors to hear.
Several heads turned in their direction. Lady Ponsonby, never one to miss potential gossip, nudged Sir William and inclined her head towards the brewing confrontation. Lord Liverpool frowned but remained watching with ill-concealed interest.
Henry felt Venetia’s hand grip his arm. He sensed rather than saw her panic. Indeed, his own panic was rising. He saw Caroline in the distance—she had stopped in her progress across the lawn, perhaps sensing that drama was about to unfold.
The sight of her sent a familiar pang through his heart.
Her golden hair caught the sunlight, and he could see her blue eyes were wide with concern even from this distance.
In another life, he would be at her side now, planning their future together.
Instead, he stood here, trapped by duty and honor, about to be publicly humiliated.
“I told you,” said Henry, “I have—with all due respect, madam—never met the Princess Katarina.”
“Then it is a great mystery as to why her brother has been receiving payments from you and now claims that you have reneged on a financial arrangement made to compensate the princess for certain oversights on your part. Is that not right, Barnaby?” Windermere turned to his companion.
A little to one side, Mrs. Pike looked on, her beady eyes gleaming with malevolence.
“You know I have nothing to hide and that this is pure fabrication.” Henry turned his head, hoping to see understanding in the eyes of the cluster of onlookers that had grown as Windermere’s voice carried across the lawn.
Instead, he saw only the avid interest of those who enjoy a scandal, and the growing disapproval of those whose good opinion he had always valued. Sir William was shaking his head, while Lady Ponsonby whispered behind her fan to the Countess of Lieven.
“Fabrication?” Windermere laughed, the sound cold and triumphant. “I have here”—he withdrew a folded paper from his waistcoat—“a draft drawn on your father’s bank, made out to Count von Esterházy, dated merely three weeks ago. It bears your signature, sir. Do you deny it?”
Henry stared at the paper, confusion washing over him before it was replaced by anger. “It is a forgery! I have signed no such thing and you know it!”
“Yet here it is,” Windermere thrust the paper forward, “for all to see. And when questioned about this payment, the count revealed the most distressing story about his sister’s honor and your broken promises.”
Barnaby stepped forward, his expression grave. “I’m afraid it’s true, Henry. The princess has been quite forthcoming about your… association.”
Henry’s head swam. The forgery was excellent, but forgery it must be. He had never met this princess. Amelia’s investigative work had proved she was an actress, paid by Barnaby to play the part.
But neither Amelia nor Sir Frederick were here to back him up.
“This is unconscionable,” Mrs. Pike suddenly declared, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the growing crowd. “To think that my niece would be married to a man of such low character! A man who trifles with a lady’s affections, only to cast her aside and deny all knowledge when confronted!”
She turned to Venetia, whose face had gone bone white. “My dear child, you cannot possibly continue with this engagement. Not when Mr. Ashworth has so clearly demonstrated his unworthiness.”
“I have done no such thing,” Henry protested, but his voice lacked the conviction it needed. Too many eyes were upon him, too many ears eager to hear his downfall. “This is a conspiracy, designed to—”
“Designed to what?” Windermere interrupted smoothly. “To protect an innocent young woman from a fortune hunter and a libertine? Yes, I suppose it is.”
Mrs. Pike stepped forward, her face a mask of righteous indignation. “Mr. Ashworth, I insist that you do the honorable thing and release my niece from this engagement immediately. Surely even you must see that continuing with this charade would only cause her further pain and humiliation.”
Henry looked desperately at Venetia, who stood trembling beside him, her eyes downcast. He reached for her hand, but she withdrew it slightly, whether from her own doubt or fear of her aunt, he couldn’t tell.
“Venetia,” he began, his voice low, “you cannot believe—”
“I think we have heard quite enough,” Mrs. Pike interjected, taking Venetia’s arm firmly. “Come away, my dear. Lord Windermere has kindly offered to escort us to the supper table.”