Lord L. did, however—though it had never been his design—make an excellent foil on which I could perfect the age’s all-important art of flirting. Clearly, I had much to learn about this particular social skill if I was to take the ton by storm.
Truth be told, my newlywed life was at times quite exhilarating, if not entirely Edenic…until the day Lord Lyttelton revealed himself to be none other than the serpent in number thirteen Hatton Garden.
Eleven
Two Startling Confrontations
1774…age sixteen
“Lord Lyttelton, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Maude.” My maidservant dropped a curtsy and went about her business, closing the door to the pale green paneled drawing room.
I remained seated whilst I received his lordship. “My husband is out,” I told him.
My daily caller appeared in much distress. “I am aware of that, madam. In fact, that is the nature of my business. I have a secret to communicate to you, Mrs. Robinson, that I believe is of considerable moment both to your interest and your happiness.”
I started at this news. “Nothing I trust has befallen my husband,” I said, with a voice scarcely articulate.
Lord Lyttelton hesitated. The room was so quiet that I could hear the mantel clock as the seconds loudly ticked by, each one an eternity, while I waited for him to come to the purpose. “How little does that husband deserve the solicitude of such a wife!” he at last exclaimed. “I fear that I have in some degree aided in alienating his conjugal affections. But I could not bear to see such youth, such merit, so sacrificed—”
“Speak briefly, my lord.” My nerves were aflutter.
He paced the rose-patterned carpet for several moments, and stationing himself at the mantel, outstretched his silk-clad arm along the marble and declared, “I must inform you that your husband is the most false and undeserving of that name.”
“Are you not to blame, sir, for introducing him to the bawdy houses?”
His lordship’s tone softened. Lowering his voice as if to speak more confidentially, he told me, “Mr. Robinson has formed a connexion.” I raised an eyebrow, endeavoring to maintain my composure. “With a woman of abandoned character. He lavishes on her those means of subsistence which you will shortly stand in need of.”
Though I suspected my husband’s betrayal, I keenly felt the importance of preserving my own dignity as well as the sanctity of my home and hearth. “I don’t believe it.”
“Then you shall be convinced,” answered his lordship. “But remember, if you betray me—your true and zealous friend—as the means by which you obtained this intelligence, I shall be forced to fight your husband, for he never will forgive my having discovered his infidelity.”
“It cannot be true. You have been misinformed. And dueling is illegal, sir.”
“There are many things that are illegal; it does not mean that they aren’t done. And if I am misinformed, it is by the selfsame woman who usurps your place in the affections of your husband.”
“Who is she, then?”
His lordship availed himself of a pinch of snuff. “Her name is Harriet Wilmot,” he said, turning his head to sneeze. “She resides in Soho. Number four Prince’s Street. Your husband daily visits her.”
“As you do me.”
“You continue to disbelieve me?”
A dreadful silence hung in the air and suddenly, as if a floodgate had been thrown open, a torrent of tears descended down my cheeks.
“If you are a woman of spirit, you will be revenged!” said Lord L., his voice a threatening rumble that hinted at dire consequences. I shrunk with horror and would have quitted the room had he not held out his hand to stop me. “Hear me, madam.” His countenance became quite earnest. “You cannot be a stranger to my motives for cultivating your husband’s friendship. Mrs. Robinson, fair creature, my fortune is at your disposal—”
Should I become the poorest wretch in Christendom, I would never stoop to become his mistress. “Despicable man!” I flung the words in his face.
But he thought I was speaking of my husband and continued to press his advantage. “Mr. Robinson is ruined; his debts are considerable and nothing but destruction awaits you. Leave him! Command my powers to serve you!”
I would hear no more. “My maid shall see you to your carriage, sir!” Shaking, seething with hurt and rage, and nearly blinded by my tears I fled the house, leaving a stunned Lord Lyttelton alone in my drawing room. At the end of the street I spied an empty hackney coach, flagged it down, and flung open the door. “Prince’s Street, please!”
The coach lurched and clattered through the rutted streets. How would I summon the courage to confront my rival? And what would I say? My world had turned upside down in a matter of minutes. I knew from the haunts he had frequented in Lord Lyttelton’s company that Mr. Robinson had not been faithful to me, but there had been no names, no faces. I had willed myself to see those transgressions against me and our marital vows as something somehow surreal, because they did not exist to me in flesh and bone, in garters and petticoats, with painted faces and perfumed limbs. But this was different. I had not instructed the hack driver to race hell-for-leather to a bawdy house but to a home my husband paid for, the home of a woman who shared his bed as often
