“I beg of you, let me go.” Fighting back tears, I wrenched my arm from his grasp and raced as quickly as I could toward the light. But I nearly stumbled when a bit of golden gravel bounced into my shoe. Balancing precariously on one foot, I removed my slipper and shook it free of the offending stone, dropping it on the pathway among its gilded brethren.
Rage blinded me. My ears filled with a rush of sound. The melody that turned all of Vauxhall into a vast symphonic wonderland became a cacophony of shouts and shrieks. All that only moments earlier had been beauty to me was now discord. I wished to go home. I began to search for my most blameworthy husband, head down, charging like a bull through the twinkling allées toward the pavilion.
My eyes were blurred by hot tears, but I was too angry to take the time to stop and blot them before they made ugly trickles down my face. The telltale lines marring my maquillage like so many rivers on a map would confess my sorry state.
Ouch! I stubbed my toe and fell forward, my body pitching into a rather formidable obstacle.
“And where might ye be runnin’ off to?”
Oh, dear. My near fall had been broken by none other than the man known as Fighting Fitzgerald, a notoriously charming Irish libertine and duelist. Which of these talents was the more lethal was a matter of opinion.
I counted George Robert Fitzgerald among the most dangerous of my husband’s associates, not because I feared his impact upon my husband’s character, but because I was affrighted of my own when I was in his presence. Can a snake be compassionate and understanding? The person of Fitzgerald, so handsome with his tawny coloring, his hazel eyes so solicitous of a lady’s anguish—particularly my own—answered this question upon our every encounter. Whether at the theatre, opera, or pleasure gardens, his conduct was always impeccable, his attire comme il faut without calling attention to itself, and his manner one that consistently encouraged me to favor him as a confidant. It was a seductive trap I endeavored to avoid at all costs.
“Ah, now I perceive the cause of your distress.” He nodded in the direction of Lord Lyttelton. “Yet I hear that you and he are quite intime.”
“Believe me, sir, his lordship is the last man on earth I could be persuaded to fall for.”
“I am glad to hear it. Though I call the man my friend, I know he has had a pernicious influence upon your husband. Were I Mr. Robinson, I should kneel on the cold floor every morning and thank God for such a charming and intelligent helpmeet. Come now, you’re trembling. What has the brute done to upset you so?”
Fitzgerald’s manner was so solicitous, his voice so soothing and gentle, that against all reason I felt comforted by him. Weeping, I confessed the gist of my conversation with his lordship, the extent of my husband’s financial encumbrances, and my despair over his betrayal of our vows, as well as the steep pitch of our descent into an uncertain, and degrading, future.
“Poor lady,” said he, proffering his arm, “to be merely on the brink of womanhood, and bound forever to a man incapable of estimating your value—one as far beneath you as a Covent Garden flower seller is to the Prince of Wales. I do not envy the destiny that has befallen you. And in your condition, too,” said he, glancing at my belly.
Offering me his monogrammed handkerchief of fine Irish linen, he insisted I dry my tears before escorting me into the rotunda for a cool drink.
“It’s late—I should be getting home. I should find my husband…and return to Hatton Garden.”
“I should not think, as Robinson does, to sully myself with the companionship of others,” added Fitzgerald, his countenance open and earnest, his lilting cadences gentle and sweet.
Under the bright illumination of the high-ceilinged pavilion, Fitzgerald played my cavaliere servente. After seeing me comfortably seated near the statue of Handel, he returned with a glass of punch and a plate piled high with ham.
“What you require is a champion,” he confided, taking the chair beside me. “Ah, he sees us.”
Moments later, we were joined in the box by my husband. I was in no mood to affect a smiling countenance, but managed to don a mask of complacency in its stead. Neither Fitzgerald nor I gave any indication of the intimate nature of the conversation we had just shared. But Fitzgerald, in his own silky way, did caution Mr. Robinson against leaving such a charming woman unprotected whilst he made his own way about the gardens. “People’s talk can be even more dangerous than what may actually transpire, sir.”
Before Mr. Robinson could consider mounting his defense, a great commotion in the vicinity of the orchestra caused many to rise from their seats to observe the hubbub. Easing myself to my feet, I spied two gentlemen with their fists in the air quarreling furiously by the podium. Fitzgerald and my husband ran out of the box toward the stage and I made to follow, but lost them amid the throng. Thinking the only way for us to be reunited was for me to return to our table, I did so, and had not been seated for more than a minute when Fitzgerald reappeared.
“Oh! Mr. Robinson has gone to seek you at the entrance door. He thought you quitted the box.” After I explained the situation, he concluded, “Let me conduct you to the door, my dear; we shall certainly find him there. I know that
