To Dream of Love by M. C. Beaton Page A

arms and began to shoulder his way through the cheering crowd.
    Cordelia was late for the opera. She was not much troubled by that fact, since she had no interest in the music, only in the effect caused by her appearance.
    “Did you tell them?” she asked Agnes over her shoulder.
    “Miss Harriet is gone from home and has not returned,” said Agnes. “As for old Miss Clifton, she is not well, and I prefer to order her out when her niece is with her to sustain her. I will be able to accompany you after all.”
    Cordelia narrowed her eyes. “Be sure you have told them, one way or t’other by the time I return. You need not accompany me, Agnes,” she added maliciously, knowing how much Agnes loved the opera.
    “Don’t like going in halfway through the opera anyway.” Agnes shrugged, though her intense gaze bored into Cordelia’s back as her young mistress turned back to the mirror. “Listen to that noise. It’s coming closer. If the mob’s out, you may not be able to go yourself.”
    “War riots.” Cordelia sniffed contemptuously. “One never knows what to do … whether to be for or against.”
    The Tories were
for
the British war against Napoleon’s armies in the Spanish Peninsula, the Whigs against.
    Both political parties rented mobs. There was the antiwar mob and the prowar mob. A British victory could mean your windows were smashed in for not displaying candles all over the house and drawing back the curtains in celebration, and the antiwar mob would wreak havoc with equal enthusiasm on any house that seemed to support the campaign.
    “Tell the servants to light all the candles,” said Cordelia, “and listen hard. If they’re antiwar, draw the curtains.”
    “They are cheering. It must be a victory,” said Agnes,
    “Look out of the window and make sure.” Agnes raised the window and leaned out. After a few moments, she drew her head in and gazed at Cordelia in a dazed way.
    “It’s Arden,” she said. “At the head of a cheering mob with Miss Harriet in his arms.” Cordelia elbowed her aside and thrust her head out. “The deuce,” she muttered.
    She turned from the window and ran from the room and down the stairs.
    The noise of cheering grew nearer and nearer.
    Pinning a smile on her face, Cordelia opened the door.
    The marquess was just setting Harriet down on her feet on the step.
    “Dear me,” said Cordelia. “Did little Harriet faint?”
    “Little
Harriet is a heroine,” said Mr. Hudson. “She rushed into a burning building and saved the life of the Dowager Duchess of Macham.”
    “Poor Harriet,” murmured Cordelia sweetly. “Always
so
impetuous.”
    The marquess gave her a cold look. Cordelia rallied and rushed forward and gathered Harriet in her arms.
    “Come inside, dear,” she cooed, “and we will put you to bed immediately. You must be
exhausted.”
    “I confess I am a trifle tired,” said Harriet with a watery smile.
    “Agnes!” Cordelia called over her shoulder. “See Miss Harriet to her room.”
    “I will take my leave,” said the marquess, looking down at Cordelia with an odd expression on his face.
    Harriet was glad to escape out of range of Cordelia’s gimlet eye. Harriet knew Cordelia was furious because she had once more brought herself to the Marquess of Arden’s attention.
    Aunt Rebecca was waiting at the top of the stairs, her large, moonlike face swimming in the gloom. She had heard the news of Harriet’s bravery, as she, too, had leaned out of the window to watch her niece’s triumphant arrival home. All the excitement had caused Aunt Rebecca to make one of her mercurial recoveries from nervous depression. Agnes led Harriet into the schoolroom and seated her by the fire, and then left Harriet to tell Aunt Rebecca about her adventures while Agnes went in search of brandy.
    When she returned, she poured them all a strong measure.
    “It seems you are the talk of London, Miss Harriet,” said Agnes. “If you are not too exhausted, please tell me all