“I wish we could go to London,” James said.
“You will never get to go,” Thomas said.
“Yes, I will!” James argued.
“Never,” taunted Thomas.
“When do you go, Charlotte?” Carrie asked.
“I shall be leaving in another month, I expect,” Charlotte said, her smile a bit dimmed. Did she not want to go, Maximilian wondered, or would she, indeed, feel his loss?
“Will you see Charlotte there, my lord?” Kit asked, his cheeks stuffed with sticky bun.
“Do not talk with your mouth full,” Maximilian said instinctively.
“Of course he will see her there, won’t you, my lord?” Carrie asked. “You will be going to wonderful parties and grand balls together, will you not? And dancing! Think of it, Charlotte!” She sighed dreamily.
Maximilian let his eyes travel slowly over Charlotte, and he felt a pang. This innocent young thing in her too-small dresses could never move in the society in which he traveled. “Yes, you must give me your cousin’s direction,” he said aloud, “so I can look in on you.”
Charlotte turned her green gaze upon him, and she lifted her chin, as if sensing his reluctance. Somehow, he got the impression that this honest country girl saw through lies very clearly. “That is really not necessary, my lord.”
“I insist,” Maximilian said, trying to hide his annoyance. He was not accustomed to argument.
“I am sure I do not know it off the top of my head, my lord,” Charlotte replied, dismissing him with a slight smile.
“See that you send it to me then,” Maximilian said. “I shall give you the direction of my town house.” He reached for a piece of paper and wrote it out for her in bold, swift strokes, rather than his normal careful script.
Why was he so annoyed with her? Undoubtedly, it would be best if they had no further contact, for he did not want some poor country girl hanging on to his coats, especially in London. Better to cut off their association now, Maximilian thought firmly.
Then he pictured Charlotte in town, among nasty, gossiping ladies and worldly, unscrupulous men, and he wanted nothing more than to protect her. A natural response, Maximilian told himself. She was, after all, the daughter of the vicar whose living was provided by Casterleigh. And Maximilian had promised her father that he would look in on her. “Send it to me,” he ordered, more harshly than he intended. When she blinked at him in surprise, Maximilian attempted a smile. “Send it to me...please,” he added.
* * *
“Have you no further correspondence for me?” Wycliffe asked impatiently.
“No, my lord,” his secretary, Peter Wilkes, replied. “Perhaps if you told me what you were expecting, my lord.” The earl had been in London but a month, and each day he became increasingly surly, especially when presented with his post. Peter found the behavior most unusual, for Wycliffe was known to be a patient and fair, if distant, employer.
“Nothing from Sussex?” Wycliffe asked.
“No, my lord,” Peter answered. What had happened in Sussex? His lordship had just returned from there, where he had looked over a new property. Was it not to his satisfaction?
“Peter,” Wycliffe snapped. “I have a job for you.”
“Yes, my lord?” Peter braced himself. He did not want to go to Sussex. That was the venue of a steward, not a secretary, and he prided himself on his excellent work. Since entering his lordship’s employ five years ago, Peter had made himself invaluable. The earl’s household, business ventures, correspondence...his very life ran like clockwork. And Peter counted himself responsible for much of that smooth operation.
“I wish you to find out all you can about a woman of quality named Augusta Thurgoode,” Wycliffe said. “Be discreet, and discover her residence, please. I may wish to pay a call.”
Peter nearly gaped. A woman? Was the earl’s ill mood brought on by a woman? Peter knew a moment’s trepidation at that distressing thought. He was aware that the earl had already broken things off with his current mistress, because the lady’s allotted time had been inked from the schedule. Surely, Wycliffe had not become entangled in an affair of the heart.
Shaking his head, Peter scoffed at the ridiculous notion of the unemotional Wycliffe displaying a tendresse for anyone. This Thurgoode probably was going to be the earl’s new mistress, Peter decided, forgiving his employer for being a bit testy during the transition. He made a mental note to leave space in the weekly itinerary for visits to the lady.
Peter smiled, pleased with his foresight. He prided himself on anticipating the earl’s needs, for in his mind, it was the sign of a superior employee. Although he dared not ask Wycliffe for confirmation, Peter felt sure of his deduction. The lady could hardly be anything but a mistress, Peter told himself, for he knew that Wycliffe did not intend to take a wife until his thirtieth year. And Wycliffe was nothing if not punctual.
* * *
“The Earl of Wycliffe! What is he doing here?” Augusta Thurgoode sat back among her perfumed pillows and stared at the card her manservant had presented to her, half expecting it to change before her eyes. She blinked and looked again, but the elaborate gold lettering remained the same. Lord Wycliffe, the handsome, wealthy young earl, was waiting in her drawing room.
She had seen him before, at a distance, of course, and then only rarely. He did not frequent the engagements of her social set, or any social set, for that matter. Supposedly, he disdained frivolous pursuits such as dancing and gaming, focusing instead on the businesses that made him so very rich and a fashionable interest in the ancient world or some such nonsense. What he was doing here, she had no idea.
“Tell him we shall be down directly, Milo. And send my niece to me immediately!” Augusta bounced out of bed as well as she could, considering her generous figure, while her abigail pulled out one of her best day dresses. The door had barely closed upon Milo when Charlotte appeared.
“Oh, Charlotte! Consider this! The Earl of Wycliffe is here,” Augusta said, as she was helped into her clothing. She stared at her cousin then, as if seeing the girl for the first time. “Look at that gown you are wearing. It is hopeless, hopeless, I tell you! If only the ones we ordered were ready! That you should be here only two days and receive a visitor like this one,” Augusta wailed.
She gazed at Charlotte critically. “Perhaps I should not even introduce you...but to forgo this opportunity! Well, it must do. It simply must do,” she muttered. “Wycliffe! I cannot think what he wants. I have never met him.” Holding out her arms, while the abigail adjusted her sleeves, she finally noticed that Charlotte was flushed pink. “What is it, girl? Speak up. Are you unwell?”
“I suspect he is here to see me, cousin,” Charlotte said.
“You! Don’t be silly,” said Augusta. She tossed the black curls, which Charlotte suspected somehow must be colored. She hated to imagine what the vicar would think of such a practice, but during her brief stay, she had discovered more than a few things about Cousin Augusta that her papa would certainly not countenance. “What could he possibly want with you?”
“He is a particular friend of mine,” Charlotte said.
“What?” Augusta screeched so loud that Charlotte stepped back, watching in some alarm as her cousin’s unusually pale face became even whiter. “You have never been to London. What would you know of Wycliffe?”
“He owns the Great House near the vicarage,” Charlotte explained. The horrified look on Augusta’s dainty features told her that she had better make light of her acquaintance with the earl. Charlotte was learning to take cues from her cousin’s behavior and adjust her own accordingly, but there were so many silly rules here in town that she was rapidly becoming exasperated. One could only wear certain things and be seen in certain places at certain times with certain people. Somehow, it was not at all what she had expected. “He promised Papa that he would look in on me in town,” Charlotte said.
Augusta heaved a small sigh of relief. “I see. And Wycliffe is a man who honors h
is obligations. Shrewd and dependable, he is, for all that he seems a bit stodgy.” Charlotte wanted to deny that her elegant, handsome earl was stodgy, but she held her tongue while Augusta took on a look of concentrated calculation.
“Well, this is beyond my expectations. If he should make an effort...” Augusta’s words trailed off as she stood still, allowing Jeanette to pin a cap upon her head. “With a nod from him, you could be launched, my girl, beyond our wildest expectations!”
Charlotte patiently let Jeanette straighten her gown, while both her cousin and the abigail clucked critically. She tried to listen as Augusta filled her head with last-minute instructions, but they all blurred together when she walked down the steps to the drawing room. Walk slowly. On no account be forward. Dainty, demure, fragile, that is what makes a girl a success!
Charlotte had never felt dainty or fragile in her life. She towered over her tiny cousin like a great, gawky giant. But she did not tower over Wycliffe. He stood waiting for them, and Charlotte forgot all else when she saw him.
Had it been only a month since they had parted? Surely, he had grown more handsome in the interim. His claret coat was superbly cut to his tall frame, as usual, and his buff breeches fit him to perfection. Her gaze seem to linger on his thighs, which she remembered as hard with muscle beneath her fingers. Quickly, she forced her attention to his face, but not before she caught his brown eyes widen at her perusal. She blushed.
Augusta was babbling introductions, and Charlotte stepped forward. Wycliffe took her hand. She stared at the lean, long fingers, encased in impeccable gloves, and when he brushed his lips to her hand, she felt his touch deep down inside her. His long hair was pulled back with a ribbon today, and she was struck with the most improper desire to...brush it.
At one time or another, she had groomed everyone’s hair in her family, even her papa’s, but Wycliffe... That would be different. She imagined him sitting before her in his shirtsleeves while she loosed the ribbon to let the dark locks fall straight down his back, then standing behind him while she brushed through it with long, clean strokes....
“Miss Trowbridge,” he said, dropping her hand. “It is a pleasure to see you again. I hope you are well?”
Miss Trowbridge? Charlotte blinked at him in surprise, but he seemed distant, cool, not at all the man who had hugged Jenny to him or teased her with his eyes and his full mouth.
“Yes, I am fine,” Charlotte answered, sitting automatically. “And you?”
“I, too, am well, thank you,” he said. “And your journey? It was not too taxing?”
“No,” Charlotte said, feeling as though she were conversing with a stranger. “It was delightful, actually. I have never traveled by coach before—”
Her words were cut off by Augusta. “Of course, so much is new to my dear young cousin, but we will endeavor to make her visit here most enjoyable. So much to see and do,” Augusta said, fanning herself vigorously. “I vow I will enjoy it all as much as she will, for it will be like seeing the town through new eyes.”
“Have you vouchers for Almack’s?” Wycliffe asked.
Augusta fanned herself with even more agitation. “Not yet, my lord. La! My niece has been here but two days. We have not even been out, as yet.”
“I will speak to Lady Jersey,” Wycliffe said. “In the meantime, I expect you shall present her at one of the early season galas?”
Augusta practically squirmed on her chair, and Charlotte suspected her cousin was not used to dealing with such directness. Wycliffe could be a bit formidable, especially today. He seemed so grim and unhappy. Did he hate making this call? If so, why had he come? She knew he felt obliged to Papa, but she purposely had never sent him Augusta’s direction, so that he would not be forced to see her. Yet, somehow, he had discovered the residence himself—and a scant two days after her arrival. The realization both pleased and confused her.
More than anything, Charlotte wanted to get him alone, away from her cousin, to regain their warm familiarity. Perhaps then she could discover his motives and coax him from his sour mood. But how could she arrange an assignation? She could hardly suggest a walk or an outing. Above all, do not be forward. Charlotte remembered that much. And from what her cousin had told her, she was not ever to be alone with a man, anyway, for whatever reason. It all seemed a bit silly.
“La, my lord! I fear I am not as organized as you. We have several invitations,” Augusta said. “I shall sift through them and choose something suitable, you may be sure.”
“The Coxbury affair?” Wycliffe asked.
“Ah, I am not at all certain we have received an invitation,” Augusta said. “My correspondence has been piling up most dreadfully. With Charlotte visiting, I have let it go,” she said, darting a nervous glance at her cousin.
“I am sure you will be most welcome. I look forward to seeing you there, Miss Thurgoode, Miss Trowbridge.” He rose, checked his watch and nodded to them both. Charlotte longed to say something, but she felt intimidated by this London version of her lord, so stiff and formal, his immaculate clothes free of stains from tarts or eggs or Jenny’s jellied fingers.
“Thank you, my lord. You are most gracious,” Augusta said, bobbing her head. “Most gracious, indeed.”
Her simpering smile disappeared as soon as Wycliffe did. “That man!” she exclaimed. “One would think that he was your sponsor from that awful tone he took with me. And checking his watch! La, it is just as they all say. He lives by the clock. Take his watch from him, and he would surely expire.”
Augusta snapped her fan together sharply and set it aside. “And he as good as told me where I was to present you,” she complained. “I have a notion not to appear just to spite him...but to get us entrée to the Coxbury affair! That is truly something, my girl.”
She smiled, her lined face becoming even more wrinkled. “I will say this for the high-handed creature, he is definitely doing his best by your father. We shall see what happens at the Coxbury gala, shall we? I suspect that you are going to be splendidly launched in society.”
Augusta leaned back in her seat and chuckled. “Milo, my sherry! This calls for a celebration!”
CHAPTER FIVE
Where was she? Trying to rein in his temper, Maximilian sent his gaze sweeping around the Coxburys’ reception room again. He was not accustomed to his plans being thwarted. He had obtained Charlotte and her relative an invitation, and, by God, he expected them to use it. He allotted himself an hour, at most, at these dreadful affairs, and he had already been here an hour and a half. It was insufferable.
If they did not appear within fifteen minutes, he was leaving, Maximilian decided, and Charlotte could be left to the mercy of that shabby-genteel cousin of hers. As if the woman could do her any good! He cringed at the thought of his poor beauty, dressed in country clothes and moving on the very fringes of society during a season sponsored by that woman.
Having stopped by to check on her, to make sure she had arrived in London, as he had promised her father, Maximilian had been horrified to discover her circumstances. The girl would never find a decent husband under that old crone’s tutelage! Immediately, he had decided to take a hand in the business. He felt it his duty, to prevent the vicar’s investment from going to waste and Charlotte from ending up leg shackled to some half-starved shopkeeper.
“My lord! My lord!” Maximilian stifled a groan. He had spent the evening fighting off the attentions of marriageable ladies, and now some other female was beckoning him. He pretended not to hear. “My lord Wycliffe!” The voice, soft, but with its hint of boldness, sounded oddly familiar, so he relented and turned to see a tall young woman in a lovely pink gown. It set off the girl’s fair coloring and was extremely fashionable, although it was not cut low like most of the others here tonight. In fact, it reached to her slender neck, ending in a gentle ruffle that made her appear delightfully feminine despite her height. Did he know this girl? She was stunning, really, with pale pink lips and the loveliest green eyes...
Maximilian felt a jolt down to his toes. “Charlotte?” Her given name escaped his lips before he could catch it. Surely, this elegant woman could not be the vicar’s daughter?
She smiled, her eyes sparkling delightedly at his surprise, and Maximilian realized that she could have passed in front of him a dozen times this evening without him recognizing her. His country goose had turned into a peacock before his eyes, and he was not the first one to notice her plumage. With a stab of annoyance, Maximilian noticed that she already had a small entourage of admirers, vying for her attention like a gaggle of honking geese.
From the looks of them, the young cubs trailing in her wake were not worthy of a second glance, and Maximilian felt a rather smug satisfaction. Despite her transformation, Charlotte would never draw the attention of the ton’s elite, without a nod from him.
Of course, she would never be a great success, Maximilian admitted. Although there was no denying her beauty, most men preferred the practiced flirting of women of their class over the green simplicity of a girl barely out of the schoolroom and fresh from the country, too. And, naturally, the greatest impediment was her lineage. She was, after all, only a vicar’s daughter.
The odds were against her, but with his help she would have a sporting chance. He felt magnanimous. “Miss Trowbridge,” Maximilian said smoothly, bending over her hand. “It is truly a pleasure to see you again, and looking so lovely.”
“You are looking well, too,” she said, blushing pink. He gripped her fingers a little too tightly before dropping them, surprised by the sudden heat she inspired. Why this girl should continue to have such an effect on him was infinitely puzzling. He was normally attracted to older women, not young chits of indifferent parentage. Maximilian released a tense sigh as he realized that the sooner she was married off, the better he would feel.
His gaze lifted to her own, and he noticed that she was staring at him in a free manner that would be frowned upon by the town matrons. It was on his lips to warn her, but, mindful of their audience, he bit back the comment. Sliding an impatient glance over the rabble that traveled in her wake, Maximilian dismissed them out of hand. “You will excuse us, gentlemen?” he asked pointedly. One of the pups tried to protest, but Maximilian gave him a long, hard look, and the fellow slunk away.
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