“Oy! His Grace is speaking!”
William smiled wearily at the head groom. “Thank you, Evans.” He turned to the waiting assembly. “And thank you all. Without your sterling efforts tonight, we would have lost a great deal more than just a few coaches. I …” His throat clamped, emotion clogged his chest. “I don’t know why I’m so blessed to have such wonderful people working for me. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”
“Three cheers for His Grace!”
Heat filled his eyes as they cheered. He rubbed a hand over his face, fighting emotion. He didn’t deserve cheers. He didn’t deserve loyalty. But oh, he was so grateful …
An hour later, washed, in bed, willing himself to rest while the sun rose, he realized something else. If the cries of little Rose had not woken him, tonight’s misdeed could have been so much worse.
And he fell asleep, praying blessings on the little child who had remained incongruously, blissfully asleep, through the remainder of the night.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Carlton House, London
July 21
THE QUEEN’S FAMED gilt-and-mirrored ballroom was filled with guests whose accents tickled Charlotte’s ears, teasing her to discover if the words were Prussian or Russian or German. The Allied sovereigns might have returned to their respective countries, but the number of handsome young officers still in town had added thrumming excitement to the procession of parties and dinners she’d attended since the parade a month ago.
She caught Henry’s eye as she swirled in time to the music, and felt a fresh gush of gratitude. Without her brother’s support, Mama would never have consented to Charlotte’s attendance at such an evening, nor would she have discovered just how entertaining Lord Fanshawe’s company could be.
That gentleman stood across from her in the dance line now, returning her look with a smile that bloomed anticipation within. Perhaps he might never fully capture her heart as Lord Markham had done, but he was very good company and knew a girl appreciated a compliment as well as a good jest. His handsome looks and manners could not contrast any greater than with the duke’s staid ways. She could only pray Mama would let such foolishness go.
The flutes and strings led the music transition into the next part of the dance. Charlotte joined hands with Lord Fanshawe, who murmured in an undertone, “I do wish you’d let me speak with your father.”
Her footsteps stumbled. Quickly recovering, she tightened her grip. “My lord, I think you are being a little precipitate.”
“Who can think of caution when holding such beauty in his arms?”
Her heart glowed. Perhaps Papa would be amenable to having a viscount as a son-in-law. And Lord Fanshawe was Henry’s friend, so that would be well. And she’d be mistress of a fine house in Cumberland. Yes, perhaps she should make a push for Father to find approval …
A turn to the outside, and she met her mother’s frown. Charlotte averted her face, her spirits sinking. If only Mama would relinquish this ridiculous notion of Charlotte becoming a duchess. Until then, she would need to continue to tread a path of the strictest propriety.
The dance formation drew them together again, the viscount’s gaze warm as he led her in the maneuvers. “Lady Charlotte,” he said softly, “I am like a man dying in the desert. One sign, just one sign that you are not completely indifferent to me will give me hope.”
“I would have thought the fact that I agreed to dance with you enough sign, my lord.”
“Ah, but that sign loses potency when shared with so many others.”
She smiled, joining the other ladies of their set in a small circle, before the music drew them together again, his continued compliments causing a flutter in her breast.
When the dance concluded, he escorted her back to Mama, but did not release her hand. “Lady Exeter, thank you for the honor of dancing with Lady Charlotte.”
Mama murmured something inconsequential, bestowing him with a gracious nod before eyeing her. “Charlotte, I see Lord Broughton approaches. He is yours for the cotillion, I believe?”
“Yes.” Charlotte plastered a smile on her face, working to feign enthusiasm for dancing with a man who truly was old enough to be her father. Was nearly old enough to be her father’s father!
She kept the smile glued on as the dance progressed. Mama wanted her to dance with the Earl of Broughton simply because he was an earl—and perhaps because he was so old whoever married him would not be forced to be married for long. A twinge of conscience washed away as his corset creaked alarmingly. The man’s figure rivaled the Regent’s for corpulence, and he wasn’t the only one using such aids. What would happen if his corsets failed? Would his coat buttons fly off? Possibly land in someone’s glass of champagne? What if they landed in the Regent’s glass of champagne? As her imagination conjured scenes of chaos, she fought laughter, glad to think on something other than his reeking breath and yellow teeth and asinine conversation that seemed to consist of nothing but skin-crawling observations about what a tidy armful she was. Why, even the duke was better than this!
As if summoned by her thoughts, she looked up and found him standing on the perimeter of the room, sober-faced yet elegantly dressed as always. He was talking to an equally serious Lavinia, who had chosen to sit out most of the evening.
Sympathy tugged. Poor man. His run of bad luck had not yet abated. The burning down of his carriage house had sent Mama into a spasm and provided the gossipmongers plenty to feed upon in the past days. For him to show his face here tonight was another surprise—and sure to provide yet more speculation as to his reasons.
She dropped her gaze. Heaven forbid she look too long and give the gossips further ammunition. His company at the parade had set tongues wagging, tongues sure to wag even faster were they to dance together tonight. Thank goodness all her dances had been spoken for so promptly, leaving no space for latecomers. Disobliging a gentleman for a dance already promised was a breach of propriety at which even Mama would balk.
“My dear, you are very quiet,” Lord Broughton said when the music drew them together again.
“Yes.” While her role was to be amusing, she would not give this man the slightest whiff of encouragement. In addition to his faults, which she did not desire to face every day, she had no desire to become stepmother to his three children—who all had children of their own!
“I trust the company is not too dull for one so young?”
She renewed her polite smile, but did not answer. If he thought her rude, so be it. This farce had gone on long enough.
As soon as the music ended, she extracted her hands from his, offered a curtsy, and hurried to where Mama sat talking with Lavinia. The duke was now half a room away, talking to a plain young lady and presumably the young lady’s mother.
“How was your dance with the earl?”
She shuddered. “Mama, please do not make me dance with that man again, I beg of you.”
“Very well.” Her mother waved a carved ivory fan, eyes narrowing as she glanced past Charlotte. “Who is that creature to whom Hartington speaks? I trust there is nothing in that quarter for which we should be alarmed?”
Lavinia’s chin rose. “That creature is one of my dearest friends, Aunt Constance. Catherine Winthrop, a baron’s daughter. She’s here from Gloucestershire to attend her grandfather’s birthday.”
Mama sniffed. “But why is he talking with a baron’s daughter?”
“I do not know,” Lavinia’s eyes held a militant glint. “Perhaps you should ask him.”
“Oh my dear, I would never presume to ask such a thing! It is of no matter to me whether he talks with one or twenty-one horse-faced girls.”
“Mama!”
Her mother tossed her head. “My apologies, Lavinia, that she be one of your friends. Oh, look, there’s that scandalous Lady Carlew! Did you hear about her?”
As Mama began to gossip with a nearby chaperone about a redheaded beauty, Charlotte turned to a stiff-faced Lavinia. “I think your friend l
ooks very nice.”
“Catherine is very nice.”
“I … I am surprised to see the duke here.”
“He said he’s here to purchase a new carriage. Actually, several new vehicles, as they were all burned.” Lavinia sighed. “We should continue to hold him in our prayers.”
Guilt streaked through her. She hadn’t prayed for him or anyone in recent days, the glamour of balls and parties offering too many diversions.
“I’m worried about him,” Lavinia continued. “Do you not think he holds something of a lean look about him?”
Charlotte studied him. Now she paid attention she could see the shadows under his eyes, the way his coat hung slightly, like it was made for a bigger man. “He looks weighed down.”
“I agree.” Lavinia sighed. “I must speak to Nicholas. I sense he could do with a friend.”
Charlotte could only nod as her next dance partner arrived, full of apologies for his tardiness. “But Prinny himself wanted a word, and I could not leave, even knowing I was possibly squandering my opportunity to dance with the prettiest young lady here.”
Another two dances, then it was time for supper. Lord Fanshawe had secured her a place next to him and was busy plying her with sweet cakes and champagne, truffles and pastries sure to flake when she ate them—and risk social disgrace. While she appreciated his efforts, it would be nice to have his attention such that he remembered what she preferred—
“Lady Charlotte, is something not to your liking?” Lord Fanshawe’s eyes looked into hers, concern touched with uncertainty. “I notice you have not touched your champagne.”
“I … I find I do not care overly for it,” she admitted.
“Then tell me at once what you do, and I shall get some.” He bowed. “I’m at your command.”
“I prefer lemonade, sir.”
Surprise crossed his features, mingled with not a little amusement. “Then lemonade it shall be. I’ll be but a moment.” He disappeared in the crowd, his place taken by a clutch of young men, whose flatteries and flirting faded at the arrival of another, at first unseen, gentleman.
“Lady Charlotte.” The gentle voice accompanied a glass of lemonade.
She looked up, strangely unsurprised to find the dark eyes watching her. “Th–thank you.”
His lips curled to one side. “I’m always glad to render you a small service.”
Confusion filled her. What should she say? She glanced across the table. Mama was watching, nodding approvingly. But if she was too appreciative, he might get the wrong idea. But if she simply accepted his help without offering any interest in his concerns, how selfish would she appear? She cringed. How selfish did that thought make her?
She swallowed. “I … I was sorry to hear about the fire.”
“Thank you.”
“But pleased to hear there was no loss of life.”
“As was I.”
Silence stretched into awkwardness. She glanced away. How could Mama wish her to marry a man of such stilted conversation? Surely it was his turn to ask a question. If nothing else, he could say how nice she looked!
She glanced back. Sure enough, the dark eyes still watched her. Fighting frustration, she asked desperately, “Have they discovered the cause?”
“Yes.” His face clouded. “My servants discovered a pile of rags on fire in a corner.”
“Rather careless of someone.”
“Yes.” His gaze touched hers, veered away. He shook his head. “Tell me”—he straightened, his smile wry, as if determined to throw off his worry—“are you enjoying being back amongst the social scene?”
“I am, sir. It is most diverting.”
A trace of something like disappointment crossed his features before his face assumed its usual gravity. “I am … that is, I wish—”
“Hartington!” Charlotte turned to see a flash of annoyance fill Lord Fanshawe’s eyes before he smiled thinly. “Imagine, seeing you here.”
“Fanshawe.” The bow the duke offered was small, even by his standards.
“Thank you for looking after Charlotte while I was engaged in important matters.” He turned to her, holding out the glass. “Forgive me, it took an age—oh! I see my efforts have been supplanted.”
“The duke was kind enough—”
“I bet he was.” Lord Fanshawe’s smile faded, his eyes glittering as he faced the duke. “You are such a helpful sort of person, aren’t you, Hartington?”
“I try.”
Charlotte swallowed a giggle at the uncharacteristic reply, noting with satisfaction Lord Fanshawe’s discomfort at the dry response. How rude to speak so to someone who had shown her only kindness! She might not wish to become affianced to the duke, but neither did she desire to see him hurt by others. She smiled at the shorter man. “Thank you again, sir, for your kind attentions.”
She didn’t mean it for a dismissal, but he bowed and was soon swallowed up in the crowd.
“Kind attentions,” Lord Fanshawe muttered. He shook his head, drawing near, saying in an undertone, “That man is always watching you. I confess I cannot like it.”
So it wasn’t just her imagination. “He watches me?”
“Yes.” He drew nearer still. “I know such a man is not to your liking—”
“How do you know?” A spark of annoyance at his presumption bloomed. “You cannot know my feelings on the matter.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Well! Perhaps I have mistaken things. I’m surprised you would entertain the suit of such a man.”
“Such a man? You keep saying that, but what do you mean?”
“Surely you have heard the rumors. That he killed his wife’s lover, and keeps the by-blow locked in an attic.”
She laughed. “You really should leave off reading such Gothic tales, my lord.”
He shook his head. “It is not fiction but fact. He is cursed.”
“Cursed? Now you are being ridiculous.”
“Am I? How else do you explain the runaway coach, and a fire that threatened the Abbey? And a wife, of whose actions I shall not sully your ears.”
She ticked off her fingers. “Accident, accident, and poor judgment.”
“Forgive me, Charlotte, but you are not experienced in the world.”
His condescension heated her chest as much as his over-familiar use of her name. “And I suppose you are?”
He stared at her. “But of course. I am a man.”
She drew in a breath. Exhaled slowly. “Forgive me, Lord Fanshawe, but I did not think being born female automatically precluded me from a measure of good sense.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yes, you should! You should beg my pardon for casting slights upon my intelligence, and then you should plead for the duke’s pardon for casting such aspersions against him! I did not think you so unkind.”
“Lady Charlotte, forgive me! I have no wish to argue with you.”
Heat still streamed through her chest, but aware their intense discussion was attracting attention, she fixed a smile on her face. “Nor I you.”
He sighed, a little theatrically, she thought. “It is growing rather warm in here. Perhaps we should find someplace cooler.”
“Perhaps.”
He rose and offered his hand before addressing her mother. “Lady Exeter, might I return your daughter to the ballroom?”
“I suppose so.” She frowned a warning at Charlotte. “I trust you remember you are promised to Lord Carmichael for the next dance. Remember, he is destined to be an earl one day …”
“Yes, Mama.” She followed the silent tug as the viscount led her away. “I thought we were going to the ballroom?”
“I could not very well tell your dear Mama we were not, could I?” He smiled, his teeth gleaming. “We’ll go there first, and then move someplace quieter.”
“But what if Lord Carmichael sees me?”
“We shall take good care not to see him.”
“Oh, but—”
Her protest was swallow
ed up in the hubbub of the ballroom, the laughter and music drowning out her concerns. Yes, she suspected Lord Carmichael would not miss her terribly, and people would probably assume she was still in the supper room, but still … why was Lord Fanshawe so keen to risk such a breach of propriety?
The sight of her brother brought a measure of relief. “Henry!”
“Charlotte, Freddy.” He clapped Lord Fanshawe on the back. “I see you’ve been doing the pretty with my sister.”
“Henry, have you seen Lord Carmichael anywhere? Mama says I must dance with him.”
“Good heavens, why would you ever want to dance with a man like him? A complete and utter rake if you ask me.”
Who was the next gentleman she was promised to? “How about Lord Bracewell?”
“Bracewell? Good gracious! Why does Mama fix you up to dance with such men? Bracewell is nothing but a windsucker. Always rattling on about things nobody has the slightest interest in.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Lord Fanshawe said, his hand tugging hers. “Come, my dear—”
“No, I really think—”
“Freddy, you really missed something in the card room just now. Ashbolt just dropped five thousand! I couldn’t believe such deep play, but they say that hag he married is the reason he’s playing so wildly tonight, that she’s put the hard word on him, so—”
“Lord Fanshawe, please.” Charlotte tugged at her hand, but the viscount’s grip only tightened. She glanced over Henry’s shoulder. Saw the duke speaking with her father; surely he would help her. Look up, she silently pleaded, look up! But for all his constant watching, he was not attending now.
There was a hush as the crowds parted for the Prince Regent and royal princesses. Charlotte scanned the room for a savior. Who could release her? Even the rakish Lord Carmichael would be preferable to this.
“Ah, Charlotte, there you are!” Lavinia approached, wearing a stiff smile. “Henry, Lord Fanshawe.”
“Lady Hawkesbury.”
“Lord Fanshawe, please excuse my cousin.” She looked pointedly at his hand.
His grip loosed. “Oh, but—”
The Captivating Lady Charlotte Page 12
