Lady Whistledown Strikes Back

by Julia Quinn

  It still amazed him that an event so closely packed could feel so…isolating. He much preferred an intimate game of cards at some club or other, or even a night at the theater, where at least there was something to focus on besides the gossiping mass of humanity—especially when a large share of them seemed to be focused on him.

  Yes, he was newly arrived in Town, and yes, he had a sizeable fortune to his name. But for God’s sake, he’d spent the last year at Farley, the family estate—his estate—in Devon, and after twelve damned months of paper-shuffling and mourning clothes, whose damned business was it but his own if he cared to spend a few quid wagering and enjoying a good glass of port? And an actress or two? And an accommodating young widow of uncertain reputation, but well equipped with a seductive smile and lovely long legs?

  Places like the Hargreaves’ Ball, however, were where eligible, marriage-minded young females came to show off their plumage, and tonight he was hunting more respectable prey. So he handed the butler his invitation and strolled into the main room as his name and title were announced in a stentorian bellow.

  “Matson,” another voice boomed off to his left, and Xavier turned as Viscount Halloren strode up to grab his hand and pump it vigorously. “Came for the show, have you? Looks as though everyone has.”

  “‘The show?’” Xavier repeated, though he had a good idea what Halloren was talking about. Apparently everyone read Whistledown.

  “That Neeley bracelet debacle. Seems all the suspects have put in an appearance.”

  Xavier didn’t much care about the missing bracelet, but at least the mystery columnist had something to discuss besides his social calendar. He nodded. “It looks as though everyone in London’s put in an appearance.”

  “Ha. Have to be seen at the Hargreaves’ Grand Ball, don’t you know. And I told you, this is the place to begin if you’re looking for a likely chit to marry. More lively crowd than Almack’s, and that’s for damned certain.” The viscount leaned closer. “Just a word of advice. Don’t drink the sherry. And get to the port early.”

  “My thanks.” When Halloren seemed ready to begin a dissertation on alcoholic beverages, Xavier excused himself.

  He’d never been to a Hargreaves’ Grand Ball before, but the decorations seemed so sparse as to be nonexistent, and it didn’t take a mathematician to see that there weren’t enough chairs for everyone by half. Apparently this was expected, however, because the majority of the guests avoided the drinks and snacks, and instead stood in clusters discussing who might have stolen Lady Neeley’s infamous bracelet. He’d apparently landed in the gossip capital of London. Grateful as he was that he wasn’t the topic of conversation, it was just a damned bracelet, for God’s sake.

  “Mother, just because Lady Neeley decided to accuse Lord Easterly doesn’t mean we have to join the flock,” a female voice to one side of him said.

  “Hush, Charlotte. She’s only saying what everyone is already thinking.”

  “Not everyone,” the voice returned. “For goodness’ sake, it’s just a blasted bracelet. Ignorance about its whereabouts hardly seems to balance out against ruining a man’s reputation.”

  Xavier turned his head. It was impossible to figure out which chit had spoken, since a hundred of them in various ages, sizes, and dress colors seemed to be wedged into a solid slice of feminine charms. He wasn’t the only one interested in navigating it, however. A ripple inside the wedge opened to reveal a tall, brown-haired gentleman—Lord Roxbury, if his memory served him.

  He took a lady’s hand, bowing over it and cooing something that made her flutter, then went on to the next, a tall, thin female with dark hair.

  “Good evening, Miss Charlotte,” Roxbury drawled, kissing her hand.

  “And to you, Lord Roxbury.” She smiled at the baron.

  That was the voice which had caught his attention. The smile she gave the baron was a little crooked, not poised and perfect and practiced for hours in front of a mirror. Genuine, in a sea of faux humor and humility. Charlotte. With an impatient breath, Xavier waited until a chuckling Roxbury moved away, and then stepped in before the chits closed ranks again.

  “Charlotte, I’ve told you not to encourage such scoundrels,” the older woman beside her hissed. She took the young lady’s hand and rubbed at it with the corner of her matronly shawl.

  “He didn’t leave a mark, Mama,” Charlotte replied, her brown eyes dancing. “And he’s kissing everyone’s hand, for heaven’s sake.”

  “That is his error; you don’t need to encourage it. Just be thankful Lord Herbert didn’t see you showing favor to another gentleman.”

  “As if he would no—” She looked up, brown eyes meeting Xavier’s. The color drained from her face, and her mouth formed a soft O before it clamped shut again.

  Something grabbed his insides and wrenched him forward another step. Oddly enough, the sensation wasn’t at all unpleasant. “Good evening,” he said.

  “Good…hello,” she returned, offering a curtsy. “Lord Matson.”

  “You have me at a disadvantage,” he said quietly, noting that the mother had stiffened into a fair imitation of a board. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  “Charlotte,” she gulped, then with a breath squared her shoulders. “Charlotte Birling. My lord, this is my mother, the baroness Lady Birling.”

  The name didn’t sound the least bit familiar, but then he’d only been in London a few short weeks. “My lady,” he said, reaching out to grip the woman’s fingers.

  “My…my lord.”

  He released her before she could have an apoplexy, turning his attention back to Charlotte. “Miss Charlotte,” he said, taking her hand in turn and repeating the manner in which Roxbury had addressed her. Her fingers through her thin lace gloves felt warm, and despite her initial stammering, both her gaze and her grip remained steady. Abruptly he didn’t want to release her.

  “I’m surprised to see you here tonight.” With a sideways glance at her mother she twitched her fingers free.

  “And why is that?”

  The smile touched her mouth again. “Warm lemonade, watered-down liquor, stale cake, and a barely audible orchestra with no dancing.”

  Xavier lifted an eyebrow. “It sounds as though no one should be here.” With a glance of his own at her white-faced mother, he leaned closer. “So what is the attraction?” he asked in a lower voice. Besides this unexpected female, of course.

  “Gossip, and morbid curiosity,” she answered promptly.

  “I’ve heard the gossip, but explain the rest, if you please.”

  “Oh, it’s simple. Lady Hargreaves is at least a hundred years old, and she has seventy or eighty grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She refuses to choose an heir, so everyone comes by to see who the latest favorite might be.”

  Realizing something he’d never expected of the evening—that he was enjoying himself—Xavier chuckled. “And who is the current front-runner?”

  “Well, it’s fairly early in the even—”

  “Charlotte, you were going to escort me to the refreshment table,” the baroness broke in, stepping between the two of them.

  Xavier blinked. He’d all but forgotten anyone else was there—and given the crowd and the noise and his usual fairly keen sense of self-preservation, that was highly unusual. Paying attention to a proper chit was a good way to either get gossiped about, or worse, entangled—and it was far too early in his selection process for that. “Good evening, then.”

  “It was nice to meet you, my l—”

  “Oh, there’s your father,” Lady Birling interrupted again, grabbing her daughter’s arm.

  He looked after them for a moment as they made their way through the crush. She’d known who he was, and while that wasn’t all that surprising considering the attention the Whistledown columns had been paying him, it bothered him that he’d spent nearly a month in London and she’d never caught his eye. Certainly she wasn’t a classical beauty, but he would definitely set her on
the pretty side of plain. In addition, her smile and her gaze had been…compelling.

  “There you are, Xavier,” a female voice cooed at him, and a slender hand wrapped around his arm.

  “Lady Ibsen,” he returned, checking his flying thoughts.

  “Mm. It was Jeanette last night,” she breathed, pressing her bosom against him.

  “That was in private.”

  “Ah, I see. And this evening you’re otherwise occupied. Well, I’ve been keeping an eye out, myself. I have several prospective brides in mind for you. Come along.”

  He gazed down at her oval, upturned face and into her dark eyes, which bespoke her Spanish ancestry. “Brides who wouldn’t mind if their husband continued his philandering with a particular female of questionable reputation, I assume?”

  She smiled just enough to hint of private seductions. “Of course.”

  With a breath he gestured her to lead the way. As they pushed into the crowd, however, he couldn’t resist a last look over his shoulder at a tall chit with warm fingers and a crooked smile.

  Chapter 2

  And finally, in more sedate news, Lord Herbert Beetly was seen earlier this week, shopping for a brown hat to match his brown coat and brown trousers, which, to be sure, all match his brown hair and brown eyes.

  Which begs the question—Were Lord Herbert to patronize a restaurant, would he choose brown chocolate cake? This Author somehow thinks not. Browned potatoes seem much more to his taste.

  LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 31 MAY 1818

  “I would have thought your cousin’s error with Lord Easterly would have been lesson enough for you, Charlotte. Charlotte?”

  Charlotte looked up from her plate of marmalade-covered toast, dismayed to realize that she hadn’t heard a word her father had spoken. “Yes, Papa,” she returned anyway, deciding that would be a safe response.

  “Well, obviously it wasn’t. Your mother told me that you not only spoke with Lord Matson, but that you encouraged his conversation.”

  “I was merely being polite,” she countered, doing her best to keep her attention on the conversation and not drift back into an Xavier Matson–colored daydream.

  “There is a point at which politeness must give way to responsibility,” the baron stated. “Thanks to your cousin’s error in judgment, this family is once more in a precarious position. Another scandal could—”

  “Papa, Sophia married Easterly twelve years ago. I was seven, for heaven’s sake. And I fail to see what was so scandalous about it, anyway.”

  Lord Birling lowered his eyebrows. “As you say, you were seven. You didn’t witness the uproar when Easterly simply left England and abandoned Sophia. I did. And no one in this household will ever be the cause of such a stir. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, it’s clear. Perfectly clear. And don’t worry, Papa. I’m certain Lord Matson will never have cause to speak to me again.” Especially not after the way her mother had practically gone into hysterics at the sight of him. Charlotte sighed. First the miracle, that he’d looked at her, and spoken with her, then its destruction—if he even thought about her ever again it would be in gratitude that he’d escaped.

  “I’m just thankful that Lord Herbert hadn’t yet arrived to witness you talking with another man,” the baroness contributed from across the table.

  This time Charlotte frowned. “So now I’m not allowed to speak with anyone?”

  “You know very well what I mean. We’re not being cruel, dear, and I hope you realize that. We are doing our utmost to provide you with the best future possible, and I don’t think it unreasonable to hope and expect that you will do nothing to actively sabotage what is in your own best interest.”

  She hated when her parents were right—especially when her best possible future reached as low as Lord Herbert Beetly. “Of course,” she said, reaching across to pat her mother’s hand. “It’s just that excitement seems terribly rare in my life, and when it’s so handsome, it’s sometimes difficult to ignore.”

  “Hm.” Her father gave a brief smile. “Do try.”

  “I will.”

  At that moment, as if the morning had been waiting in the hallway for its cue, the butler opened the breakfast room door.

  “My lord, my lady, Miss Charlotte, Lord Herbert Beetly.”

  Charlotte stifled a sigh, rising from the table as her parents did to greet their guest. “My lord,” she said, curtsying, and wishing for one second that despite her promise to ignore excitement it could be someone dashing like Lord Roxbury or Lord Matson coming to call.

  Herbert’s dullness wasn’t his fault, she supposed; his entire family seemed to suffer from a singular lack of wit and imagination. As he finished greeting her parents and approached her, she had to admit that he was pleasant in appearance—he did dress well. And if his gaze was a little…vapid, his countenance was handsome.

  “Miss Charlotte,” he said, bowing over her sticky marmalade fingers, “your shopping escort has arrived.”

  He also tended to state the obvious. “So I see. If you’ll give me a moment, we can be off.”

  “My pleasure.”

  As she excused herself and hurried upstairs for her bonnet and gloves, she heard her father inquire whether Herbert had eaten already or not. Of course he had; this morning he would have shaved, dressed, eaten, and picked out the exact appropriate carriage for their venture because, well, that was what one did before calling on someone.

  “Oh, be quiet, Charlotte,” she told herself as she collected her things and returned downstairs. “Your life is just as orderly.”

  With her maid, Alice, accompanying them, she and Herbert rode to Bond Street in his coach. She would have preferred a curricle so she could look about more freely, but since it was drizzling yet again, the closed coach made more sense.

  “I hope you don’t mind the coach,” Herbert said as they disembarked, “but with the rain I didn’t think the curricle appropriate.”

  Good God, they were even thinking alike. Fighting a swell of panic, Charlotte forced a smile and hurried through the door of the closest shop. She was as dull as Herbert. Did her friends, who always had exciting tales to tell even if she didn’t quite believe all of them, think her as vapid as she thought him?

  Trying to outrun her own dullness, she didn’t see the clothing mannequin until she bumped into it. Before she could grab it, the heavy, metal-ribbed behemoth tipped away from her, thunking into the arms of the nearest shopper. “Oh! I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking where…Lord Matson.”

  With a twist of his lips the earl effortlessly shoved the thing upright again. “Charlotte Birling.”

  Faded cobalt eyes took her in from head to toe, and she wished that she’d elected to wear something less goose-necked despite the weather. For goodness’ sake, she looked like a dowdy old spinster. “I apologize, my lord.”

  “You’ve already done that. What—”

  “Charlotte,” Herbert’s voice, tight and high-pitched, came from behind her, “why in the world did you come in here? It’s not at all proper.”

  Tearing her gaze from the gray-and-black-clothed rake standing before her, she looked around. And scowled. Blast it. In as much of a hurry as she’d been to flee from her own thoughts, she might have chosen somewhere more appropriate than a men’s tailor shop. “Drat,” she muttered.

  “Are you trying to escape that fellow?” the earl murmured, tilting his head to study her expression.

  “No, just myself,” she returned, then flushed. What in the world was wrong with her? To say such a private thing to anyone, much less a near, if handsome, stranger, was completely unlike her.

  Something flashed in his eyes, but it was gone before she could begin to guess what it might be. To her surprise, though, he pulled a card case from his pocket and slipped it into her fingers.

  “No,” he continued in a normal tone, “I wouldn’t have known it was missing until I returned home. Thank you, Miss Charlotte. It belonged to my grandfather, you know. And
out in the rain, it would have been ruined.”

  He held out his hand, and she numbly set the case back into his palm. “I’m only glad I noticed you drop it, my lord.” She curtsied, struggling to keep her voice steady when she wanted to sing that this was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for her. “If you’ll excuse me, then.”

  Charlotte would have left, but with Herbert crowding up behind her, the only way out would have been to knock over the mannequin again. Gesturing at the man practically climbing her shoulder, she hid her nervous frustration with a smile. “Lord Matson, may I present Lord Herbert Beetly? Herbert, this is Xavier, Lord Matson.”

  To his credit, Herbert leaned around her to offer his hand. “My lord.”

  Matson returned the grip. “Beetly.”

  A clerk emerged from the rear of the shop. “Are you certain there’s nothing else I can do for you, my lord?” he asked hopefully, placing a wrapped bundle on the counter.

  The earl kept his attention on Herbert. “No, thank you. You’ll send me the bill?”

  “Of course, my lord.” The clerk finally looked in Charlotte’s direction. “May I assist you?” he asked, managing to sound officious and look dubious all at the same time.

  Hm. She may not have intended to do it, but she could enter a men’s shop if she wished. What if she’d been there looking for a gift for her father or something? Still, if Herbert reported to her parents that she’d spoken again with Lord Matson, she’d be in quite enough trouble without adding anything else into the mix. “No thank you,” she replied. “We were just leaving.”