Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem: A Bluestocking Belles Collection

by Mariana Gabrielle

  ***

  Curled into the corner of the comfortable coach, Charlotte huddled underneath the lap robe, tucking it around her shoulders, hiding her hands underneath the sable. It really was far too cold to have started a journey across country. If Lord Herrendon hadn't discovered her in the stables, she would be an icicle by now and her mare, too. It really was lucky he had come along, not that she would tell him that. Even more providential, he had brought his own carriage to Brittlestep Manor instead of riding with his grandfather.

  His grandfather. Her shiver had nothing to do with the temperature; the marquess gave her the fidgets. Just the thought of him touching her nude body made her want to cast up her accounts, and no matter where they were or what they were doing, he seemed to look nowhere but her chest. At least he had taken no liberties, but that was probably because she had made certain they were never alone.

  Lord Herrendon, on the other hand, was easily as handsome as a masterwork. A Grecian statue. An Italian painting. A hero in a romantic novel. She could imagine him doing all sorts of things to her nude body. The pictures she conjured were a bit indistinct, but she could certainly envision him kissing her. He would be experienced. And his lips wouldn't be dry or slobbery.

  What her mother would do if she caught even a hint of Charlotte's thoughts! She shivered again.

  It really was rather dull here in the carriage by herself. If Lord Herrendon had woken his driver, they might be happily… discussing… something. If she had known she would be traveling in the comfort of a carriage, she might have brought one of the books her mother wouldn't allow her to read.

  She opened the window to the driver's box and spoke as loudly as she could, to be heard over the whistling wind.

  "Are you not cold?"

  "Of course I am cold."

  "Perhaps you should rest the horses and come inside to warm yourself."

  "Do you wish to be in Bristol before your parents catch us up?"

  "Of course I do."

  "Then hold your tongue and let me drive."

  She closed the window, as it really was far too frigid. Only a moment or two later, she opened it again.

  "Is there not an inn where we can stop for a moment for… well… er… perhaps… footwarmers? Yes, footwarmers. And I'm hungry."

  "If you need to answer the call of nature, I can stop at the side of the road, but it may not be comfortable." With darkness all around, there was no way he could see the blush filling her cheeks, but it must have been present in her voice when she replied, "No… I mean… that is… I expect I can wait."

  The humor in his tone was offensive in its own right. "Good. I will stop at the next such establishment I find, and we can have coals added to the footwarmers and buy a pasty or two to soothe your stomach. But we will have to be on our way as soon as we change horses, and you will have to stay in the carriage once you have… relieved your discomfort."

  "But it's cold!" she persisted.

  "Then it will behoove you to close the window," he snapped.

  She shut it with a bang. Horrible man.

  ***

  "Here is your ticket," he said, handing her a card that would take her to Pembroke. When she opened her reticule to find she had not brought enough money for the fare, Lord Herrendon had purchased it on her behalf, leaving her enough ready coin to exchange it for one on the packet boat to London, if Lord Herrendon would only take his leave. When she began telling him the lie she had dreamed up during the carriage ride—a friend from school on her deathbed—he had held up his hand.

  "The less I know about your plans the better. I would prefer to tell your father as few falsehoods as possible."

  With a harrumph, she turned her back on him, only to feel his greatcoat drape over her shoulders.

  "I'll buy another in the morning before I return to London."

  "London?" Even she could hear the quaver in her voice. If he found her in London, he might tell her parents her true direction. Her adventure would be over before it began. But there was no reason to turn back yet. Perhaps he would be barred from Polite Society; his grandparents were in trade, after all.

  "It would be suicidal to return to your father's house now, do you not agree?"

  "I suppose." Shifting to settle the coat more comfortably on her shoulders, she turned back. "It is very kind of you to make the loan of your coat." Encountering the coins and notes stuffed into the pocket, she started to speak, but he held a finger up to her lips.

  "You cannot start a journey with a thin coat or empty purse. I shall be tucked up in a warm room above a pub in short order." The sound of a ship's bell broke through the late afternoon chill, the docks frantic around them. He chucked her under the chin like she was a child, his thumb barely grazing her cheek. "I've purchased the use of a cabin, so do as I say and keep the door tightly locked." She nodded. "You'd better go, Miss…" he trailed off.

  She sniffed, if only to keep from blushing and pursing her mouth for a kiss. "If you cannot be bothered to remember my name, I hardly think you worth the reminder. Thank you for the transport, Lord Herrendon."

  She marched to the gangplank and started onto the ship. When she turned her head to see if the way was clear to scurry back and exchange her ticket, his grin enveloped her. At his wink, she turned her nose up and marched on.

  Chapter Seven

  January 1, 1804

  London, England

  "I simply do not understand, Charlotte, why your mother cannot present you herself, nor how you came to be here, when you should be in Somerset until after Twelfth Night. You were not expected in Town until at least the tenth of January, and then, you were to arrive at your father's town house with your parents."

  Her father's aunt, Lady Noakes, tapped her fingernail on the invitation card for the Queen's Drawing Room, turban and jowls quivering in contrary motion as she shook her head against the tale her great-niece had been spinning for a quarter-hour.

  Charlotte was finally warm after almost a full day in Lord Herrendon's carriage, then another day on the water to Pembroke and five more to London, and a full night under three blankets in one of Aunt Henny's guest bedchambers. Upon delivery by hack, Charlotte had begged a bath and good night's rest before she confronted the problem of her great-aunt's incisive mind and sharp tongue.

  Her stomach had been too unsettled to eat the night before, but hunger had finally won out over nerves. Now, seated on a silk-covered shepherdess chair in the exquisitely appointed blue parlor of the former Lord Noakes' town house, drinking tea as hot as she could make it, Charlotte only just managed to maintain her decorum instead of stuffing teacakes into her mouth whole.

  "I told you, Aunt Henny, she's having one of her 'spells,' and she insisted Papa stay. They both agreed I might come ahead, in case Mother remains indisposed. It would be a shame to miss my chance at the Drawing Room and the greater portion of my own Season to indulge Mother's imperceptible illness, do you not think?"

  Lady Noakes' lips pursed. "One never knows when the Queen will next hold a Drawing Room."

  Charlotte motioned toward the invitation in her great-aunt's hand. "And I need a new sponsor. Mother explained it all in the letter."

  "It seems rather… strange, Charlotte." Aunt Henny was no fool, but neither was Charlotte. She could have gone to any of half a dozen women in her family, but she had chosen the one with the most power among the doyennes and the most active dislike of her mother. And the one least likely to know about the plan to marry her off to a man with one foot in the grave. Charlotte had also had the presence of mind to forge a note from Lady Effingale, who had, foolishly, taught her daughter to write in the same precise copperplate hand.

  "Strange or not, Aunt Henny, the Drawing Room is in a sennight, and I must replace the wardrobe that was lost when my trunk fell off the coach. I've only two dresses, and neither the required court gown."

  Aunt Henny let the letter fall into her lap. "I have no idea what kind of game you are playing, Charlotte, but you are correct i
n one thing: one does not decline an invitation to attend royalty. There may be no other chance. I'll write to your parents this afternoon, but it will be difficult to arrange court dress so quickly. We will send for the modiste and see what can be done."

  Charlotte hid a triumphant smile in her teacup. "Thank you, Aunt Henny."

  "I am not at all certain I should be doing this, young lady, and I suspect there is some part you are withholding, but until I find out otherwise, we shall run on the assumption you are too well-bred to lie to an old woman."

  "Of course, Aunt Henny." She stuffed a piece of bread into her mouth to keep from proving her aunt wrong. Now all she had to do was purloin the letter to her parents and substitute a reply she would write herself, thanking Aunt Henny kindly for taking on the role Charlotte's mother shouldn't have abdicated in the first place. If she were very, very lucky, Charlotte might have weeks to attend parties before her parents found her. She might even find herself a husband who wasn't in his dotage.

  Chapter Eight

  January 18, 1804

  London, England

  "Dear cousin, how delightful it is to see you alive and well."

  Charlotte started at the sound of Jeremy Smithson's voice, and her face paled at his bow over her hand. Bella's brothers never came to London unless they needed a win at the card tables, and she couldn't imagine how either had secured an invitation to the queen's birthday gala. His oily voice sent shivers up the back of her neck.

  "Why, it was my impression your parents had been searching for you the length and breadth of England. The last I heard, your father had returned from Scotland empty-handed. I doubt anyone considered you might have travelled to London on your own."

  Charlotte looked over her shoulder to make certain her aunt was outside earshot. "Hush, Jeremy Smithson. You will speak not a word of this, or I will put it out you are a card sharp."

  With a slippery smile, he asked her to dance, his voice a statement, not a question. Once settled into the minuet, he spoke into her ear each time the dance brought them close. "You will say not a word except how happy you are to see me in London." He stepped away before she could respond.

  "For if you do," he continued, the next time he was close enough to whisper, "I will send a letter back to Evercreech this eve with news of your direction." At her stifled response, he only smirked.

  A few measures later, he added, "And I will tell my father it is time for Bella to return home where she belongs."

  "You will not," she hissed at their next encounter. "For you will not wish my father to find you in Town."

  "He will make an exception, methinks, for the return of his prodigal daughter."

  Since she had no adequate reply, she simply refused to respond to another of his threats. Until his voice once again slithered down her spine: "You look so lovely tonight, my dear, it makes me consider removing you to Gretna Green myself." When next they met in the center of the square, his eyes didn't leave hers. "A sizable trust you were left by your grandmother." A crescendo at the end of the tune covered the squeak in her throat when he added, "Payable upon marriage, I believe." His eyes slid up and down her form. "Not a difficult task to bed you either."

  She shuddered, and his malevolent smile showed he enjoyed the entire exchange far more than was decent. Not that she should expect decency from a Smithson male.

  Bowing over her hand once again, he delivered her back to her aunt, who looked down her nose. Like everyone else on the Amberly side of the family, she had no liking for the Smithsons, except for Bella.

  "Lady Noakes, your gown is lovely," he attempted.

  Turning her head, Lady Noakes gave him the cut indirect. A flush rose in his face, flaming the broken veins in his cheeks and nose, the result of his regular consumption of too much liquor. Charlotte's chin followed her great aunt's, but with less daring. Smithson men did not make idle threats, and Uncle Jasper had removed Bella from the Effingales' care by magistrate before.

  Before Jeremy could recover his dignity by stepping back, she heard, "Miss Amberly, I believe you promised me this dance."

  Could any more blood drain from her face? Could she feel any fainter? Without turning her head, she knew it was Lord Herrendon. Her cousin, thankfully, took his leave with no further comment, except avaricious eyes staring over his shoulder as he walked away.

  "Lord He-Herrendon," she stuttered, "It is… unexpected… to see you here. Did you not say you do not enjoy the social scene?"

  "It is, sadly, Lord Firthley now, as my grandfather left this world almost immediately on your… departure."

  She gasped. "Oh, no! I am so sorry." Her hand flew to her throat, and her thoughts raced. Shocked, yes, but she was not sorry in the least. She was free!

  But wait. Had she actually killed a man in her haste to be rid of him? She had been avoiding even the slightest twinges of guilt over her midnight flight on Christmas, but if it had resulted in the marquess's untimely demise, it was not such a far jump to murder. She would hate to think she had become a murderess.

  "Please, let us not dissemble," he said. "We are both better off for the loss, and it was surely not your fault he overindulged in rich food and spirits his entire life. If a man cannot survive one sharp shock to his sensibilities, he surely does not deserve to live."

  "But you…" She looked around the room. "You cannot dance with your grandfather buried not even a fortnight ago. You should not be here."

  "You are entirely correct about the dancing, but as to my attendance, the previous Lord Firthley went to great lengths to arrange for my invitation to venues where my parentage would not preclude attendance, so I am merely carrying out his wishes. And with respect to my attentions to you, Miss Amberly, I only hoped to discourage the gentleman of whom you are so frightened."

  "Frightened—?" She straightened her shoulders. "I am not frightened."

  "Terrified, in truth. Will you take a turn about the room with me?" He stuck out his elbow. "Perhaps we might step out onto the terrace for some air? I was afraid you might faint while I watched you dancing."

  "Charlotte," her aunt intoned in her most imperious voice, quite highhanded indeed, "Who is this gentleman, and why has he not asked an introduction?" Lady Noakes eyed the black armband and cravat. "Is it quite appropriate for you to be in company, Mr.…?"

  He bowed over Lady Noakes' hand. "Lord Firthley, and I am wholly inappropriate, I'm afraid," he said as he bowed over her hand, trying a wink, which fell short. Her mien relaxed not a jot until he said, "I simply wished to pay my respects to Miss Amberly. I am an associate of her father's, you see. We met at Brittlestep Manor some weeks ago."

  "Firthley. You are the grandson from Greece, then. I was sorry to hear of your grandfather's passing. The last Lord Firthley was a fine man." At his hesitation, Lady Noakes said, "You have taken your opinion of him from your father, I see. You should know Lord Firthley regretted your father's leave-taking the rest of his life."

  "I thought—" Lord Firthley began.

  Lady Noakes cut him off. "I imagine you did. You may not dance with my niece and bring the scandal of your filial contempt down on her, but you may walk about the room with her, within my sight."

  He inclined his head in thanks, then offered Charlotte his arm.

  "I am very sorry to hear of your bereavement." She tried to determine how best to gather details without being rude. "So, he was… er… that is to say…"

  "On your dining table, face-down in the kippers, the very morning you escaped. We must have been halfway to Bristol when it happened."

  Her gloved hand covered her mouth, then cradled her cheek, as though she could hold back the heat rising. "Heavens! That must have been… My mother must have…"

  "I am told your mother nearly expired on the spot. Even so, she managed to arrange for the coroner to remove his body from the environs of your house, and to keep anyone from discovering you had killed your own fiancé on your way to elope with a sailor."

  Charlotte looked away, sure
her face could be no more red, fingers picking at her skirt. "Bella made the arrangements, I'm sure. Mother will have spent three days in a dead faint. Maybe five." Charlotte realized she had spoken aloud only when he snickered at her. She looked up. "But how do you…"

  "Your father's solicitor was gentleman enough to offer me the truth, but I assure you, he insisted on my perfect discretion before he would say a word. You'll have no trouble snaring a husband out of fear you will kill him."

  "But—" She dropped his arm. "What a perfectly awful thing to say! Of course I did not kill him!" After a moment's pause she asked, "Is my father… does he… I mean, was your solicitor made aware—"

  "I was not, apparently, gentleman enough to be honest with your father's man about your flight from Somerset, and Lord Effingale has yet to turn up in London to call me out for it. Scotland, yes. Bristol, Portsmouth, and Pembroke, but not London. He must not wish to think his perfect angel capable of declaring herself a debutante, replacing her own mother, and forcing her presence on the queen unbidden."

  "That's not—"

  His brow arched over his right eye, and the corner of his lips followed. "No?"

  Charlotte cleared her throat and stared past his shoulder. "I had an invitation."

  "Truly, I am amazed word of your come-out has not made it to Somerset in the weeks since your departure. Did your aunt not write your parents immediately upon your arrival?"

  Her blush stemmed from anger, surely, not embarrassment or remorse. She would never have been forced to this deception were it not for her mother's ridiculous insistence on marrying her off to a man four times her age. Sharpening her sense of self-righteousness, she demanded, "How is it, Sir, you find yourself at a party during your bereavement?"

  "Do you wish to leave to assuage your grief, my dear, having lost your betrothed?" At her narrow-eyed stare, he just chuckled. "Just so. As I said, my grandfather made quite an effort to arrange invitations to any event where a foreigner might not cause a scandal."