The Deceptive Earl: Lady Charity Abernathy: A Regency Romance Novel

by Isabella Thorne

  “I really just meant to be sociable.” It was perhaps the most genuine statement Charity had uttered in quite a while, but at the mention of marriage to the Earl of Wentwell, she could not contain a flutter of excitement. Still, she would not trap a man.

  Miss Macrum laughed, a soft titter that was meant to draw the eyes of gentlemen, and it did. Charity smiled at the room careful to give no gentleman the feeling that he might be favored over the others.

  Charity did her best to extricate herself from Miss Macrum, but the woman had now laid a hand on her arm, and leaned in to speak as if they were fast friends. Charity craned her neck searching for some escape which would allow them to cease this prowling though Miss Macrum had navigated them well outside of view of much of the room. Her eyes lit upon Colonel Ranier who had returned to their previous position with her drink in hand and was now searching for her.

  “Truly I have no designs upon Lord Wentwell,” Charity said. “Now if you will excuse me, I see Colonel Ranier. He went in search of a refreshment for me, and I must be returning.”

  “Nonsense,” Miss Macrum laughed again. “One of your status is not sociable with an earl without aim, and not with a colonel unless absolutely necessary. There is no future there. He is far too safe for you, Lady Charity. Truthfully, I seek a finer catch myself and I am not a lady.”

  “I do not think there is such a difference between ladies and misses,” Charity said. In fact, some of her best friends were misses before their marriages…their happy marriages, she thought. Ones they achieved without subterfuge.

  “In any case,” Charity said added loftily in an effort to forestall any more of Miss Macrum’s prowling. “I would rather avoid rumor.”

  Miss Macrum gave Charity a long, telling look. Her eyes flickered over to Lady Shalace, who was watching her daughter with avid interest amid the gossipmongers, Mrs. Thompson and Mrs. Sullivan.

  “I do not think that safe shall be allowed,” Miss Macrum laughed. “Besides, there is no fun in a safe fellow.”

  Charity had had enough of this conversation. Miss Macrum was far too worldly for Charity’s taste. In fact, Charity wanted nothing more than to remove herself from the woman. She normally loved social events, but without her real friends, Charity wished she could return home to finish the book she had been reading to her father. If there was anything that was safe, that was it, but a single glance at her mother reminded her that she, unlike her friends, was still unmarried.

  Her mother lifted her chin and inhaled dramatically, which Charity knew meant that she was to put her shoulders back a bit more to accentuate her feminine figure. Her stays did not actually allow her much leeway in the matter. Mother already had her way, but Charity artfully used her fan to obscure the gentlemen’s view as she took a breath.

  “Come.” Miss Macrum giggled in Charity’s ear as she leaned close and caught her sleeve. “If Wentwell is not to your liking, let us join Mr. Fulton. He is a special friend of mine and quite a lot of fun.”

  At that moment, Colonel Ranier made his appearance and Charity had never been more pleased to have a gentleman fetch her a drink. The poor man must have been searching for ages for her. She offered him an honest smile of gratitude and thanked him for his duty. Miss Macrum raised one shoulder in defeat as if Charity had somehow disappointed her. She then wandered off towards the entertainment for the evening, presumably to find Wentwell, or some other man she meant to net for her titled husband.

  Charity remained by the Colonel’s side for as long as was appropriate before returning to her mother. The Colonel had been nice enough, but she was forced to admit, Miss Macrum had been right in her proclamation that he would not hold Charity’s interest for long. Charity had done her best to test her appeal, but she was halfhearted in her attempt. Even the Colonel could tell that she was unimpressed, and they parted on cordial terms. Neither would search the other out in the future, but neither had they caused offense.

  Charity made her way back to her mother, wondering why she should be envious of Miss Macrum? She did not want to marry Lord Wentwell anyway. He is a rake and a cad, she reminded herself. A rake is a charming lecher, nothing more. Marrying a rake or a lecher is inviting a lifetime of misery no matter what Mother said. In that regard she had to agree with Julia. After talking with Miss Macrum, and seeing how callously Wentwell treated the lady, Charity was reaffirmed in her duty to avoid Wentwell, no matter how beautiful he might be. He is not genuine, she reminded herself. He is in fact, the gentlemanly version of Miss Macrum herself. Indeed they deserve one another. Charity was not that sort of person, nor would she ever wish to be, conniving and deceitful. And yet, is that not what she had done to poor Colonel Ranier? She felt a hint of unease. She did not want to be fake. She did not want to be the person the Ton, or perhaps her mother, was making of her. Or perhaps what she was making herself. That thought was even worse.

  Charity’s mother sighed as she relayed her daughter’s missteps. She knew it was wrong of her to admit defeat so easily. “Proper words and actions would have kept the gentleman entertained,” her mother insisted.

  “But Mother,” Charity argued. “I would have been unable to find appeal in the gentleman. What was the point of dangling?”

  “If Colonel Ranier was not to your liking, Charity, what of the other young gentleman to whom you were speaking? You seemed to be doing quite well with him until Miss Macrum interrupted.”

  “Mother, that is Lord Wentwell,” Charity said, with an air of disinterest.

  “Wentwell?” her mother asked. “The young earl?” She sniffed with disapproval.

  “Yes, an earl,” Charity confirmed confused. Normally her mother was all in for a title. Charity was quite upset that she had misread her mother’s wishes. Lord Wentwell seemed to be in possession of all of the qualities her mother desired in a suitor for her daughter: wealth, title and all. Yet Lady Shalace had turned up her nose. Her mother was simply never satisfied, Charity thought angrily.

  “Mother, whatever is the matter with Lord Wentwell? He is young, wealthy and an earl in his own right.” Charity broke off as she realized she was defending the man. She told herself she wanted nothing more to do with him. “I thought you would be pleased,” she finished lamely.

  “Well, his mother leaves much to be desired,” Lady Shalace replied. “Still, you are quite right, Charity. He is the most eligible bachelor in attendance tonight, though if rumor is to be believed he is also a rake.” Lady Shalace paused thoughtful. “How is it that you know him, Charity?” her mother asked, presenting all appearances of shock and horror though with a slight upturn in the corner of her mouth as if she were secretly impressed by her daughter’s flirtation.

  “It was Lady Beresford who introduced us,” Charity admitted. “Lord Wentwell is close friends with her brother, Lord Barton. I only danced once with the gentleman during the summer last,” she clarified. “That is all.”

  “What did he say?” her mother pressed. Her need for gossip was like the thirst of a desert flower.

  “Nothing Mother,” Charity replied.

  “Not then,” Lady Shalace persisted. “Now, in your most recent encounter.”

  Charity thought a moment how to explain to her mother, but she could not. She ended, just shaking her head. “We exchanged only the most necessary words. I laughed once and then moved on without a backward glance.” Or rather he moved on without a backward glance, she corrected mentally. “There was nothing to recall, Mother. I certainly would not waste my effort on Neville Collington. Miss Macrum may have fallen under his spell, but certainly not I.”

  “Ha!” Lady Shalace laughed. “It is a gentleman who will fall to your spell, not the other way.”

  “Of course, Mother,” Charity intoned.

  Lady Shalace patted her daughter’s hand as Charity glanced toward Lord Wentwell, and suppressed a sigh. “Do not worry, Charity,” she said in an unaccustomed moment of understanding. “All will be well.”

  Lady Charity knew that it was not
that the mother and daughter did not love each other. Charity and Lady Shalace were as fused as any maternal connection might be. However, the differences in their personalities made it difficult for the pair to relate to one another. Although Charity had her mother’s lush form, she had much of her father’s open and friendly attitude. She simply could not manage to do what her mother wished of her. No matter that they loved one another, neither could have what they wished without the other suffering for it.

  Charity’s only hope was that she might find a suitable match as her mother wished. To do so she must find someone so endowed with rank and wealth, who somehow would also satisfy the yearnings of her own heart. The task seemed impossible, at best.

  ~.~

  Chapter Five

  Neville Collington had given his valet the morning off since the man had been awake so late dealing with his brother Edmund last night. After Neville had managed to calm his brother, and bring him back to the present, Neville and his mother had been too upset to sleep. They had a cup of tea together to settle their own nerves, after sending the servants away.

  “Do you think he will ever be right again?” his mother asked tearfully. “Or will he forever fight phantoms in his head? What does he remember do you imagine?”

  “You do not want to know, Mother,” Wentwell said. “Did you write to the physician in Austria? What does he say?” Wentwell sank into the chair exhausted. His brother’s episodes took the very life out of him.

  “Of course I did, but the man did not offer much hope, a combination of chamomile and caring. We have been corresponding. I shall fetch his latest letter.” His mother started to rise, but Neville laid a hand on his mother’s arm. “Later, Mother.”

  “Perhaps I shall write to him again of this latest incident,” his mother said. “You can post the letter on the morrow.”

  “Very well.” Wentwell rubbed his face. “We should be abed. We will speak of it in the daylight.”

  “It is day,” his mother said gesturing towards the window where the beginnings of dawn peeked in. “I hear the sound of the lark.”

  “I do suppose it is,” Neville said with a yawn. “Nonetheless. I am for bed right now. Perhaps I should take a trip to Austria to see what might be done. It pains me to see him so.”

  “I as well,” his mother said. “No matter that he is a man grown, Neville, he is still my son, my youngest and I would spare him this pain.”

  “And he is my brother,” Neville had said. He wished he had an answer, but he did not and so he went to bed disgruntled and awoke mere hours later unrested.

  Now, Neville stood in the blinding light of late morning, with the awful night behind him. He was trying without success to choose his clothing for the day. Neville wondered why he was not still abed himself, dreaming of Lady Charity, remembering what delight she had been, both last night and at the ball last year. Could it be that she was truly what she presented herself to be? While still half asleep, he reminisced about her while he dressed for the outing with his friend Lord Barton and his friend’s sister, Lady Beresford.

  Neville had considered begging off, but he had promised to accompany Reginald this morning to attend his sister Patience. However, that was before his brother’s episode had kept the whole house awake until the wee hours of the morning. Reg was also a good friend and knew of his brother’s condition. He would understand if Wentwell chose to remain at home this morning. He was not fit company for any lady at the moment, but Lady Beresford was married and not one he had to impress, unlike Lady Charity who had kept him on his toes yesterday. He smiled as he thought of her.

  He realized the cravat he had chosen did not match his waistcoat, and tossed it aside. He searched for another that would match the blue embroidery of the coat. The color, he thought as he selected it, was just the shade of Lady Charity’s eyes. He ruminated over the thought of her eyes, and her form, and her uncommonly sweet disposition for an overly long period of time before at last shaking himself out of his revelry and tying the tie.

  He knew why he was unhappy with the gentler sex just now, and it had nothing to do with Lady Charity. He paused in the tying of his tie as he became again caught up in the thought of her. She was brilliant last evening, meeting every quip with one of her own, and laughing at all of his jokes. He almost forgot that she was one of the devious sex. And dear heaven, she was beautiful.

  In fact, the two of them were getting on quite well until Miss Macrum arrived. At best, the ladybird was a busy body, at worst…well he had already thought the worst of Miss Macrum, her and Miss Danbury both. He could have possibly forgiven the pair for their meddling, and conniving. It was understandable that Macrum wanted a title, but the fact that Danbury had thrown his brother over with much the same callousness has Lady Katherine had done to him all those years ago, could not be forgiven, and if the Macrum puss thought she could wheedle a title from him she was dead wrong. He could forgive her for himself, but the fact that she, along with Danbury, had hurt his younger brother was more than he was willing to bear.

  Wentwell heard his friend Reginald downstairs greeting his mother, The Dowager Countess Wentwell. He was actually surprised that his lady mother was awake and dressed before noon. After his brother Edmund’s episode last night, Wentwell expected his mother to be indisposed for most of the day. Apparently she was made of sterner stuff.

  Wentwell was still tying his cravat when Reginald came up the stairs to his friend’s room. “There’s tea if you want some,” Neville said nodding towards the side table.

  “No. Thanks. It’s good to see you smiling at least,” Reg commented. “Did you enjoy the concert last evening?”

  “It was more enjoyable than I had expected, until that viper showed her face. It is a pity she was not remanded to the country with her vile friend.”

  “Now, Wentwell, let it go. There is nothing to be done about it, and picking at a scab will not allow the wound to heal.” Reginald sank into the side chair and watched his friend fuss with his cravat, adjusting the tie, and then pulling it loose to retie it again.

  “Fiend seize it,” Wentwell swore at the thing and began again.

  “You primp like a woman,” Reginald complained.

  Wentwell threw him a look. “Are you in a hurry?”

  “I told Patience I would take her to the shops and perhaps the waters this morning. I did plan to do so before noon.”

  Wentwell paused in his tying. “I am not fit for feminine company this morning,” he said.

  “Tell me something new,” Reginald said, drumming his fingers nervously on the armrest.

  “You should go on without me,” Neville said.

  When Wentwell was finished tying his cravat, he found his slightly wrinkled waistcoat and brushed ineffectively at it before Reginald commented. “I know you have a man for that. It looks like you slept in the thing.”

  “There are reasons a man should take care of himself,” he told his friend with a wink.

  Reg laughed aloud. “So have you decided? Are we going to the Pump room or not?” Reginald asked.

  “I see no reason to do so,” Wentwell said. “I would much rather to the races. Why would you volunteer to ferry your sister about? Doesn’t she have a husband for that nonsense now?”

  “She does, but he is still in Town, and the vapors of Bath will cure what ails you,” Reg said.

  Wentwell snorted. “I have found the air in Bath to be quite noxious lately.”

  “Which is exactly why you should take the waters,” Reg urged. “It will cure this melancholy of yours.”

  “I’ll tell you what will cure my melancholy,” Neville snapped. “Unfortunately I am sure the Ton would take exception to my strangling the source of it.

  “I meant something which would preferably keep you from being remanded by the law.”

  “Humph,” Neville said as he gathered his jacket. “Come on then. Let us to your sister, but I warn you, I promise to be vile company.”

  ~.~

  The mor
ning following the concert, Lady Charity left her mother still abed, while she took her father to the healing waters where he might be lowered into the steaming pool by his manservant, Wilson. Charity’s maid, Jean Davies also accompanied them. The morning bathing hours for women had ended an hour prior. Charity was not at all displeased that she had missed her opportunity to soak, for she cared not one bit for the earthen scent of the hot spring and always felt a wash was in order afterward, which was of course absurd.

  She and Jean took their seat in the gardens as they awaited the return of the Earl from his dip.

  “If you shall not bathe, my dear,” her father had murmured as he was led away, “at least you must collect a vial to carry in your purse. I find a few drops in my tea to be quite pleasant.”

  Lady Charity nodded, though she had no intention of adding the limey water to her drink. There were enough quacks and peddlers milling about boasting their herbal and mineral tonics, all boosted by the healing powers of the waters. While she did not deny that the warmth of the water was a relief to sore muscles, especially after a long evening of dancing, she was not entirely convinced of its miracle benefits. Her father, however, did seem to do better after a long soak, so perhaps there was something to it after all.

  Jean settled on the bench with a bit of needlework, but Charity was restless. The air in Bath was hot and a bit sticky with the humidity from the waters, but nothing at all like the closeness of Town in summer.

  Charity didn’t mind summering in Bath so her father might benefit from the waters. She knew many of the Ton visited Brighton by the sea, but the gardens and architecture of Bath were beautiful. She was perfectly happy to sit on a garden bench with her needlework or a book. She felt she was back in time when the Roman artisans worked their magic, and thoughts of Romans reminded her of Julia’s paintings and their giggling. She felt desperately alone, even with Jean by her side. Perhaps she could convince Julia to go shopping with her once she arrived in Bath, that is, if Charity could escape her mother’s ministrations.