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

by Isabella Thorne

  “I shall always have time for you, Father,” Charity said.

  He shook a finger at her. “Wait until you have a husband to care for…who will be the lucky man?” He frowned as if wondering if he should know the answer to this question.

  “I am sure I do not know.”

  His face brightened. “Ah, still making them wait, I see,” he teased. “You must be kinder to the poor gentlemen,” he laughed.

  “I shall, Father. I promise.” Charity said as she looked out to the crowd, prepared to play a game with her father, of guessing which unsuspecting fellow might be the one. She soon realized that her father was serious. His eyes searched the crowd for familiar faces. If an introduction could be made, Charity was certain that he would not allow a moment to be missed. She was not sure allowing her father to introduce her to a suitor would be a good idea. She had hoped they would have little interaction with others.

  “What is this, Father?” Charity said. “Have you finally begun to share Mother’s thoughts that I should be married with all haste?”

  “Only if my daughter takes pleasure in the project,” he replied. His fingers squeezed her own. His strength was much greater than Charity had come to expect. Again, she felt her belief in the waters climb ever higher.

  “Father,” she smiled in return, “I would marry this day if it would bring you happiness.”

  “Do not marry for my joy, my child,” he muttered. “Though, I will not deny that I would like the day to come while I still have some days to my name.”

  “Do not say such things!” Charity cried. “You are renewed, I can see it. You shall have many more days, of that I am certain.”

  Lord Shalace nodded as if he was considering his agreement, but did not say a word.

  “Have you still no preference?” he asked of his child.

  Charity lifted one pale shoulder and allowed it to drop. A vision of Neville Collington flashed through her mind, and she cursed herself for the thought.

  “You have thought of someone,” Father said. “Do tell your Father. It is my privilege and my honor to choose a husband for you.”

  “To be honest, Father,” she murmured. “I had considered James Poppy for but a moment.”

  “But no longer?”

  “No.”

  “What changed your mind?” her father asked. “James is a decent fellow. He is not quite so well off as your mother might prefer, but your fortune will be more than enough to ensure that you never go without. If you love him, you should have my blessing.”

  “He is in love with another,” Charity said with a smile. She was joyous at the revelation, and her father was confused by the reaction.

  “You seem quite happy for having lost a suitor.”

  “No. He was never truly a suitor, and I love them both. You remember the Muirwoods?”

  Her Father frowned considering. She did not want to tax him with trying to remember, so she went right on with her thought, hoping that he would simply let the confusion go and capture something new. “They shall be most happy, I think. I only hope I can find such happiness.”

  The crease in his brow grew deeper. He could not understand. Charity feared that he had lost his moment of clarity. She sought to bring it back, by explaining.

  “You see, Father,” Charity explained. “I do not love James Poppy; and he loves Flora Muirwood. I believe she loves him too, so I am happy for them. However, you are right, James is a decent fellow and so I had considered him as someone who might bring me, if not a lifetime of happiness, at least no sadness or pain.”

  “I see,” her father replied as he bit into a cucumber sandwich that he had just unwrapped with nimble fingers. Charity gave silent applause for the feat. He had yet to spill food on himself. She hoped she could take him home with his cravat intact.

  She smiled happily. This was turning out to be a wonderful afternoon. She had her Father back from the fog that plagued him.

  “I am happy that you are not hurt by his loving another,” Lord Shalace spoke with a mouth full of food. His lack of care harkened to the weeks and months even, spent isolated from society. Charity glanced about, but there was no one to see him. She would not point out his error. Instead, she allowed him to eat and speak on.

  “Not in the least,” she promised.

  “It is a shame,” Lord Shalace mused. “James is a steady fellow. I feel that we might have got on well together.”

  “Mother would not rejoice,” Charity laughed. Her father joined her, for there was truth to the words.

  “Especially not with James being the second son. What of the other one?”

  “What other one?” Charity inquired, but Father went off speaking as if she had not questioned him.

  “Perhaps if James were to inherit…” Lord Shalace agreed. “As the second son to a family with more children than means, I fear he will need to marry a Lady of fortune if he wishes to remain in fashion.”

  “His brother will not leave him destitute,” Charity assured. She understood her father was speaking of Michael, and she was overjoyed that he actually remembered the Poppys well enough to remember James and Michael were brothers.

  “No?” Lord Shalace asked. “What of his brother’s wife? Shall she approve of her husband distributing their fortune when she has children of her own that should be put before some aunt or uncle or other?”

  Charity had not thought of such things. She guessed that Michael would never marry a lady that did not agree with his support of his family. Perhaps that was why he was so dire. She considered the brooding fellow for a moment.

  “Perhaps she will bring a fortune of her own,” Charity offered. “Then Michael might not need argue for their fortune, for the lady shall have her own.”

  “He should have to marry a lady of great wealth,” Lord Shalace replied. “One as rich as you, or more.”

  “I have given the thought consideration,” she informed her father.

  Her father looked up with a grin. The prospect of a husband to his daughter pleased him.

  He ate the rest of his sandwich and grinned through the food. “James will make a fine match,” he said, “though your mother will not approve.”

  “Not James, Michael.” Charity chewed her lip. Father had confused the gentlemen and repeated himself. It often made for an awkward exchange when others were about, no one was here with them now. Charity was used to her father’s mind wandering, so she gave him a gentle reminder that they had been speaking of the elder brother, Michael and explained, to refresh his memory.

  “Ah yes,” her father fudged. “Well, they are so similar in features that I had mixed the names.” In truth, the brothers looked nothing alike, barely passable as siblings. Charity knew it, but would not correct him. She allowed her father the out. He then began to go on about Michael being the second son, which he was not, and she was forced to sit in silence as he prattled on about the baby.

  “What baby?” she asked at last.

  “Why, Francesca of course!”

  Charity sucked in her breath. Francesca was having her first season. She reminded her father of this, but he was inclined to argue the fact, so Charity let it go. What difference could it make if he thought Francesca Poppy still an infant?

  She thought it was time to go home. She broached the topic to her father, but he refused. “I want to listen to the music,” he said.

  As long as they sat still and quiet, she supposed there was no harm.

  Charity looked up and groaned.

  “What is it?” her father asked. If she had been thinking, Charity would have claimed she was unwell and they could have left, but she did not.

  “It is Lord Wentwell, Father.” She gave a pointed look at a group several yards away but made no other gesture that might reveal of whom she spoke.

  “The cad?” her father asked without hesitation, for Charity had complained much about The Earl of Wentwell in his presence, without much expectation that her father would remember.

  “I shall
give him a piece of my mind,” Lord Shalace said, struggling to his feet.

  “No,” Charity admonished.

  “Is he not the cur who has broken your heart?”

  “No,” she began again, trying to calm her father’s ire. “He means nothing to me.”

  “But that is he? Is it not?”

  “The same,” she nodded. “There, with the linen jacket and the fair redhead upon his arm.” She could not keep the disapproval from leeching into her voice. If she could shake the man, she would.

  “He is not quite so menacing as you had described,” her father observed. “I had quite expected him to boast pointed teeth and the ability to lure a lady to her grave with a wink of an eye.”

  “He is just so,” Charity murmured. “Only, his dangers are hidden beneath a slippery façade. Lord Wentwell should trick you just as well as shake your hand.”

  “Wentwell, you say?” Her father frowned, a puzzled look coming across his face. “I know him. He is not a bad sort of fellow,” Father said. “He has a shrewd eye, despite how far that eye might wander.”

  “Why would you say that, Father? He is loathsome.”

  Of course her father would say such things about someone Charity abhorred. Perhaps in his mind’s eye Lord Shalace had created some goodness in Lord Wentwell’s character. That was it, she determined. Her father had imagined more to the man than she had provided. He had, of course, had many hours to think on it when left to his own devices. Father easily made up untruths in his weak mind.

  “There is nothing more,” Charity said with relish. “He enjoys the pursuit of women. Once he has achieved his ends, she is cast aside so that he might find his pleasure elsewhere. Ruined or no, he could care naught.”

  “I could not blame the man for that,” Father said.

  “Father!” Charity admonished.

  He began to launch into a tale and Charity blushed. “Father,” she chided. “That is not proper discourse for a lady, especially not your own daughter.”

  He frowned but grew quiet, allowing a piece of cucumber to roll down his cravat.

  Charity unobtrusively picked the offending food from her father’s person and she changed the topic for the object of their discussion had wandered too near to risk gossip, and she did not want her father to be agitated. “Are you getting tired, Father? Shall we go home?”

  “No. I want to listen to the music,” he told her. As the musicians struck up a new song, Father told her about a concert that he had attended years ago. She listened with half an ear, glad that he was happy and enjoying the music. They settled themselves comfortably and listened as the musicians struck their chords and eventually her father nodded. His eyes had begun to drop closed, and he seemed less interested in the conversation or the music.

  ~.~

  Chapter Sixteen

  Charity was pleased for the chance to extricate herself from his interview, but she was glad that his spirits might rebound. She turned her attention to the music, which she had heretofore little time to enjoy. She was occupied with seeing her father comfortable.

  Now, she looked around at the crowd. Charity realized that Lord Wentwell and his party sat not far from them. Drat! What ill luck that he would be so close, she thought. She fanned herself, both to dispel the heat and to allow herself the opportunity to chance a covert glance at the Earl from beneath the cover of her fan. Five ladies and two gentlemen sat alongside him. Each of the ladies, save one, had her face turned up towards the Earl. Charity watched his lips move as he spoke, his smile flashing bright teeth and his laughter rolling over the area. The ladies laughed too. Charity huffed from behind her fan. Her eyes were narrowed and if any could see beyond the screen they would have witnessed and unladylike scowl upon her face. She should not be bothered, she reminded herself.

  She turned back to notice her father had awakened from his short nap, and was searching the pockets of his waistcoat.

  “What is it, Father?” she asked.

  “I have lost my vial,” he said.

  “What vial?”

  “My vial,” he said angrily. “My vial! I need it.”

  Charity was uncertain what it was her father wanted and then it dawned on her. “You mean your water? From the Pump Room?” she asked

  “Yes. Yes. I should like a dip.”

  “You mean a sip,” she corrected.

  “I know what I mean, woman,” he said in a loud voice. She hushed him, but he grew angry with her.

  “You forget yourself, Emmeline,” he said.

  Charity froze. He had called her by her mother’s name. This was not good. This was not good at all. Lord Shalace was standing now, fully intending to go off on his own to find his water. She had to stop him.

  “I have not given you leave to call me by my given name,” Charity said haughtily. The words seemed to take the wind out of his sails. If she could keep him from publically calling her by her mother’s name perhaps she could get him home.

  He seemed even more agitated and Charity resorted to wringing her hands around her fan.

  “Please sit,” she whispered. “Calm yourself.”

  “I am calm,” he shouted.

  Several others who were nearby sent annoyed looks their way.

  “I shall retrieve it,” she said in desperation. “Just sit. I will only be a moment.”

  Lord Shalace sat back down, but looked a little restless. “Will you sit?” she said. “I shall get your water.”

  “Get it? I want a dip.”

  “Very well,” Charity said again. “Just sit quietly. I shall only be a moment.” There were sellers who were not far away. She could see them at the crest of the hill. If she could just get to them and back, all would be well. “I am only going over there,” she said.

  Charity gestured over to the far side of the park where a merchant was pedaling small containers full of the healing waters. Charity knew that her father liked to sip the drink and it did always seem to improve his spirits. Perhaps it might allow him to continue to enjoy the outing. Charity wanted nothing more than to make him well. “The water will be just the thing,” she said.

  “That would be just the thing,” he smiled up at her. “I should like nothing more than a quick splash.”

  Charity looked from her father to the merchant. The merchant’s booth was not far away and, though she might not normally have done so, Charity decided that the situation called for her to make the short journey on her own to retrieve the tonic.

  “Yes. Yes. I shall return in a moment’s time,” she promised her father and gestured to the stall only a short walk away where he could watch her the entire journey. “Just there,” she repeated. He nodded, his head appearing heavier by the minute. Maybe he would fall asleep. She wished she could be so lucky.

  Charity stood and grabbed her father’s purse which would contain the coin she needed to purchase the vial of water. She knew not if the miracle waters truly worked, but if they helped her father at all she would avow herself a believer from this day onward.

  She continued to glance back over her shoulder at her father as she picked her way through the crowd. He was leaning back upon his arms and seemed quite comfortable in his leisure. Charity smiled. She would set him to rights in a moment and all would be well. Still, they would be wise to be on their way. She would plead a headache when she returned. They would soon be safely home.

  A deep voice behind her said her name and Charity jumped with alarm.

  “My goodness!” she exclaimed. When she turned to see who had addressed her, she added. “Oh, it’s you,” with a barely contained snarl.

  Lord Wentwell offered her a bow, but she had no time for him. She tried to push past without even a by your leave.

  “Wait,” he said catching her arm.

  “Let go,” she snarled. Charity knew that she should not be so short with the gentleman. But it was for her father that she was abrupt. She must get back to him with his tonic in all haste.

  “Just leave off,” she said wal
king away.

  He followed her.

  “Lady Charity I must apologize for my behavior. I should not have spoken so harshly as I did at the ball. Certainly not to a lady, but I understand if you are still upset with me.”

  Lady Charity sighed as he turned to leave. With a soft word she called him back.

  “Wait,” she said. “Thank you. I am sorry I was short. I am not going far.” Lord Wentwell dropped into step beside her and remained silent as they joined the line awaiting their purchases. Charity wrung her hands together around her fan, twisting it unmercifully. “My father…” she whispered.

  “How is Lord Shalace faring?” Wentwell asked. “Is he feeling better since he has taken the waters?”

  “For a short while, but he is not well,” Charity admitted, though she knew no reason why this gentleman deserved any such explanation. “This morning he was almost his old self, but now he is tiring and…. Well, I was thinking that some water might renew his spirits. At least, I had hoped…”

  “You should never lose your hope,” Lord Wentwell replied. His sincere tone and kind eyes caught Charity off guard. “Those we love deserve every moment of our effort on their behalf.”

  “You tease me…” Charity added, suspicious of his all too appealing approach. Flirtation she could handle because she was prepared for it. His kindness caught her off guard.

  “You may not believe me, but I do understand. No matter what you think of me… I am not without loved ones of my own.”

  He was right, it was hard to believe. It was difficult to imagine that Neville Collington cared for anyone other than himself.

  The topic of her beloved father’s degeneration was a sensitive one, and Charity could not believe that Lord Wentwell had any idea what kind of hurt she felt in her heart. She could not of course, unburden herself to one such as him. He who left ruined ladies in his path would only hurt her, and her father if he knew the extent of her father’s illness.

  “My father seems to do better after taking the waters,” she explained with a level of candor that she had with few people, let alone this stranger. “I thought that a small vial might rejuvenate him so that he might finish the concert. He does not get out as often as I would like.”