Pin money was Charlotte’s to use as she alone saw fit—even Sherbourne had defined it thus—and yet, deceiving him made her uneasy. Telling him the truth regarding the various Mrs. Wesleys was impossible. Not yet. Not before the wedding, and possibly not after.
Maggie lifted the pot as if to refill Charlotte’s cup, but Charlotte hadn’t taken more than a polite sip. Her ladyship set down the teapot and gave Charlotte an uncomfortably protracted perusal.
“Charlotte, you were seen by Their Graces in a most passionate embrace with your prospective spouse. If you don’t care for him, say so now.”
That interrupted farewell kiss had not been the most passionate Charlotte had shared with Sherbourne.
“I respect the gentleman greatly, but hardly know what to expect from marriage to him.” After Charlotte’s initial refusal of his suit, how could their wedding night be anything but awkward? “He was compelled by honor to propose to me, and that is not the best foundation for a successful marriage.”
“Would you like a crumpet?”
“No, thank you.” Did polite society have nothing better to do than swill tea and consume sweets?
“If honor compelled him to propose, what compelled you to accept?”
The same inconvenient honor. “I was tired of turning down buffoons. Mr. Sherbourne is a surpassingly sensible man and he doesn’t put on airs.”
“You’re saying he suits you.”
Charlotte wanted to bolt away from the conversation, but Maggie was family, and as the oldest female cousin, she’d always been something of a confidante.
“I hope he suits me. I still need more pin money.”
“Then we’ll reduce his contribution to your dower account.”
He had offered settlements at the limit of what Maggie considered prudent. Why? “Reduce them by as much as you can without insulting him. I have no wish to beggar my husband.”
“You won’t,” Maggie said, munching on a crumpet. “He’s merely in the same position as most of the best families, though his wealth is tied up in commercial assets rather than land. He has a substantial income, and he’s reinvesting much of it in his mining venture. New businesses typically require capital and attention before they become profitable. He also refuses to treat his bank as his personal treasure trove, which is commendable.”
Maggie reviewed with Charlotte the terms of the proposed agreement, paragraph by paragraph, but Charlotte couldn’t focus. The numbers stuck with her of course, but the endless, convoluted words…
“You’re woolgathering,” Maggie said, some thirty minutes later. “With a wedding in less than a week, you’re entitled.”
By special license, of course. The stated reason was to allow the ceremony to take place at the Moreland townhouse, but the real reason was Her Grace’s nerves.
“I’m preoccupied,” Charlotte said, the grandmama of all understatements, surely. “I wish I knew what to expect. Mr. Sherbourne and I aren’t that well acquainted. I know hardly anything about him.”
Maggie patted her hand. “Marriage is an adventure for two. Look for the good in him, the same as you would with any friend. Give him your loyalty and the benefit of the doubt, find things to laugh about together, and don’t worry if the early days are a bit bumpy. That’s part of it.”
What about the wedding night? What about those moments under the covers when the two became as one flesh?
“Maggie, the whole business makes me…anxious.”
Panicked, in truth. Charlotte was about to take vows with a man who believed she didn’t respect him, and who very possibly didn’t respect her. How in all creation was she to get through the wedding night?
“If you’re anxious, that’s good. Marriage is an enormous step. One shouldn’t take it lightly.” Maggie left off studying the garden. “They’re back,” she said, rising and gathering her skirts. “I can hear them coming up the alley. We must greet them and hear all about their adventures.”
Charlotte rose slowly, keeping a hand on the back of her chair. “You’ll see the settlements modified? More pin money, less invested in the funds?”
“Of course, though I think you’re daft. You’re also a bit pale, but then, this has been an exciting week. Come along, my dear, and prepare to be regaled with tales of dragons and wizards.”
Charlotte followed Maggie back into the house, more relieved than she could say. The wedding night was still a looming ordeal, but at least she’d weathered tea on her ladyship’s third-floor balcony without serious embarrassment.
* * *
“We found Cousin Charlotte’s friend in the park,” the Earl of Hazelton said. “Much to the delight of all concerned.”
Hazelton, a dark-haired brute with northern antecedents in his speech, was being ironic.
“Charlotte, good day,” Sherbourne said, as Hazelton—in broad daylight and with minor children looking on—kissed his countess on the cheek. “Won’t you introduce us?”
In the park, Hazelton hadn’t stood on ceremony. With a toddler grasped by the hand and a very small child clinging to his back, he’d marched right up to Sherbourne and demanded to make the acquaintance of Cousin Charlotte’s friend.
Charlotte looked pale and pretty in a sprigged muslin walking dress that was several years out of date, judging by the waistline. She recited the introductions with a haste that verged on uncordial.
“May I walk you home?” Sherbourne asked. “I’m sure Hazelton can see to my horse.”
“I’d be happy to,” Hazelton said, slipping an arm around his countess’s waist, for pity’s sake.
“We’ll wish you good-day, then.” Sherbourne offered Charlotte his arm. She hadn’t consented to his escort, but her pallor, her quiet, and the way she retied her bonnet ribbons—twice—suggested she might welcome a respite from all this marital affection.
Nonetheless, much cheek kissing and hugging was required before two women who’d probably seen each other every week for the past fourteen years could part. They’d see each other again in a few days, though Charlotte had agreed to leave for Wales immediately after the wedding breakfast.
“Did your cousin terrify you with lurid tales of the wedding night?” Sherbourne asked as he and his intended started down the alley.
“She dodged discussion of wedding nights in any sense.”
Which meant Charlotte had, indeed, raised the topic. “This bothers you.” Was that why Charlotte was pale? “We needn’t consummate the marriage until we’re home in Wales, if you prefer.” The words were out, spoken by some idiot with pretensions to gentlemanly consideration—or cowardice.
“Will putting the business off make it any easier?”
The business. She referred to consummation of solemn vows, the first joining of man and wife, as the business.
“Delaying the wedding night will allow for the occasion to be more private. I don’t fancy making my debut as your lover at some noisy coaching inn.”
Charlotte’s pace slowed as they approached the street. “You don’t?”
He did, he did, he most certainly did. The traveling coach was another possibility, and quite comfortable.
“One wants to make a good first impression.”
Her smile was hesitant. “Are you nervous, Mr. Sherbourne?”
He was attracted to her, but on another level, he was uneasy. Charlotte had chosen him over scandal, making them reluctant partners at best—a marriage not of cordial convenience, but of pure expedience.
“We will have decades of married life to share a bed. Why hurry into the situation when we could instead choose the moment that best pleases us both?”
The situation? The ailment of vocabulary Charlotte suffered was apparently contagious.
Charlotte lowered her voice despite the racket provided by the nearby street. “Part of me wants to get the consummation over with.”
And part of her dreaded the occasion. Splendid. They walked along, two people bound for marriage and possibly for perdition.
“Di
d your cousin review the settlements with you?”
“In detail. I’m asking for more pin money but less in the funds. Nothing would do but Maggie must have this discussion with me on her favorite third-floor balcony.”
Why more pin money, and what did a third-floor balcony have to do with—?
Sherbourne’s bedroom was on the third floor of his manor house and had a lovely balcony. This did not bode well for the wedding night, even in Wales. The rest of their walk home was made without conversation. Apparently, Charlotte’s pallor resulted from tea on a third-floor balcony, not worry over the wedding night.
Though she was worried, and thus Sherbourne was worried. Ye gods, marriage was making him daft before he’d even spoken his vows. That Charlotte’s cousin hadn’t respected her fear of heights was disquieting, but that Charlotte wanted more pin money was…a problem.
What could she possibly spend lavish pin money on in rural Wales?
And how would he come up with yet more coin for the bride who was marrying him only to avoid disgrace?
Chapter Six
“Everything Lucas Sherbourne touches turns to gold.” Quinton, Earl of Brantford, was certain of this happy conclusion. “Papa-in-law disapproves of him on that basis alone. Says new money should never be trusted.”
“His lordship sets great store by tradition.” Meyerbeek wrapped a stack of papers in a folder and tied it with red ribbon. Brantford’s man of business was large and bluff, though he took care with the papers, ribbon, and bow.
Lord Halstead also set great store by his daughter, whom Brantford had married a good five years ago—or was it six? Possibly seven. Veronica was a mousy little thing who had yet to produce a single infant. Other than that, she was an untroublesome wife who’d brought beautiful settlements to marriage.
Though an earl without an heir was not a man to be envied.
“Dear papa-in-law has yet to put his financial house in order,” Brantford said, because Meyerbeek had doubtless heard the gossip, and ignoring the obvious would only fuel speculation. “When the inevitable happens, I hope to be in a position to prevent scandal for my in-laws.”
Which scandal would, of course, wash up on Brantford’s own shores.
“Very noble of you, sir.” Meyerbeek tied up another set of papers. “You are well on your way to a handsome fortune. Nonetheless, I must echo his lordship’s caution where Mr. Sherbourne’s new coal mine is concerned.”
Meyerbeek’s penchant for caution was as reliable as Veronica’s appointments at the milliner’s. The woman was addicted to buying hats.
“You don’t trust Sherbourne?” Behind the closed doors of Brantford’s private office, he could pose that question to a subordinate. In the clubs, nobody would dare be so blunt when Sherbourne’s bank held mortgages on a number of titled estates.
“Mr. Sherbourne’s integrity as a businessman is above reproach, from what I’ve gathered. He doesn’t engage in sharp practice, doesn’t go back on a contract signed and sealed, but the mining operation is different.”
Mines were simple businesses. One dug a hole, excavated valuable ore, and got paid for it. Miners grumbled about low wages, and the occasional mine collapsed, but England’s appetite for coal was insatiable and thus the profit was reliable.
“Different how?” Brantford asked, keeping his seat behind his desk.
“The Duke of Haverford is Sherbourne’s neighbor and soon to be connected to him by marriage. Haverford is only supporting this mine because Sherbourne has promised to run it as an example of the most enlightened business practices. The workers are to have decent housing, no children will be employed below the surface, that sort of thing. Very forward-thinking, if you take my meaning.”
Progress was good and usually went hand in hand with profit. Forward thinking could be troublesome.
“All the more reason,” Brantford said, “that Sherbourne should ally himself with somebody who can be the voice of wisdom in the face of Haverford’s fanciful notions. His Grace is a fine fellow, but like my papa-in-law, he clings to land rents, flocks, and herds as the only acceptable sources of income.”
“Those aspects of our economy remain vitally important.” Meyerbeek tapped his hat onto his head. “Might I suggest, if you do invest in Mr. Sherbourne’s mine, that you pay a call on your business partner in Wales and inspect the works yourself? Haverford lives in the immediate area and would take your involvement more seriously if you showed the flag, as it were.”
Wales had decent shooting, and Veronica didn’t exactly need her husband underfoot during the little season.
“I’ll consider it. My thanks as always for your efforts, Meyerbeek.”
Meyerbeek went on his way, folders tucked in a plain black leather satchel. Brantford waited a suitable interval—one did not perambulate about Mayfair with one’s man of business—then timed his own departure so he’d be only a few minutes late for his appointment with Sherbourne.
Sherbourne’s butler was all anybody could wish for in an upper servant, and the townhouse was appointed in elegant, if slightly overstated, good taste. Brantford’s host greeted him in a room that might have been any lord’s estate office—ancestors scowling down from portraits on the walls, carpets thick and recently swept—but for the plethora of correspondence in four different trays on the desk.
“You are a busy man.” The letters Brantford could see all bore a recent date. Sherbourne was also, apparently, a man who didn’t let his affairs go untended for long.
“I said as much,” Sherbourne replied. “Please have a seat.”
A seat facing the desk was a novel perspective, putting Brantford uncomfortably in mind of frequent interviews with his papa when deportment at university had been disappointing.
Sherbourne likely knew this. He didn’t know enough to ring for tea, though, which was a shame when the man could maunder on at such tiresome length about a damned coal mine.
“You have a solid grasp of the venture you’re undertaking,” Brantford said, “and the terms you propose for my role are agreeable, in principle. When can you reduce them to writing?”
Sherbourne opened a drawer, produced a sheaf of papers, and passed them across the desk.
“You’ll find four copies, two for you and two for me. I’ve signed them all. My staff can witness your signature, if you’re inclined to invest.”
A conundrum presented itself: Sherbourne’s quaint insistence on doing business face-to-face had proved useful. Brantford liked knowing that he wasn’t engaging in commerce with some vulgar cit, liked knowing exactly where Sherbourne would dwell when in town. He liked seeing proof that Sherbourne was industrious and conscientious about his affairs.
For Sherbourne to insist on an appointment on his terms and on his turf was a petty stratagem, but tolerable. This notion of signing a legal document on the spot, though…not the done thing.
“I’d need time to read every word,” Brantford said. “I mean no slight to you, of course, but any scribe can make a mistake or misinterpret his master’s directions.”
Sherbourne rose and withdrew a key from a japanned box on the mantel. “I wrote out all four copies myself. As contracts go, it’s brief and to the point.” He wound the clock on the mantel, which would typically be a butler’s job.
The hour approached three, and at four Brantford was expected at a cozy little household off of Cavendish Square. A gentleman kept a new mistress waiting at peril to his exchequer.
“Let’s have a look,” Brantford said, smoothing out a copy of the contract. “Though perhaps you’d be good enough to order us a tea tray while I read?”
His objective was to get Sherbourne out of the room, because a bit of judicious reconnaissance was called for.
Sherbourne merely tugged on a bell pull twice.
Well, damn. Lucas Sherbourne was no fool, an oddly cheering realization. Brantford’s money would be safe in Sherbourne’s hands, and that was the larger concern. Besides, the terms on paper weren’t exactly binding on
a peer of the realm, despite what the courts might lead the common man to believe.
Sherbourne resumed his seat behind the desk and took up the first of the items stacked in the nearest tray.
“You’re soon to be married, I hear,” Brantford said a few minutes later. In all the world, was any soporific more effective than lawyerly prose?
Sherbourne didn’t even look up from his reading. “Miss Charlotte Windham has looked with favor upon my suit.”
“You can’t fool me, Sherbourne. You’re no more smitten with your bride than I am with the prospect of Lady Deerwood’s card party tonight.”
Sherbourne set the letter aside, shot his cuffs, and folded his hands on the blotter. “Did you just insult my fiancée?”
Oh, dear. The lower orders could be high sticklers, witness the proliferation of etiquette manuals they consulted on everything from social calls to funerals.
“I insult neither you nor your lovely bride, Sherbourne. I insult the institution of marriage. I have years of experience with holy matrimony that you have yet to acquire. Allow me my crotchets, hmm?”
Sherbourne resumed reading. “If your experience of marriage has been disappointing, then you insult yourself, for I know a gentleman would never slander his wife.”
Brantford resumed reading, mostly to hide a smile. Sherbourne was precious, in his ferocious propriety and his unrelenting focus on business. The clubs were buzzing about his upcoming nuptials, wondering how and why he’d become engaged to the formidable Charlotte Windham.
Money had doubtless played a role. As a bachelor, Brantford had observed Miss Charlotte from the safe distance of the men’s punch bowl. She had an air of discontent, and at an archery tournament her aim was notoriously unreliable.
Or rather, too accurate. Perhaps the Windhams had paid Sherbourne to spirit the lady off to Wales.
“That reminds me,” Brantford said, giving up in the middle of the paragraph about indemnifying and holding harmless. “I’ll want to inspect the works firsthand. I’m told it’s sound business to have a look oneself, rather than rely on—what is the word?—toadies?”
A Rogue of Her Own Page 8
