by Anne Mallory
“Oh?”
Charlotte wanted to look anywhere other than at her friend as the carriage began to move, but found her eyes glued, unable to focus anywhere else.
Miranda reached over and touched her hand. “Are you well?”
“I am.” She tried to relax now that she was with a friend. Not needing to be strict and cold. But her body wasn’t responding—straight, frozen, unyielding. “What did Downing tell you?”
Best to face things head-on.
“He said Roman Merrick won you in a card game two nights past and that you were handed off last night. He also mumbled something that sounded like a death threat, but waved it off when I asked.” Miranda’s lip caught between her teeth. “So . . . did . . . did you wish to speak of it?”
Charlotte called up some semblance of feigned amusement. “It all sounds like a grand adventure, but nothing happened. You can assure Downing of that.”
“I will.” She touched her skirt. “So, what was Mr. Merrick like?”
Charlotte shrugged, the thought of heated lips brushing hers making her shift. “Pleasant.” It was true. Somewhat.
“And your father—”
“I don’t wish to speak of him.”
“Of course,” Miranda murmured. “But I want you to know that you have our complete support. Maxim and I will do everything to help you should something occur.” Miranda maintained direct contact with her for a moment before looking out the window. “Or if something already did,” she said too casually.
Charlotte gave a false laugh. “It might be a grand tale to tell, but we simply talked. And played chess.” She didn’t want to think about the fact that she had lost the game. That losing came with distinct . . . consequences.
Consequences that were somehow steaming part of the ice inside. Turning it into a swirling maelstrom that demanded outlet.
“Chess?” Miranda’s brows drew together. “Chess? But I thought Maxim said . . . well, no bother. Roman Merrick does have a mercurial sort of reputation. I didn’t notice anything strange at Lady Hodge’s, and goodness knows Bethany Case is a dreadful woman and would be the first to spread any such rumor. Though Mr. Trant might . . . be a bother. Maxim and I will help with anything. There is nothing that we can’t all fix, should we do it together.”
Maxim, not Downing, of course. Miranda never referred to her husband by his courtesy title outside of the drawing rooms.
“You have a love match, Miranda,” she whispered. “Of course it would seem that way.”
Miranda’s brows rose before she looked at Charlotte searchingly. “Charlotte?”
They were a love match in every sense of the words. Even when the betrothal papers between Charlotte and Downing had nearly been pressed with ink, Charlotte had known with cold certainty what her fate in life would be.
Had accepted that she would always be second fiddle to her husband’s mistress. Had calmly prepared herself for such—after all, she had lived with her parents’ mirror of the same her entire life.
Now it simply would be a different man pressing his signature into the paper. She hadn’t known Downing well or loved him even a little, so the matter of a different band upon her finger meant nothing. In truth, nothing had changed. Though the extra crack, straining the already distended balloon, said everything had.
“Anything seems possible to you now that you are together.” Charlotte wanted that feeling. Yearned for the hope of it. Buried the admission of it deep inside. “But here on the other side . . . I can’t believe that yet.”
Miranda blinked, then opened her mouth, but the overwhelming burst flooded from Charlotte.
“And I am unbelievably happy for you, I always will be, but I am jealous and can’t quite accept the same rosy outlook.” Her pride was yelling at her to stop speaking. “And I will have to do as Father says. Or I’ll put Emily in jeopardy. And even if I figure out a way to remove Emily from peril—familial and social—I am still . . .”
She waved a hand. Empty. Unlike all of those vibrant women who had learned to love themselves instead of living up to some ideal.
“Oh, Charlotte,” Miranda said, grabbing her hand. “You are in a precarious situation. And there is nothing wrong with desiring a love match.” Nothing wrong with you. Miranda’s fingers gripped hers almost uncomfortably. “There is nothing like the feeling of being in love,” Miranda whispered. “And Charlotte, you will find love. I believe that.”
Charlotte forced a smile, trying to keep her voice light. “Yes, of course.” Who was to say that Trant, should he finally convince Father to accept his suit, or one of the others, wouldn’t love her, and she love him in return?
Just being near Miranda and Downing, befriending them in truth, feeling their love, seeing their shared glances, had spread fissures like a hand pressed against an already splintered pane.
Miranda’s gloved hand pressed into hers again, against that cold and broken pane. “There are many men who would be delighted for you to show them interest.”
Charlotte looked to the window. “But Father will simply turn them away. He is going to ruin us completely with his insatiable urge for the match of the century. We are little more than upstarts, yet he conveniently forgets.”
“You’re not alone in this anymore. We would support you should you even run to Gretna.”
“One more scandal to add to Downing’s clan?” she said lightly, removing her hands.
Miranda grinned, relief showing. “There is no family who does scandal better.”
Charlotte pinched her thigh, trying to keep the emotions down. Emotions that threatened the pit.
“Charlotte?”
Charlotte waved, tears threatening.
“Charlotte?” Miranda sounded frantic.
They could help, it was true. But even their unconditional support wouldn’t stem the tide against her. The filth of the rumors staining Emily. No money or family title to cover any loss of standing.
In society, she was nothing but her reputation. And her beauty. It was the empty shell of which she consisted.
The carriage rocked to the side as they pulled onto the Delaneys’ street.
“If anything of your night should be discovered, or reappear . . .” Miranda was obviously frantically trying to figure out what to say.
An empty shell on a beach crowded with them. She thought of the night before, of the heated feelings that had thrummed through her, filling the void. Of the relief she had felt. Yes. Someday . . . someday she would be more.
“Thank you, Miranda.” She dragged comforting, false, coolness to her. “But I doubt I shall ever even see Roman Merrick again.”
Irony, even sarcastic irony, could only be trumped by punctuality.
Chapter 8
Charlotte halted at the open doors to the Delaneys’ sprawling backyard. A vision of the white king—sitting mockingly atop her dressing table—flitted through her head.
People milled about the expansive patio, speaking and laughing, waiting for Mr. and Mrs. Delaney to call the gathering to order. There were people everywhere, but Charlotte couldn’t look away from one.
Miranda bumped into her back.
“Oh, my apologies, Char—Miss Chatsworth,” Miranda said.
“No, it’s my fault,” she murmured, unable to shift her attention to any of the other guests or to move out of the way of others who might be queuing up behind her. “My apologies, Lady Downing.”
But still she didn’t move.
Golden hair brushed handsome features as he stood, relaxed in conversation with Mr. Delaney. Thoughts of kings and pawns, feathers and blades, fear and temptation, fanned across her skin like the breeze that drifted through the spring trees, blowing petals to the ground.
There must have been fifty people in the yard, and still she couldn’t look away from one.
“Miss Chatsworth?” Miranda’s voice rose slightly higher, more urgent.
Charlotte snapped to and walked through the opening, turning to a group of ladies, who coolly w
elcomed her and Miranda.
Miranda, bless her, looked as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred and quickly joined in the conversation.
Charlotte exchanged cool greetings with the women. On any other day, she would don her social, charitable skin, the one that had a bit of a bite in order to get things accomplished—to woo donors to part with their money the way her father parted with all of theirs after a few drinks and few rolls of the dice, but instead, as she strained to hear a conversation farther away, she felt only the skin of the nervous debutante she had been so long ago.
A white petal fell to her sleeve, a gift from a flowering blackthorn, and she lifted it between two fingers, his voice drifting over her skin in a similar manner, smooth on top, grainy beneath. “We would be delighted to extend our assistance, Mr. Delaney.”
She shivered, everything in her tightening at the sound. He was claiming attendance for charity works. But why, was the question. And the timing of his presence, even though his presence itself was nominally acceptable considering the agenda, led to a more pertinent question for her. Had he come for a collection instead of a donation? And would he do so during the gathering?
“Excellent, excellent,” their host said enthusiastically. “The missus had a good idea with this, what, what?”
“I have been looking forward to it all morning.” Roman’s voice purred, and she could picture the smile forming about his lips, the casual direction of his gaze as it brushed her, causing her to shiver again.
Miranda’s elbow clipped hers, and Charlotte snapped back to the conversation in front of her. It was the second time she had forgotten herself in so few minutes. She stiffened, making sure her face was composed.
“I wonder what they have planned,” Miranda said, in her soft, friendly voice. “Miss Chatsworth is keeping her lips sealed.” Miranda gave her a mock frown, and the rest of the group looked at Charlotte without surprise. “But I find it unbearably intriguing that the Delaneys decided to call benefactors from all over London to join together. I think it a splendid idea.”
Charlotte had thought so too until ten minutes past.
One of the ladies sniffed. “There is nothing wrong with preserving the current societies.”
The separate societies. Merchant class, upper class, outer class . . .
“Of course, there is nothing wrong with them,” Charlotte agreed, choosing her most aloof manner of answering, as the elder matrons liked that best. “And they will be preserved. The Ladies’ Society itself is without equal. But by pooling our ideas and resources, think of the good that can be accomplished for all of London? For what makes life safer and better in the East End also affects the safety of the West. Think of the knowledge that can be shared? Generating information from different perspectives. A tapestry of views. There are some things that only the lower classes can understand, and others that only those born to privilege innately know.”
The lady seemed only willing to concede the latter. But her nose dropped a hair. “You have expressed interesting thoughts, Miss Chatsworth, but some just innately know better for everyone.”
Charlotte had the urge to say something that would get her into a lot of trouble. She swallowed the retort and tried not to examine from where the itch had sprung. As if Roman had given her some sort of coiled spring to thrust her to her social doom, and just being near him activated it.
That she wanted to activate it was what worried her most. Just like the insidious distention of the balloon at Lady Hodge’s parlor when she realized no one had discovered the truth of the previous night. That Roman had somehow allowed her to acknowledge some dark need within herself. Something deep and deadly that had waited far too long to burst forth.
The woman sniffed again. “But did we need to meet together? I heard that the couple over there, near the rosebushes, owns a dress shop. What next? Our butcher at the King’s ball? We could have met separately, voted, and formed a coalition to meet.”
Which would save the woman from being dirtied by the touch of anyone not of the highest caliber.
Miranda’s foot was tapping. Not a good sign. But Charlotte was feeling incredibly responsive to the idea of not restraining her friend.
“Mrs. Kerringly, you didn’t have to attend today,” Miranda flatly said.
The woman gave a look of great affront. “Of course I did. Silly child.” She didn’t dare cut Miranda, for she was no longer simply the niece of a common bookseller. Charlotte found herself less concerned for her friend than she would have a few days past. Miranda had more grace and good fortune in her little finger than Mrs. Kerringly could ever hope to possess.
She and Downing could simply flip their noses, should they choose. Like Roman Merrick, languid, with an expression beyond amused, as he took in the surrounding faces. People were both appalled and enthralled as they surveyed him.
Mrs. Kerringly nodded coldly at the group. “Boundaries, like rivers, are in nature for a reason. Good for you younger ladies to be reminded of that.” She excused herself and stiffly walked away with two of her equally starchy friends.
Boundaries were already clearly defined in the spaces, pockets, and groups gathering together, even now. There were very few places in the ton that were accessible to outsiders, and even where they were found, like at Lady Banning’s literary salon, the divide was still visually apparent.
“Grumpy bats. We don’t need a coalition to sort things.” Mrs. Johnson slid a string of her bonnet, pulling it back and forth, a gleaming, speculative look in her pretty eyes as she looked out to the groups on the grass. “Not when there are a number of people here who I’ve never seen before. Such a good thing, to expand one’s acquaintances, don’t you think?”
Charlotte didn’t have to follow her eyes to see where she looked. She knew where she was looking.
Another woman did follow her gaze though and laughed. “Better rein in those impulses to meet new acquaintances, Mrs. Johnson. Those grumpy bats will have you banished to the country.”
“Whatever for?” She pulled the string, head tilted, gleaming eyes still observing him. “This is a unique initiative, to learn from others, a gathering to stretch boundaries. I merely seek to stretch myself.”
“Indeed. We will mourn your passing, my dear,” Mrs. Tapping said. Though Charlotte knew the lady was far more likely to hold a celebratory ball instead.
“Mrs. Tapping, you are being absurd,” Mrs. Johnson responded. “The man in question is speaking to our esteemed host right now. And there are at least three other men vying to enter the conversation.”
“And assuredly the other men will gravitate that way sooner or later, but they sure as rain in February aren’t going to introduce any of us. Not the introduction you seek. They will introduce us to some of the people here, but they will definitely not introduce you to him,” she said pointedly.
“He’s obviously a wealthy man.” Mrs. Johnson extended an eye down his frame. “Very wealthy. And it’s evident to anyone with a pair of eyes, that man knows the right way to get things accomplished. Ways most people don’t observe.” She smiled in a catlike manner. “And I have never let silly rules of etiquette get in my way.”
Charlotte could already see the woman plotting the best way to bump into him. Charlotte didn’t understand why her own muscles tightened at the thought.
“Your mother and father will have a fit.” There was an actual warning there, underlining the singsong words, as if Mrs. Tapping wanted her rival to dive off the pier, yet at the same time felt compelled to warn a fellow swimmer. There was also an undeniable hook to her words, and Charlotte finally understood the woman’s game.
“My parents don’t control my actions anymore.” There was a smugness to the words that Charlotte envied. “And Mr. Johnson knows better.” Her smug smile grew, that of a woman who knew she held some key strings.
“Mr. Johnson is not part of this equation. Easily wiped aside. Do you see the man you are ogling? Look at how he holds himself. He is more than you can h
andle, Mrs. Johnson.”
The woman scoffed. “No one is more than I can handle. And how he holds himself? He looks like a gentleman.”
One of the younger women looked dubious. “I don’t know. There is something quite alarming about him. He is almost too handsome, don’t you think? And he looks more like he is pretending to be a gentleman. Something about him makes me want to find Father.”
Charlotte thought he might as well have “would be in Newgate, if I weren’t rich” imprinted on his forehead. Or maybe “would be in Hell, if I weren’t so beautiful.”
Mrs. Johnson waved a hand. “That is because you are a silly little twit of a girl.” She looked at Mrs. Tapping’s smug face. “Fine, Mrs. Tapping, my interest is heightened more than it was already piqued. Who is he?”
The other woman looked pleased that she had won the battle to reveal her knowledge, securing all eyes in her direction.
“Roman Merrick.”
Charlotte listened to the inhaled breaths and fervently drank in the expressions on all the faces around her, feeling her own brand of internal smugness at what they contained—shock, fear, heightened interest, dismay.
Mrs. Johnson looked as if she’d been smacked. “I don’t believe you.”
Miranda, bless her, didn’t look Charlotte’s way, though Charlotte knew she wanted to. Her friend suddenly found her lace cuff very interesting, eyes wide. Charlotte didn’t even want to guess at her thoughts.
“Who is Roman Merrick?” one of the bolder, younger girls asked, not exactly softly, mystified.
Charlotte hoped Roman hadn’t overheard the girl’s question. Knowing he assuredly had, with her luck. That now he might be thinking that she was speaking of him. The consequences, if he formed his own opinion of their conversation, were too dreadful to contemplate.
He could do anything from smirking at her to coming over and pinching her rear.
