He caught himself. What the devil was he about? Was he actually lusting over Miss Sparkler's mouth? He shuddered. All the carnal overindulgence must be affecting his brain, making him see sex everywhere. Yet it seemed that the more one looked, the more one discovered with this odd little mouse.
So stop looking, you coxcomb.
Just as he was about to let her off the hook, she drew her hands from behind her back.
"Alright." Her fingers clasping the leather volume as if it were a prized treasure, she held it out. "If you must."
He couldn't help peering at the cover.
"The Lyrical Ballads by Wordsworth," he said in bemusement.
"Yes." Her chin angled upward, her eyes searching his.
Why the deuce did she feel compelled to hide a volume of harmless poetry? And why was she gazing at him in that ... expectant way? As if she'd just disclosed an extraordinary piece of information—like she'd been a spy for Bonaparte or some such thing—and was waiting for him to react accordingly.
Curious gel, no doubt about it.
Silence stretched between them. The ticking of the longcase clock grew louder in his ears.
"I've read it myself," he said in pleasant tones to offset the awkwardness, "and, if you ask me, the verse is overrated. For its soporific qualities, however, I daresay the poems are first-rate. If you're trying to fall asleep, Wordsworth should do the trick as well as laudanum."
Silence greeted his witticism. As the tension grew, he let out a quiet laugh to emphasize that he was trying to be amusing. But her stricken expression—like a crack spreading through a fine Limoges plate—killed the sound in his throat. He had that incontrovertible feeling one got the instant one's boot made contact with a steaming pile on the street. He felt an overwhelming urge to ... apologize? Before he could open his mouth—to say what, he had no idea—she drew a sharp breath.
"I must go. It is late." Her composure was back, and the only sign that he'd ruffled her was the faint quivering of her bottom lip. "Good night, Mr. Fines."
Her eyes remained trained on the carpet.
"Er, the pleasure was mine, Miss Sparkler." Baffled, discomfited, he bowed low.
By the time he raised his head, she was gone.
FOUR
Charity stifled her impatience as Sarah halted again on the pebbled path leading to the picnic. Sarah was the Sparklers' housemaid, but as Charity had no proper lady's maid and needed a companion for the house party, Sarah had accompanied her. The housemaid was clearly enjoying her temporary role. Peering over a manicured hedge, she let out yet another excited squeal.
"Lord above, miss! Do you know who that is?"
A rhetorical question. Because while Sarah obviously spent her spare time memorizing the society pages, Charity did not. Consequently, she hadn't recognized anyone who Sarah had stopped to gawk at, which was just as well. She was here for one reason only: to see her bosom chum Percy.
Don't fool yourself: you wanted to see him too.
She exhaled. And so she had. She'd seen Mr. Fines, spoken with him, and their exchange had driven the last nail into the coffin that held her dreams. If she'd ever required proof that she meant nothing to him, she'd gotten it last night. She'd known from their past interactions that he remembered nothing of Spitalfields: his inebriated state had taken care of that. But to learn that he didn't even recall quoting Wordsworth to her …
That had wrung the final drop of hope from her heart.
She'd hoarded that poem as if it were a precious jewel when, in reality, it had been a compliment made of paste. Disposable, meaningless, and without worth ... the kind of nonsense a gentleman would utter to a chit he felt sorry for. Her throat thickened.
"Look quickly, Miss Charity, or you'll miss her!" Sarah exclaimed.
Sighing, Charity aimed her gaze in the direction of the maid's finger. She saw an immaculate lawn sprouted with yellow canopies. Guests dressed to the nines strolled or lolled languidly on blankets. Like an army of ants, sweating footmen delivered refreshments, their movements efficient and unceasing in spite of the day's heat. A string quartet played, notes mingling with the laughter of frolicking children.
Scanning the crowd, she said, "Am I supposed to be looking at someone specific?"
"You don't see her, the lady in the lavender lace gown?"
"That describes half the party," Charity said in exasperation.
"With the lovely auburn hair and ruby necklace the size of an egg? The one with the three strapping footmen? The one everyone is trying to get a word with?"
Ah. Charity located the object of Sarah's interest standing several yards away. A handsome, slight woman who carried herself as if she were a queen. Which might very well be possible, given that the party's guest list included the crème de la crème, from aristocrats to foreign dignitaries to the celebrated artists of the day.
"Who is she?" Charity asked.
"Your father really ought to let you out more, miss." Sarah sighed. "That's Marietta Stone. The famous actress?"
Even Charity had heard about Mrs. Stone, who'd gained a reputation for playing heroines disguised as males. Some said that Mrs. Stone's portrayal of Viola in The Twelfth Night was legendary; others claimed the sight of the actress' pantaloon-clad legs filled theatres night after night.
Charity herself had never attended the theatre for Father prohibited frivolous activities. She'd never been to a country house party either, but she'd pleaded with uncharacteristic tenacity until her papa had finally relented and let her come. She'd received an invitation because of Percy, whose family had a long and close history with the hosts, the Marquess and Marchioness of Harteford.
Charity desperately wished to see her friend. Now that Percy was married and busy with her new life, the girls' time together had become increasingly rare. Percy would be arriving at the party fresh from a six-week-long wedding trip with her new husband, and Charity was anxious to know how the other was doing.
She had her own news to share as well. Anxiety mounted as she thought of the parting conversation with her father.
"I'm counting on you, daughter," he'd said, his thin face aged by worry. "You need a husband, and I need a son-in-law to help with Sparkler's. Business isn't what it used to be. You must do your duty if the shop is to survive."
"But surely there are other ways I can help—" she'd said desperately.
"This is the only option. I am sorry, Charity." Her father had given her an awkward pat on the shoulder, but his tone had brooked no refusal. "While you're away, I will make all the arrangements."
Thus, Charity's fate was sealed. The shop meant everything to her father, and she would never let him down. When she returned to London, she would greet the future he had planned for her. She released a breath. If she had only precious days left of freedom, she would not waste them. She wanted to spend that time with her best friend in the world.
"Miss Sparkler, over here! Do come join us."
The melodious tones dispelled her reverie, and she looked over to see her hostess, Lady Helena Harteford, waving from a table shaded by a canopy. Beside her sat Mrs. Anna Fines, mama to Percy and Mr. Fines. Heading over, Charity made her curtsy and took one of the empty chairs. Sarah went off to join the gaggle of maids supervising the children's games.
"You're in fine looks today, Miss Charity," Lady Helena said, smiling.
"Thank you, my lady."
While Charity appreciated the other's kindness, she knew she was unremarkable in her high-necked fawn muslin. Never gild a lily—or a weed, Papa oft said. The weed that draws attention gets plucked. We Sparklers may not possess beauty, but we have the wisdom of modesty.
Out of habit, she touched the silver locket he'd given her for her twelfth birthday; though it was small and plain—what he'd deemed suitable for her—she cherished the gift. She took her father's advice to heart as well, sticking to simple fashions in unobtrusive shades. The only cosmetic she used was a pomade to keep her unruly hair in place. She had no wish to draw
attention to herself or her flaws.
Though if she were beautiful, Charity thought with a wistful pang, she might wear dashing clothes like the marchioness. The lady's warm chestnut beauty was perfectly set off in a frothy, yolk-colored silk embroidered with primroses.
"'Tis you who looks well, my lady," Charity said earnestly.
"Nothing flatters more than a good night's rest." Lady Helena cast a fond glance at the wicker bassinet on the chair next to her. Charity glimpsed the adorable lump of the Hartefords' new infant beneath the white blanket. "Unlike his older brothers, little George actually sleeps. The nurses don't know what to do with the free time."
"The younger siblings have softer temperaments ... or so I've been told. I wouldn't know personally," Mrs. Fines said, with a shake of her downy grey curls, "as both my children were hellions and never slept a wink."
Charity hid a grin. Despite the good lady's wry (and rather deserved) complaints, Anna Fines was entirely devoted to her offspring. Familiar tendrils of yearning crept over Charity. She'd never known a mother's love for her own mama had succumbed to fever shortly after her birth.
"You're enjoying yourself, Charity, I hope?" Lady Helena said. "I am sorry you missed Mrs. Stone's performance last night. Her rendition of Julia from Two Gentlemen of Verona was riveting. But never fear: we have an array of brilliant artists scheduled for the week."
"You're too kind, my lady." While the entertainment would no doubt be impressive, what Charity really wanted was a heart-to-heart with her best friend. "Have you heard from Percy, Mrs. Fines?" she blurted. "I thought she and Mr. Hunt were scheduled to arrive by midday."
"Lord above, you know Percy. Always getting distracted by one adventure or another. Now that she is a published author,"—behind her spectacles, Mrs. Fines' gaze aimed heavenward—"she finds even more excuses to get into scrapes. Research for her novels, she says. Thank goodness she married someone with good sense." She let out a sigh. "Now if only my other child would do the same."
"Mr. Fines seems in good spirits," Lady Helena remarked. "And he was so impressive in that boxing exhibition. Everyone is still agog over his performance."
"It is a relief that Paul has found something to keep him busy—and away from drinking and gaming. The devil makes work for idle hands, I've always said. Now if he would only cease the skirt-chasing as well," Mrs. Fines said, "he'd really be onto something."
"Anna," Lady Helena said with a smothered laugh, "you'll embarrass poor Charity."
"I'm not embarrassed," Charity said.
How could she be, when for one brief, glorious moment she'd been one of the skirts he'd not only chased but caught? The memory of Spitalfields flooded her with yearning and agony in equal measure. Like a weary desert traveler stumbling upon an oasis, she'd gulped down handfuls of the sparkling water ... only to choke on sand. Mr. Fines' desire for her had been a mirage, nothing more.
Which is why you must forget him, avoid him at all costs.
"There you all are. We've been looking all over for you!"
Charity spun in the chair to see her bosom chum approaching in coltish strides. Gladness disbanded her gloomy thoughts. The other girl looked so well. A hat with a floppy cornflower-strewn brim topped Percy's sunny curls, and her lithe figure was clad in a smart, lace-trimmed muslin. She carried a matching parasol, although she needn't have bothered: her husband, Mr. Hunt, provided ample shade.
Gavin Hunt was built as solidly as an oak, and the jagged scar on his right cheek was a memento of his former career as an infamous gaming hell owner. After his marriage, he'd sold his club and bought into partnership with Fines & Company. He now worked with the Marquess of Harteford, who presided over the business.
At one time, Charity had doubted Mr. Hunt's suitability for Percy, but she was relieved to be proved wrong. Percy radiated happiness. Mr. Hunt's steadying influence seemed exactly what the spirited girl needed, and the reverse seemed true as well: Percy's liveliness relieved some of her husband's brooding intensity.
Mr. Hunt bowed to the group. "Good afternoon, ladies," he said in his deep voice.
"And to you, Mr. Hunt." As Mrs. Fines received Percy's kiss on the cheek, she gave her son-in-law a look of approval. "Survived a trip with my girl, have you? And looking none the worse for wear, I see."
A quicksilver grin crossed Mr. Hunt's features. "I hide the scars well, madam."
"Harteford says you are the bravest man he knows," Lady Helena said with a twinkle.
Percy wrinkled her nose. "Back in England not three days and the teasing begins. At least I know I have one friend amongst you all." Her round blue eyes found Charity, who'd been standing to the side, not wanting to intrude on the family scene. Percy held out her arms. "Dear Charity, it's been ages!"
Charity couldn't hold back her trembling smile. "Oh Percy,"—she returned her friend's enthusiastic embrace—"I have missed you."
"And I you. We must have a long chat, just the two of us." Drawing back, Percy gave her an oddly abashed look before addressing the group at large. "But, um, before we do, Mr. Hunt and I have some news that we'd like to share with everyone."
Charity's heart thumped faster.
Mrs. Fines' hands flew to her mouth. "Oh, my dears, are you ...?"
Percy nodded, roses in her cheeks. "Come autumn, you'll be a grandmama."
The announcement led to congratulations and another round of hugs. Charity clasped her chum's hands. "Oh, Percy, I am so very glad for you. You will be the best of mamas, I know it."
"I wouldn't be so sure." Percy shot a mischievous glance at her spouse. "Mr. Hunt is convinced that if we have a daughter, she will turn out a hoyden just like me."
"Are you worried, sir?" Mrs. Fines said, blotting her eyes with a handkerchief.
"Not at all. I like a challenge," Mr. Hunt said.
"Do you have an intuition about the baby's sex, Percy?" Lady Helena said. "Not that a mother's sense is necessarily accurate. I was certain our latest was going to be a girl." The marchioness cast an exasperated look at her rambunctious twin boys who'd just won a three-legged race and were now whooping their triumph in the other contestants' faces. "Obviously," she said dryly, "that was wishful thinking."
"I think we'll have a boy," Percy said, "but Mr. Hunt predicts a daughter. We have a wager on it."
Her husband's tawny eyes gleamed. "One of your finer qualities, buttercup, is that you've always been a gracious loser."
At that rather cryptic remark, Percy's cheeks turned even pinker. "I did not lose that—oh, never mind. I shan't waste my breath arguing. You're as stubborn as a bull when you've made your mind up."
"That makes us a perfect match." With a smile that softened his harsh features, Mr. Hunt said, "Now shall I make myself scarce so that you ladies may gossip in earnest?"
"We do not gossip. We have important female conversations," Percy informed him. "But, yes, do find Nick and Paul and break the news to them. Then you may attend to the vital male business of pummeling one another and smoking smelly cigars."
"When you put it that way, how can I resist?" Mr. Hunt cupped his wife's cheek, his thumb brushing over her lower lip with a tenderness that made Charity's throat constrict and Mrs. Fines blow noisily into her handkerchief. "Remember what the doctor said and don't overdo, alright?"
"We'll keep an eye on her," Lady Helena assured him.
With a bow, Mr. Hunt strode off.
"Come, Percy, you must sit. In your condition—" Mrs. Fines began.
"Oh heavens, Mama, you're worse than Mr. Hunt." Percy went over to the bassinet to admire the babe whilst Lady Helena watched on, beaming. "You know I've always had the constitution of an ox, and pregnancy hasn't changed that one whit. Now what have I missed?"
"We were just talking about your brother," Mrs. Fines said.
Percy's head jerked up. "Is something amiss with Paul?"
"Nothing new. He's just drifting," her mama said. "All he does is box and dally with women."
"Well, he is a rake," Perc
y said. "That's what rakes do."
"Your brother is not a rake."
Lady Helena cleared her throat. "Are you quite certain of that, Anna?"
"Paul may act like a rake, but he isn't one," Mrs. Fines insisted.
"Um … what is the difference?" Percy said.
A notch formed between Mrs. Fines' brows. "He may fool others with his devil-may-care attitude, but I know my boy. He's only engaging in tomfoolery because he hasn't found something better to do."
"Paul is bored. Most rakes are," Percy said. "I still don't see the difference."
"The difference is character," Charity said quietly.
Mrs. Fines gave a triumphant nod. "I've always said that you're an astute girl, Charity."
"Then I must be dull-witted because I still don't get the difference," Percy muttered.
At Mrs. Fines' urging look, Charity said hesitantly, "Mr. Fines is not careless ... at heart. To the contrary, he has a sensitive, compassionate disposition. Unlike a true rake, he cares about others—deeply, I should say. And his family most of all."
She felt a pang of bittersweet yearning. One of the qualities she most admired in Mr. Fines was his intense loyalty toward the ones he loved. Toward his family … and Rosalind Drummond.
"Exactly so." Mrs. Fines reached over and patted her hand. "You understand my son's nature completely. As a boy, he brought his mama flowers, protected his sister, and always had a kind word and a helping hand for everyone. I've never known a soul so capable of joy. He may believe himself a disappointment at the moment,"—sadness ghosted through her faded blue eyes—"but a hero lives within him yet."
"A hero needs but a cause," Lady Helena murmured. "There are many suitable young ladies present, Anna. Shall I make introductions?"
Mrs. Fines sighed. "One can lead a horse to water."
The two ladies began to discuss a list of candidates. Charity wanted to tell them that it was useless: Mr. Fines had given his heart to the one lady he could not have, and despite his rakish facade, his was a faithful heart. Whoever he married would be fated for misery if she hoped for his love.
Her Prodigal Passion Page 3
