by Lenora Bell
“Have a care, Lady Dorothea.” A muscle clenched in his jaw. “You don’t know the horrors I’ve witnessed in Trinidad and fought to put a stop to. Children dying of starvation. Pregnant women put to the lash. The tide of inhumanity is too strong. If one trickle is stopped, a flood of barbarism erupts somewhere else.”
The pain etched on his face was so intense that she wanted to take him in her arms and comfort him.
She stared into his eyes. “I understand. But please don’t neglect the abuses at your own doorstep. In my charity work I’ve seen girls like these forced into bawdy houses because of inadequate factory wages.”
She was shaking. And she didn’t care about being Lady Dorothea right now. In this moment she had the chance to do some good for these girls, to make the duke see his error.
“The reform societies seek to raise them up out of the mire of iniquity,” she continued, “but tell me—who focuses on the root of the problem? Who educates them? Who gives them a fair wage?”
His hands moved from the wall to cup her chin. “I didn’t think a privileged lady like you would care so deeply. What makes you care?”
The resignation in a young girl’s eyes after she sold her body for the first time.
The girls who worked the streets turning to cheap gin to dull the pain.
Red sores marring pretty faces, hair falling out in clumps when the pox took hold.
“It’s because I have so much,” Charlene whispered. “And these girls have nothing. Nothing.”
The duke wiped away her tears with his thumb, framing her face with his hands. “You never fail to surprise me.”
“I have a dream, Your Grace. I want to start a boardinghouse for young girls. Not a prison masquerading as charity like Lady Gloucester’s asylum, but a safe place for vulnerable girls to go when they have nowhere else to turn. I would provide for their education.”
And she would teach them how to defend themselves. Give them confidence in their abilities.
Would Lady Dorothea say things like this? Would she even have cared enough to say something about Smith’s treatment of the girls?
The duke smiled at her, and she forgot how to breathe.
“I like that idea immensely,” he said.
She was suddenly aware of how close they were standing. How the wall pressed against her back and the duke hemmed her front, just as solid. Where was the countess now? She should be here to catch them in a compromising position because Charlene was inches from being kissed again.
“You know?” said the duke. “I’m wondering if maybe my factory might serve a similar—”
She would never know what he’d been about to say because they were interrupted by a breathless Lady Gloucester, her plentiful bosom heaving with the exertion of running down the corridor.
The duke leapt away from Charlene, but Lady Gloucester didn’t seem to have noticed their intimate position.
“Have you seen Lady Augusta? I can’t think where she’s gone.”
The duke took Lady Gloucester’s arm and ushered her down the hallway. “I’m sure she can’t have gone far. When was the last time you saw her?”
“Only ten minutes ago. But that Van Veen fellow cornered me and was explaining all about cocoa solids or something, and I quite lost sight of her.”
“There’s a splendid view of the valley from an observation room upstairs. Perhaps she is enjoying the view.”
“Do you think so? Oh, I hope so.”
She was very distraught. What trouble did she think her daughter was in? Charlene recalled Lord Dalton’s seductive smile and chiseled profile as he’d told her he’d help her win the duke.
All the storerooms along the corridor were empty or locked. They climbed upstairs. The duke opened a door.
And Lady Gloucester loosed an ear-piercing scream.
Dalton stepped in front of Lady Augusta to shield her from view, but not before James registered her flushed cheeks, just-been-kissed lips, and disheveled hair.
“Why, Augusta, why?” Lady Gloucester wailed.
“Calm down, please,” Dalton said. “I was only looking for something in her eye. I think she had a piece of dust caught in there.”
James snorted.
“I feel faint.” Lady Gloucester swayed. Charlene caught her and propped her up as best she could.
“Why must you always kiss the wrong ones, Augusta, you maddening girl?” Lady Gloucester moaned.
Lady Augusta tugged her bodice back into place. “I’m sorry, Mama. You know I try to be good.” Her clear blue eyes brimmed with tears. “Only I’m simply not strong enough to resist. Only see his arms. And he is a marquess. Not exactly a footman like the . . .” She shut her mouth abruptly.
“You’re far too beautiful to marry less than a d—” Lady Gloucester clamped her mouth closed as well, glancing around at the spectators, finally recalling she wasn’t alone with her wayward daughter.
She supported her considerable bulk on Charlene’s arm. “I don’t suppose you would give Lady Augusta another chance, Your Grace? She comes from a family of eight.” She glanced significantly at her daughter’s hips. “Only think of the . . . possibilities.”
James raised one eyebrow.
Lady Gloucester visibly quailed. “I didn’t think so,” she said, her double chin quivering.
Lady Augusta raced across the room and collapsed against her mother’s bosom. “I’m sorry, Mother,” she cried.
Charlene ushered the two sobbing women from the room. “Shall we find the other ladies?” James heard her say as they left.
He rounded on Dalton. “Just what was that?”
Dalton shrugged, attempting to look innocent. “What can I say? I never say no when a pretty girl wants a kiss. I can’t help it if they are drawn to me like moths to a flame.” His eyes danced. “And besides, this helps you narrow the field.”
“So I’m supposed to thank you now?”
Dalton walked nonchalantly to the door, swinging an imaginary walking stick. “Now only two candidates remain. I know you’ll make the right choice, old friend.”
James bit back a choice retort and followed him out.
Stick to the schedule, Harland, he thought with grim determination.
Horse riding next. Something Lady Vivienne should excel at. Then dinner.
This would all be over soon.
Not soon enough.
Chapter 15
“I refuse to pitch myself off a horse.” Charlene folded her arms across her chest. She drew the line at bodily injury.
“You’ll do whatever it takes,” the countess said. “You don’t know how to ride, but that doesn’t mean you can’t spoil Lady Vivienne’s chances. Fetch Lady Dorothea’s habit, Blanchard.”
While Manon dressed Charlene in an olive green wool riding habit with military-inspired gold buttons and gold braid trim, the countess paced up and down the room, her shoulders rigid. “Think . . . think. What can we do?”
“Throw myself under his horse’s hooves?” Charlene suggested sarcastically.
The countess looked thoughtful, as if she was considering the efficacy of being trampled in the pursuit of a duke. “No,” she said, with some reluctance. “That might be too extreme. We’ll have to send you down and create a diversion. Perhaps we could manufacture a small kitchen fire?”
Manon furrowed her brow. “Or perhaps Miss Beckett could twist her ankle while attempting to mount?”
“Feign an injury before she mounts that horse.” The countess tapped her finger against her chin. “That might just work.”
Wonderful. Charlene didn’t relish the idea of making a spectacle of herself yet again. But attempting to actually ride the horse would be disastrous. That hadn’t been a skill the countess could have taught her in a matter of hours.
Manon picked up a matching olive bonnet w
ith a large curling plume mounted on the front, then fixed it atop Charlene’s head.
“Oh,” exclaimed the countess, looking out the window. “Lady Vivienne is already outside. You must hurry!”
Charlene raced down the stairs, nearly toppling a footman carrying a silver tray and tea service. Her boots slid across the endless expanse of marble, and she skidded to a stop at the doors. She burst outside, into the cool, late-afternoon air, and ran down the steps, stopping abruptly at the bottom.
They were trotting down the winding drive, Lady Vivienne perched elegantly on her sidesaddle in a gorgeous blue velvet riding habit that emphasized her slender curves, the duke astride a commanding black stallion.
Such a well-matched pair. Tall, sleek, patrician.
Charlene had to give Lady Vivienne credit—she’d underestimated her. Underneath all that ennui, there’d been a competitor, after all. What had she told the duke to make him leave without her?
Heedless of the fine wool of the riding habit, Charlene plunked down on the bottom step and put her chin on her fist. If she knew how to ride a horse, she would gallop after them.
She hated feeling powerless.
Not willing to go back inside and face the countess’s wrath yet, she rose and set off toward the wrought-iron gazebo in the center of the lawns, kicking the duke’s glittering white pebbles along her path.
She should have kept her mouth closed in the factory. She’d criticized him too much. She’d never been able to suppress her opinion when she had something to say.
Blast.
If he proposed to Lady Vivienne, Charlene would be left with one hundred guineas, not enough to end their bondage to Grant or secure Lulu her apprenticeship.
Blast. Bugger. Damn. Pain sliced through her heart.
She might as well admit it. It hurt not only because of the money. It hurt because she wanted the duke to be fascinated and entranced, because she was beginning to like him.
As she neared the gazebo, Charlene heard the sound of sobbing. She walked up the steps. Flor was curled up in a ball on one of the iron benches, wrapped in her mother’s red shawl, shaking with great, racking sobs that quaked through her whole body.
Charlene placed a hand on her back. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
Flor peeked up at her with only one green eye. “I wanted to go riding with Papa, but he said no. I hate it here.” She sobbed some more.
Charlene pushed her long, dark hair out of her eyes. “Sit up now, sweetheart.”
Flor uncurled a little.
Charlene put an arm around her thin shoulders and produced a handkerchief. “You must miss your mother.”
Flor nodded. “I try to be b-brave, Papa says I must try.” Her face crumpled. “I don’t feel brave.”
She buried her face in Charlene’s shoulder and cried. Charlene let her tears flow, stroking her hair and making soothing noises.
“Are you going to be my new mother?” Flor spoke into Charlene’s chest.
Charlene worked on a snarl in Flor’s loosely braided hair. She didn’t want to lie.
“That’s for your father to decide.”
“I hope he chooses you.” Flor’s small voice quavered. “I’d like that.”
“Oh darling, I’d like that, too.”
Tears welled up in Charlene’s eyes. She’d never thought this would become so complicated. She could only hope that Lady Dorothea would be kind to Flor and give her the love and care she so desperately needed.
“If you are my mother, will Miss Pratt have to go?” Flor asked, blowing her nose in the handkerchief.
“Don’t you like her?”
“She doesn’t like me. I heard her telling the housekeeper that it was the Lord’s test of her patience to teach an ungrateful brown child.”
Outrage shot an arrow through Charlene’s chest. She would have some choice words for Miss Pratt if she saw her again. “Dear heart, you mustn’t pay her any heed. She’s a bitter, unkind woman.”
“But she’s right. I never thought about it before I came to England. Here everyone has skin like milk.” Flor lifted her hand to Charlene’s cheek. “Like you. And Lady Vivienne.” She started to sniffle again. “Miss Pratt makes me wear an itchy b-bonnet all day long.” She narrowed her eyes at the discarded bonnet flung on the gazebo floor. “And she rubs lemon juice on my nose and cheeks and it stings, but she says it will improve my complexion.”
Charlene’s jaw clenched. Maybe she was here for a higher purpose than winning the duke for her half sister. And that higher purpose was sniffling in her arms, woebegone and unloved.
Charlene placed her hands on Flor’s shoulders. “Now listen to me, Flor. Listen carefully.”
Flor’s eyes shimmered with tears. “Y-yes?”
“You are beautiful and strong and precious. Never let anyone tell you otherwise. Beauty comes in many different shades and shapes. Do you understand?”
Flor nodded.
“And another thing,” Charlene said. “I hate bonnets, too.”
Flor’s eyes grew wide. “You do?”
Charlene ripped the bonnet from her head, scattering pins and feathers, and flung it onto the lawn. “Can’t stand the horrid things.”
Flor giggled.
Charlene hugged her. “That’s better. You have such a nice laugh.” She gestured to the pile of books sitting in disarray on the gazebo floor. “Were you reading?”
“These are Miss Pratt’s books. I hate them.”
Charlene had to smile at that. She lifted a slim volume and opened it at random. “ ‘Example Three. Of a little Girl that was wrought upon, when she was between Four and Five Years old, with some Account of her holy Life, and triumphant Death,’ ” she read aloud.
“All the children in that book die.” Flor made a disgusted face. “They die and don’t have any fun.”
Charlene flipped the book closed. “Don’t you have anything else? What about this one?” Charlene picked another book from the pile.
“ ‘The History of Little Goody Two-shoes,’ ” she read, “ ‘With the Means by which she acquired her Learning and Wisdom, and in Consequence thereof her Estate.’ ”
Flor stuck out her tongue. “That Goody Two-shoes never has any adventures.”
Charlene laughed. “Don’t you have any books you like?”
Flor leaned closer. “I have Swiss Family Robinson.” She patted her pinafore pocket. “One of the sailors on the ship gave it to me. But Miss Pratt says I mustn’t read it because it excites me too much.”
Flor reminded Charlene of herself at that age. Chafing for fun, preferring to read tales about shipwrecked boys because they had all the adventures.
“Let’s read it then, shall we?” Charlene asked.
Flor handed her the book and nestled against Charlene with a contented sigh.
“ ‘For many days we had been tempest-tossed. Six times had the darkness closed over a wild and terrific scene . . .’ ” Charlene began. She read several chapters, stopping to answer Flor’s animated questions about the strange flora and fauna the family encountered and their chances for survival on the island.
The sun was showing signs of setting when Charlene stopped reading. “We must go back inside.” She hadn’t seen the duke and Lady Vivienne return yet. Which was a very bad sign.
“Oh, let’s not go yet,” Flor protested. “Let’s go out on the lawn and pretend we’re the Swiss family.” She dragged Charlene down the steps of the gazebo and on to the lawns. “You can be Fritz and I’ll be Ernest!”
Charlene caught hold of Flor’s arm. “Is that a wild boar I see?” she asked, pointing into the distance.
“I’ll catch it!” Flor let loose a series of loud whoops and dashed across the lawn.
Charlene chased her, breathless and laughing. They rounded a hedge and ran straight into the
duke and Lady Vivienne.
“Papa!” Flor launched herself at the duke and threw her arms around his legs.
Charlene dusted off her skirts. Lady Vivienne wasn’t acting triumphant. In fact, she had rather a cross expression on her normally tranquil face.
Hope leapt in Charlene’s heart.
“Shouldn’t you be inside doing schoolwork?” the duke asked Flor in a steely voice. He turned to Charlene. “And you, Lady Dorothea. Aren’t you supposed to be confined to your chamber with the megrims?”
Charlene glanced at Lady Vivienne. So that’s what she’d told him. “I made a speedy recovery,” she said sarcastically.
Lady Vivienne stared down her nose, exactly like the marchioness. “Where are your bonnets?”
Instantly, Charlene felt six years old again.
“Lady Dorothea hates bonnets.” Flor looked at Charlene. “Tell her.”
Blast. She cared more about championing Flor than pretending to be a proper lady right now. “Can’t stand the horrid things,” she said breezily.
“Well,” huffed Lady Vivienne. “You’ll both have horrid freckles tomorrow. See if you don’t.”
The duke held Flor at arm’s length and surveyed her messy hair and grass-stained skirts. “You are supposed to be doing sums, and I find you racing about the lawn like a pair of colts.” His lips turned down. “It won’t do.”
“Please, it was my fault. I thought she needed some fresh air,” Charlene said.
“She needs to do her sums.”
“We’re not colts, Papa.” Flor tugged on his hand. “We’re the Swiss Family Robinson. Don’t you want to play with us? You can be father Robinson.” She eyed Lady Vivienne. “I don’t suppose you want to play?”
Lady Vivienne sniffed again. “Certainly not. Mind your father and go inside immediately.”
“Let’s go in, dear,” Charlene said. “We’ll play more later.”
Flor’s eyes took on a mutinous expression. “Are you going to marry Lady Dorothea, Papa?”
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.
