Lady's Wager

by Georgie Lee

  “You must be the only one of our sex in London who isn’t interested in the only son of an Earl,” Elizabeth mused.

  “You mean a Viscount looking to refill the family coffers?” Her dealings with the Comte, and many other men in Paris with long pedigrees and little money, had hardly left her in awe of a title.

  “Not all men are after funds,” Lady Treadwell countered. “And even a poor man may truly love a lady. Besides, a gentleman as well regarded as Lord Woodcliff can hardly be called a fortune hunter.”

  “Then he’ll make some other heiress very happy by the end of the Season.”

  Lady Treadwell wagged one finger at Charlotte. “Your mother used to say such things. Like her, someday someone will catch your eye and we’ll see you married yet.”

  “We can only hope,” Aunt Mary huffed.

  “Now let’s be off,” Lady Treadwell urged. “I can’t stand here discussing men all day.”

  After bidding Aunt Mary goodbye, Lady Treadwell led Charlotte and Elizabeth to the waiting landau. Charlotte settled in next to her friend and across from Lady Treadwell as the driver took his seat and snapped the horses into a brisk walk.

  “Do all young ladies in Paris speak as you do, or were you the exception there as well?” Elizabeth asked Charlotte.

  “In Paris a woman of any real merit is expected to have an opinion - here her opinion is confined to fashion. I hardly know what to say without thinking I’m transgressing some sense of propriety or other such nonsense.” Yet even Paris hadn’t been all happiness and charm, especially after the Comte’s betrayal.

  “I sometimes forget how little of London you know and how difficult it must be for you after so many years abroad,” Lady Treadwell sympathized.

  Charlotte rejected her sympathy with a confident toss of her head, refusing to admit to anyone how awkward and lonely London sometimes made her feel. “It’s not so difficult. I have Aunt Mary and Lady Redding and you and Elizabeth to guide me.”

  “Even if you hardly listen to anything we say,” Elizabeth chided.

  “I listen, I just don’t always follow.”

  “Like your mother,” Lady Treadwell laughed. “She used to give your grandmamma a world of trouble. But your father didn’t mind. He said she made life interesting.”

  One pleasant aspect of London was being among so many people who’d known her parents. From the landau, she spied a husband and wife and their daughter leaving a grocer’s. The young girl with dark hair clutched a paper twist of sweets as her father picked her up to carry her. The sight of them together made Charlotte’s chest catch. How different life would’ve been if Charlotte’s parents had lived. London would be her home, instead of a strange land.

  As the landau made a turn and the family disappeared from sight, Charlotte set aside her old pain. There was no use pondering what could have been. They were in England now, and she would make the best of it.

  The Stuart’s fashionable neighborhood soon gave way to the more densely packed London district. Flower girls, hawkers, piemen and ballad singers all fought to be heard over the din of carriages, horses and carts clacking across the stones.

  Charlotte took in the clear sky over the buildings, wondering if Paris also enjoyed today’s fine, spring weather. Heaven knows when she’d see the grand city or all her old friends again. Not until Napoleon was defeated, and for her, the day couldn’t come soon enough. Hopefully, her friends weren’t suffering too much under his rule and the Englishmen they’d known in Paris had all been able to make it back home. There was no way to know. All correspondence with France had been halted by the blockade.

  The landau turned onto Bond Street where it came to a halt in the morning crush of carts and hackneys.

  “There’s no use forcing the carriage to Hookham’s front door. We’ll walk,” Lady Treadwell announced to her driver who descended to help the women out.

  Fashionable gentlemen and ladies crowded the sidewalk as they went about their business, ducking into the jewelers to order a bauble or strolling to Sir Thomas Lawrence’s studio to admire the latest portraits.

  Charlotte hugged her books to her chest, smirking at the thought of Sir Lawrence’s work.

  “What do you find so amusing?” Elizabeth asked, holding Charlotte’s arm so as not to be lost in the crush of people as they followed Lady Treadwell toward Hookham’s.

  “Sir Lawrence’s studio. The old society crones enter there with the ravages of time only to be carried out on canvas the very image of youth and vitality.”

  “Charlotte, you shouldn’t say such things,” Elizabeth softly scolded.

  “Why? It’s the truth.”

  “Yes, but you shouldn’t say it in public.”

  Lady Treadwell suddenly stopped and stepped in between them, taking their elbows and turning them toward a small group of well-dressed men talking animatedly together. “Fate has favored us today. Do you see the man there, the tall one in the dark blue coat with brass buttons? That’s Beau Brummell and the man standing next to him is the Prince.”

  “The fat man?” Charlotte asked.

  “Now is no time for sharp words, Charlotte,” Lady Treadwell warned. “Mr. Brummell and the Prince are the epitome of fashion in London.”

  Charlotte had heard about these men in Paris but seeing them in the flesh proved a great disappointment. As she studied the Prince, he caught her eye then exchanged a few quiet words with Mr. Brummell. She stifled a laugh as Mr. Brummell turned his head toward her, his chin struggling to get over his great, starched cravat. He raised his jewel encrusted gazing glass to examine them and Charlotte heard a small breath of shock escape Elizabeth’s lips.

  “You mustn’t stare,” Elizabeth said. “His gazing glass is the wickedest in London and could ruin the Season for both of us.”

  “I must introduce you,” Lady Treadwell announced.

  “We shouldn’t intrude,” Charlotte resisted.

  “It won’t be an intrusion. Ever since my dear husband and I supported the Whigs against Pitt I’ve enjoyed quite an acquaintance with His Highness. And if either of you wishes to make an impression on the Lady Patronesses and obtain a voucher to Almack’s I must introduce you.”

  “I have no desire to attend Almack’s,” Charlotte protested, and Lady Treadwell fixed her with a stern look.

  “Of course you do and with your uncle involved in shipping,” she whispered shipping as though it were obscene, “you’ll need a recommendation from no less than Mr. Brummell himself to secure your invitation. I’m afraid there’s no other way.”

  “But aren’t you friends with two Lady Patronesses?” Elizabeth asked.

  “When it comes to Almack’s, even friendship is no guarantee of admittance.” Lady Treadwell waved at the Prince. “I’ve caught his attention. Now we must greet him or I’ll be considered quite rude. Come along, and Charlotte, please mind your tongue.”

  “I’ll be the very picture of a polished London lady.”

  Charlotte and Elizabeth trailed behind Lady Treadwell as she started off toward the gentlemen. Elizabeth gripped Charlotte’s elbow with an anxiety Charlotte didn’t share. This wasn’t the first prince Charlotte had met.

  “What will Grandmamma say?” Elizabeth worried.

  “I think she’ll be quite pleased. After all, what harm can there be in a simple introduction, in the middle of Bond Street by someone as well respected as Lady Treadwell?”

  The Prince closed the distance between them, Beau Brummell following languidly behind him. The other gentlemen kept a respectful distance but remained within hearing of the ladies.

  “Lady Treadwell, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” The Prince bowed as Mr. Brummell stepped up behind him, bowing and mumbling his greeting.

  “Your Highness, Mr. Brummell,” Lady Treadwell dipped quickly. “May I introduce Miss Knight and Miss Stuart?”

  Mr. Brummell met their curtseys with a shallow nod and a practiced look of ennui.

  “I’ve seen Miss Knight before,”
the Prince drawled in his Devonshire lisp, “but not you Miss Stuart. I’d have remembered beauty such as yours.”

  Charlotte forced her lips into a smile, hoping it was gracious enough to hide her distaste for these gentlemen who reminded her of the lecherous old aristocrats she’d worked to avoid in Paris. “I’m only recently returned from Paris where I’ve been these past few years.”

  “Paris,” the Prince mused, “c’est magnifique. The best food, the most magnificent architecture, truly the pinnacle of taste.”

  “You’ve been to Paris Your Highness?” she asked, finally finding some joy in the royal attention. It was short lived as the Prince dismissed her question with a flick of his fingers.

  “Where I’ve been is none of your concern. What concerns me is a wager I’ve accepted from Mr. Brummell. You’ve arrived in time to help us settle it.”

  “Your Highness, I’m afraid we don’t gamble.”

  The Prince laughed, his large belly shaking beneath his tight jacket, the gold buttons straining to hold it closed across his girth.

  “We’d be honored to help you settle your wager,” Lady Treadwell quickly interjected, smiling broadly at the Prince.

  “Excellent. Mr. Brummell recalls it was Cassiopeia who was punished for her pride in her daughter’s beauty. I say it was Cassandra. Who do you think it was Miss Knight?”

  Elizabeth wilted beneath their attention, her words and her wits appearing to have deserted her in the Prince’s presence.

  “Come now Miss Knight, you must have an opinion,” the Prince urged. Nearby, the gentlemen watched, seemingly eager to hear her answer.

  Lady Treadwell lightly nudged Elizabeth who at last stammered out an answer. “I’m sure Your Highness is right in his assumption of Cassandra.”

  Charlotte’s anger rose over the indignity Elizabeth suffered at the hands of these pompous men. Before she could think further on the subject the Prince’s eyes were on her.

  “And you Miss Stuart, what do you say?”

  Charlotte met the Prince’s bold look, her pride not allowing her to play coy. “It was most surely Cassiopeia.”

  “And why do you say Cassiopeia?” Mr. Brummell pressed. The other gentlemen elbowed each other as though part of some shared joke. Charlotte watched the Prince’s eyes narrow at the dandy, revealing he no longer shared Mr. Brummell’s amusement.

  “Cassandra could tell the future but was cursed because no one would listen. Cassiopeia brought down the wrath of the serpent on Ethiopia by boasting of Andromeda’s beauty. The gods banished her to the stars, forcing her constellation to hang upside down as punishment for her pride.”

  The gentleman sniggered and Mr. Brummell’s small eyes danced with glee. The Prince remained silent and Charlotte realized Mr. Brummell and the other gentlemen were laughing at the Prince. He deserved it.

  “See, Prinny,” Mr. Brummell said, “there are ladies who aren’t afraid to express themselves.”

  The Prince stared down his nose at Charlotte. “Young ladies should defer to a gentleman’s superior opinion.”

  Better sense told her to turn away and act suitably humbled but instead she kept her gaze rigidly fixed on his.

  “A lesson well learned, Your Highness,” Lady Treadwell offered in an attempt to mollify the Prince. “Don’t you agree, Charlotte?”

  Charlotte was momentarily caught off guard but quickly recovered, offering the most humble smile and submissive look she could manage. Lady Treadwell obviously wished to keep the Prince’s good opinion and Charlotte, despite her irritation, courted his favor for the dowager’s sake.

  “Yes, Your Highness is a very wise teacher,” she offered in a courteous and respectful voice.

  Their responses appeared to placate the Prince for his face softened into a self- satisfied smile and he puffed up, pleased with himself. “Indeed, I’m an excellent teacher. Miss Stuart, as you are new to London, I forgive you. Lady Treadwell, it was a pleasure speaking with you and your young charges. Good day.”

  The Prince nodded then walked away. The other gentlemen followed, except for Mr. Brummell who remained behind, smiling appreciatively at Charlotte.

  “My thanks to you and your opinion Miss Stuart, or should I call you Miss Out and Outer?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Your bold tongue has secured for me one hundred pounds from His Highness.”

  “You mean we were the wager?” These men were too much.

  “Of course. Good day, ladies.” He tipped his beaver hat before turning leisurely on the heel of one highly polished boot to rejoin the Prince.

  Charlotte watched in stunned silence as the men strolled off down Bond Street.

  “I believe you impressed Mr. Brummell,” Lady Treadwell proclaimed triumphantly. “And you redeemed yourself quite well with the Prince. A rare accomplishment.”

  “One I take no pride in,” Charlotte bristled. “Are all London gentlemen so ill mannered as to make a lady the butt of their jokes?”

  They started off again toward Hookham’s, Charlotte’s anger giving her usually gentle stride a quick clip. Elizabeth and Lady Treadwell rushed to keep up.

  “Friendly wagers are very popular and Mr. Brummell is well known for his unique ones,” Lady Treadwell explained. “You mustn’t be undone by them, or take offense.”

  Charlotte stopped at the entrance to Hookham’s. “The dandy is too sure of himself. He’ll lose favor with the Prince if he’s not careful. The Prince didn’t enjoy being laughed at.”

  Lady Treadwell and Elizabeth exchanged incredulous looks.

  “Mr. Brummell fall from favor?” Lady Treadwell pondered. “It’s difficult to imagine.”

  “Then all the more likely it is to happen.” Charlotte pulled open Hookham’s front door and stormed through.

  The walls of Hookham’s were lined with shelves of books neatly arranged by category. Patrons mingled about the open center, exchanging pleasantries and admiring the latest selection of novels and political prints. Charlotte returned her books then marched to the science section while Lady Treadwell and Elizabeth perused the novels a short distance away.

  Charlotte yanked her desired books off the shelf, her frustration mounting. Must London society constantly annoy her? She’d never had such trouble in Paris where her frank opinions were appreciated, even encouraged by the ladies and gentlemen of the salons. Of course there’d been a few members of Parisian society who hadn’t approved of her but they’d been easily ignored. In London, they seemed to meet her at every turn, determined to force their rules and attentions on her no matter what she did to avoid them.

  Charlotte stopped browsing for a moment and took a deep breath, struggling to calm herself.

  The Season will eventually end. Then I can return to Salisbury and be left in peace.

  In the mad dash to leave Paris, there’d been no time to send word ahead to have the house in Salisbury opened. Much to their weary dismay, they’d arrived to find Welton Place in sixes and sevens. Aunt Mary, with an eye toward making a match for Charlotte, had suggested they spend the Season in London while the house was set right. With Uncle Charles’ business being in London, Charlotte could raise no objection to the plan. However, during Charlotte’s brief visit to Salisbury she’d discovered the town was quite without a suitable physician or clinic to serve the townspeople and the surrounding countryside. At the end of the Season, she intended to hire the services of a physician and provide him with adequate facilities.

  “Miss Stuart, young ladies don’t usually frequent this section of Hookham’s.”

  The strong male voice startled Charlotte, causing her to drop her books. She spun around to discover Lord Woodcliff behind her, his blue eyes beneath his solid brow fixing on hers with stunning intensity. She’d been so lost in thought she hadn’t heard him approach. Now, with him before her, every notion deserted her except for fascination with his smile and the way the light from the windows fell over the solid curve of his shoulders. He stood a good head ta
ller than her, his chest wide and sturdy beneath his well-fitted coat of dark green wool.

  He laid his book on the shelf then bent to retrieve hers from the floor. His arm muscle flexed beneath his sleeve as he held the weight of the tomes he stacked in the crook of his elbow. His strength proved as stunning as his sudden appearance, and the pull of his dun colored breeches over the curve of his knee. She shouldn’t be admiring him, or allowing him to assist her, but she couldn’t help herself. There was something about his confidence and the ease with which he moved which captured her attention.

  He paused to examine the slimmest of the tomes then glanced up, one eyebrow arched. “I thought ladies shunned such subjects as surgery and disease?”

  His comment snapped her out of her unexpected and unnerving fugue.

  “I’ve heard a great deal today about gentlemen’s expectations of ladies.” Charlotte snatched the book from him. “Gentlemen would do well to learn not all ladies are hen-witted.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, for society is already overrun with wet geese.” He rose and beneath the high linen of his cravat, his neck muscles tightened as he held out the stack to her.

  Charlotte studied him in an attempt to discern if he was mocking her or if he was serious, but his expression held no hint of the arrogance he’d exhibited at the Royal Academy.

  “You have an interest in science?” she asked, curiosity momentarily overcoming her irritation as she slid the books from his hands. Her fingers brushed his, sending a spark racing through her. She clutched the stack against her to both protect and steady herself. She could hardly believe this was the same gentleman she’d spoken with only the week before, and she was acting like a besotted fool in his presence. It wasn’t like her.

  “Only in regards to artistic renderings.” He slid his book off the shelf where he’d laid it and held it up. It was a botany book with detailed drawings of exotic plants from the Americas. “I find paintings of plants and animals fascinating, especially those from the Colonies. I look forward to discussing both with you tonight at your soirée. Thank you for the invitation.”