“That logical streak is the very reason for the haste. Gareth is not at all sure that, given time, Faith won’t find a reasonable way out of the situation. And he seems rather set on having her for his wife.” Trevor laughed. “Besides, I don’t think ‘smooth’ is an adjective one would ever apply to a relationship with one of my wife’s sisters. Something you should bear in mind as Mercy grows older.” He gave his friend a pointed look.
Sebastian looked unconcerned, although a small smile played about his lips. “I suppose the urchin is in town, too, running amok somewhere in your home?” He was reluctantly fond of the youngest Ackerly sister, who had been the inadvertent reason the family even entered their social circle. Had he known the impact his decision to continue traveling that day, despite the late hour and diminished visibility, would have on both his life and his sense of peace, he might well have decided not to take the risk; but he’d overridden Hunt’s warnings, and now the second of his friends had fallen prey to the snapping jaws of matrimony. Both surrenders had stemmed directly from that one foolish decision.
“Last time I saw her she was whispering with one of the twins—I haven’t a clue which—while watching the front door for, I believe, your noble arrival.” Trevor’s green eyes danced with amusement. “I’m not sure how you managed to make it in here safely.”
The third man in the room, listening quietly up to this point, finally spoke. “Twins? How many of these Ackerly creatures exist?”
Lachlan Kimball, the Scottish Marquess of Asheburton, was related to Sebastian, although neither man could publicly claim kinship. They bore a startling resemblance to one another, and most of the ton suspected some sort of distant relationship. It was far less distant than people imagined. They were cousins.
Both men had come into their titles through rather tenuous connections. In Sebastian’s case, he’d discovered he was heir to the Duke of Blackthorne’s estate through a letter sent from a solicitor, and he’d been anything but pleased with the development. Or, more correctly, he’d been displeased with the history he’d discovered. The elderly duke, it turned out, had disowned both of his sons—and with good reason: the pair was undeniably handsome and charming but spoiled by their mother and utterly lacking in principles and morals. After being banished from the estate, the elder son married the daughter of a respectable country squire, breezed through her small dowry and then abandoned the young lady, never to be spoken of or heard from again. Shortly after her husband’s defection, she gave birth to Sebastian. The old duke had kept tabs on his eldest son for a period of time but, considering him a lost cause, decided to turn his attention to his grandson. When old age set in and his health began to fail, he contacted Sebastian, now a young man of considerable independent fortune, and named him his heir.
The younger son—Lachlan’s father—had gambled his way through most of England, using his considerable looks and occasional luck at the tables to charm his way into the hearts and bedrooms of many a young lady. Eventually he’d ended up in Scotland, in a border village, where he impregnated the beautiful daughter of a successful merchant. With his debts following him from England and new ones mounting in Scotland, and faced with the prospect of becoming a father, he also disappeared. Lachlan’s title had come . . . somewhat differently.
Sebastian had learned all this after hiring discreet investigators, something he’d learned to do in his successful early days as an investor before his elevation. He had then contacted Lachlan and satisfied himself that the man was indeed the son of his father’s younger brother. The two had become immediate friends and, later, business partners.
“There are six sisters,” said Trevor, giving it a moment’s thought. “Patience, the eldest, whom you will discover was very aptly named; my wife, Grace; and then today’s bride, Faith; followed by the twins, Amity and Charity; and finally little Mercy, who fancies herself betrothed to your cousin here.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel and stood. “Gareth and Jon should be here soon.”
Sebastian and Lachlan also stood. “Should I be afraid to leave this room?” joked the marquess.
Trevor opened the doors and glanced out into the hall. He pushed the doors wider and gave his friends a wry, apologetic look. “Absolutely,” he said, his tone colored with amused irony. Mercy and Charity were walking down the hall, arms linked, pretending an absorbed interest in their conversation.
Trevor cleared his throat. “Good morning, Mercy.”
When he raised his eyebrows and regarded the second girl in mute inquiry, she scowled at the realization that he didn’t know her name. “I’m Charity,” she said, then added in a dampening tone. “For the second time today.”
Trevor appeared unrepentant. “Charity and Mercy Ackerly, I’d like to present you to Lachlan Kimball, the Marquess of Asheburton.”
Both girls executed halfhearted curtsies. Mercy nodded briefly in Lachlan’s direction before turning her full attention and a dauntingly bright smile on her hero, the Duke of Blackthorne. Charity, though, seemed more focused on Lachlan. Unusually focused. She took a step closer, peering at his polite smile, which was rapidly fading.
“Your teeth are beautiful,” she said in a tone that sounded accusatory.
Though startled by her odd statement, Lachlan merely raised an eyebrow. “Thank you.”
“I don’t suppose you have an unsightly wart or a disfiguring scar?” She scanned the rest of his face and then actually reached for one of his hands, as though she intended to inspect it, before she remembered herself and snatched back her arm. “Guess not,” she muttered, tossed him an irritated look and walked away.
“Unlike Patience,” Sebastian spoke up, “Charity is not so aptly named.”
Mercy giggled.
“I heard that!” Charity called from down the hall.
“You might want to cut your losses and just leave now,” Trevor advised Lachlan. “You might even consider going straight back to Scotland where it’s safe.”
The marquess, however, was staring thoughtfully down the hall. “Interesting girl,” he remarked. “I think I can handle it.”
Two hours later, Lachlan found himself standing on the steps in front of the Caldwell town house, a somewhat bemused expression on his face. “That may well have been one of the oddest experiences of my life,” he announced. The wedding itself had been a brief, somewhat strained and awkward affair, as had been the reception. Additionally, every time he looked around he found Charity Ackerly watching him. If that weren’t disconcerting enough, she steadfastly refused to look away when he caught her eye, leaving him with the distinct impression that he had somehow inconvenienced her by catching her staring.
“Welcome to the unconventional world of the Ackerlys,” replied Sebastian, pulling on his gloves. They descended to the street and climbed aboard his coach, settling comfortably across from one another into the deep burgundy velvet squabs.
“I found Patience and Amity quite pleasant,” remarked Lachlan when they were underway.
Sebastian looked unimpressed. “Gareth Lloyd,” he said, referring to the rather grim groom, “would once have said the same thing about Faith.” And with that, they lapsed into silence for the rest of the drive.
Three
Pelthamshire, 1815
Though the Ackerly twins had once been described as homely by the women of Pelthamshire, time had worked its magic and seen fit to bestow the two of them with exceptional beauty. Parasols and time spent indoors had faded the hated freckles, and their complexions were now a creamy alabaster with just a hint of glowing peach on their high, sculpted cheekbones. Their eyes were of an odd cerulean blue, fringed with russet lashes, wide and shining brightly with intelligence and humor beneath delicately winged brows a shade or two darker than the hair on their heads, which had remained a lovely strawberry blonde despite everyone’s prediction that it would darken. But beauty was not everything.
They were also the next pair of Ackerly sisters to make their debut in London. That Season the village
was abuzz with speculation, and everyone wondered if it were possible for the girls to make matches as advantageous and connected as those of their older sisters Grace and Faith. Those two respectively had married an earl and a marquess, which had greatly elevated the stature of the family in the small community. The connections had landed the two girls in Madame Capdepon’s School for Girls with half a dozen of their peers, most of whom would never even venture outside the village, much less see the inside of a London ballroom.
“Charity Ackerly!”
Startled, Charity dragged her eyes from the enticing view of the beautiful spring day outside the window and focused on the disapproving face of Madame Capdepon. The room had fallen silent.
“Y-yes, Madame?” Charity’s voice was hesitant. She truly hadn’t been paying attention to the lesson. It was all Mercy’s fault, of course. The wretched child kept appearing at the window, making faces and taunting her with the evidence of a freedom to enjoy the day as she saw fit. Charity had tried—truly she had!—to pay attention to the etiquette classes her elder sister Patience insisted she and her twin sister Amity attend before they went to London for the Season. But the classes had droned on for hours, and Madame Capdepon quite obviously did not like her.
“Am I expected to believe, Miss Ackerly, that you’re so adept at knowing which utensil is the proper one to use at every course of a formal dinner, you have no need for further instruction?”
Charity bit her lip. She most certainly knew no such thing. And, while she recognized the fact that knowledge of this sort might come in handy at some point in her life, she had full confidence in her ability to adapt to any given situation without the necessity of enduring this wretched, endlessly boring class.
Unable to respond with anything except an admission of her ignorance, Charity raised her chin, stared belligerently back at her nemesis, and did not answer.
Amity groaned inwardly. When backed into a corner, Charity would come out hissing, and Amity recognized quite well the militant look in her twin’s eyes. She hastily spoke up before Charity could say something to fan the flames of the developing situation. “We will go over the lesson at home tonight, Madame. Papa likes to see us apply what we’ve learned.” She hoped the insinuation that they demonstrated her invaluable instruction to their learned parent might mollify the older woman.
Not a chance. “I’m quite certain, Amity Ackerly, that you have not been addressed.” The imposing matron stalked around the circular tables at which the young ladies of Pelthamshire were seated, bearing down inexorably on the twins. “Class!” she boomed out, the spectacles she kept hanging on a ribbon around her neck bouncing off her rather ample bosom as she moved. “Gather around, please. Quickly.” She fixed Charity with a triumphant glare. “Miss Ackerly—Miss Charity Ackerly—is going to astonish us with her extensive knowledge of formal place settings.”
Charity knew next to nothing about place settings. She sent Madame Capdepon an imploring look, but the angry instructor was not to be appeased. In desperation Charity tried to visualize the way the table had looked at her older sister Grace’s wedding a couple of years earlier. A plate . . . she was quite certain there had been a plate, and that the utensils went on the sides of the plate.
She stood and walked to the front of the class, chewing on her lower lip. She’d simply have to bluff her way through.
“Well, the plate is, of course, the most important piece.” She picked one up and put it on the table, then surveyed her silverware options. A couple of girls in the front row stifled giggles. Charity glared at them. They simmered down as she reached hesitantly toward the utensils. Her eyes found those of her twin, hoping she’d receive some guidance.
Amity shook her head slightly as Charity’s hand hovered over a stack of forks. She moved her hand toward the spoons, a bit to the right. Again, Amity shook her head.
Madame Capdepon crossed her arms. “Enough stalling, Miss Ackerly.”
Charity grabbed a fork.
“No.” Madame’s voice was sharp.
Charity reached for a knife.
Madame sighed. “No,” she said again.
Charity scowled, grabbed one of each and plunked them haphazardly to the left and right of the plate. She looked at the place setting and recalled something resting horizontally at the top. She picked the longest utensil, moved it above the plate, and then stepped back.
Madame Capdepon didn’t even look at her handiwork; she stared directly at the younger girl until Charity began to fidget uncomfortably. When she’d made her student suffer a sufficient length of time, she delivered her sentence with the daunting finality of a bewigged judge at trial. “Miss Ackerly, I would like for you to leave my class and not come back.”
A collective gasp rose from the room. Charity lifted her chin, glared back at the older woman, and then grasped the sides of her skirt to sink into a beautiful but incredibly mocking curtsy. Without a word, she straightened and left.
All eyes swiveled to Amity, who, blushing hotly, picked up her things and Charity’s, nodded coldly at the instructor and followed her sister from the building.
When Amity emerged into the sunshine, Charity already had a good lead, her anger making her strides almost impossibly long. Mercy appeared out of nowhere and took Charity’s reticule and lesson book.
“Come on,” she said to Amity with an impish grin. “You don’t need those silly lessons anyway. Neither Grace nor Faith had etiquette lessons, and they did just fine.”
Amity looked grim. “Grace was lucky. And Faith was born knowing how to behave correctly.”
Mercy shrugged, utterly unconcerned.
They caught up to Charity, who’d finally realized they were behind her and stopped to wait. Amity took one look at her sister’s face and knew she was already beginning to internally berate herself. She felt a twinge of remorse for second-guessing her sister’s headstrong ways. “Don’t even think about apologizing to me, Charity. There’s no way I was staying in that horrible woman’s class after she kicked you out.”
Charity smiled gratefully, but the guilt didn’t leave her eyes. “She hasn’t liked me since the day we learned how to dance, anyway.” She scuffed at the dirt with the toe of her shoe, sending up little puffs.
Mercy laughed. “Well, you showed up dressed as a boy!”
Charity looked indignant. “Because there are only girls in the class. How would we ever learn to dance with a boy if someone didn’t play the part?”
Amity smiled. “Come on.” She tugged Charity’s arm. “We’d better get home and face Patience.” Their older sister was not going to take this well. “I’ll go in first and tell her. Maybe she won’t be quite so angry if I give her the news and explain what happened instead of you.”
They all turned when they heard a vehicle coming down the lane. It was Madame Capdepon’s curricle. She’d obviously decided to let class out early, and was now apparently headed to the Ackerly home.
The sisters stepped aside to let it pass, then stood in the swirling dust and watched the vehicle disappear around a bend. Mercy linked an arm through Charity’s. “Maybe, when we get home, you can ask her to stay to dinner.” Her lips twitched. “You can tell her it will be no trouble to set an extra place.”
Charity lunged and swatted at her, but Mercy ducked and took off running, musical laughter trailing behind. Charity chased her a few steps, then gave up and returned to her twin.
Amity hid a smile and tried to keep from laughing as they walked. She glanced at Charity out of the corner of her eye and bit her lip. Her blue eyes danced. And then, because there was nothing else they could do, both girls succumbed to the hilarity of the situation and continued on their way home, wiping away tears of mirth.
“She is a hoyden, entirely undisciplined, and I will not have her in my class! Furthermore, Mr. Ackerly, I have to say that I despair of her ever making a decent match, despite the fact that her older sisters have been so fortunate in their marriages. I can’t imagine anyone of breeding a
ccepting her as his wife.”
Charity pressed her lips together in an effort to control her temper. Seated on a bench outside her father’s study with Amity and Mercy, she held herself stiffly erect, her head high. In her mind, however, she was drowning in mortification at the etiquette instructor’s harsh description.
They couldn’t hear their soft-spoken father’s reply, but the modulated, gracious voice of Patience came to them quite clearly. “I’ll be happy to show you out, Madame Capdepon.” The doors to the study opened and Patience appeared with the still quite indignant woman. Neither spared a glance for the trio seated on the bench.
After a few moments, Bingham Ackerly stepped out and stopped, regarding the three girls steadily for a moment. He shook his head and smiled. “Well,” he said. “I suppose that is that.”
Charity chewed on her lower lip and stared up at her father, her cerulean eyes filled with remorse. “I’m sorry, Papa.”
He smiled fondly and shook his head. “It was likely a mistake to send you to those classes in the first place. Patience meant well.”
“I don’t have to go to London, Papa. Amity can go without me.” Even as she said the words, though, Charity felt a pang of regret. She really did want to have a Season, to dress up in beautiful gowns and be presented to Society. And she knew—she knew—if she tried hard enough, she could manage to play the part of a demure debutante for three whole months in a row.
Bingham reached down and rumpled her hair. “I have every confidence that Faith will steer you in the right direction. Of course you can still go to London.” He wandered back into his study, his mind already back on his current writing project. To his way of thinking, the problem with Charity was resolved.
She watched him go, her expression troubled.
“Why are you still frowning?” asked Mercy. “You heard him. You’re going to London.”
“I know.” Charity sighed heavily and looked at her twin. “Do you think what Madame said is true? That I’ll never find a husband?”
Charity Page 2
