Had the blackguard finally introduced Charlotte to the ways of the flesh and proved to be an ill-suited guide for that first expedition? Had he been unkind? Ungentle? Anger hummed through Ginny’s veins.
“He is otherwise occupied.”
Ginny studied Charlotte closely. No. That was not the problem. His name would have awakened much more of a reaction had it been. She cleared a space beside her and motioned for Charlotte to sit. With a wan smile, Charlotte complied.
“Tell me what has you looking so dour, my dear. Is it that you fear for this enterprise because of my blunt words last week? You don’t hold my harsh tone and ill-chosen words against me, my dear?” Ginny entreated. “I was thinking only of what was best for our enterprise.”
She had not quite realized how much she valued Charlotte’s company—the companionship of a woman of her own class, with an education similar to hers, who has seen things and known people she had once seen and known.
“Besides,” she went on brightly, “perhaps my words facilitated a needed impetus, for in the last few days you have pulled this masquerade off marvelously well, Lottie.
“Though I must admit to my own small part in that,” she dimpled. “A few coins in the palm of your well-paid staff convinced them to be far more forthcoming in spreading word of the goings-on in your love nest. All of Society is abuzz with talk of your indiscretions.”
Indiscretions. The word came out flat.
“Yes,” Ginny hurried on. “Society can speak of little else.”
“My indiscretions are a triumph, in fact.”
“Yes.” With a frown, Ginny reached for the china pot sitting on the table beside her. “Let me pour you a cup of chocolate. You look undone, my darling.”
Charlotte did not reply.
“What brings you here?”
“I came because I want to know some things. I need to know some things.”
Calmly, Ginny poured out a stream of steaming dark liquid into one of the exquisite little porcelain cups. “Of course. What is it you want to know, Lottie? What has you so at sixes and sevens?”
Charlotte fixed Ginny with a direct gaze. “Was it hard on your family?”
The stream of chocolate stopped. “Was what hard on my family?”
“When they realized the lifestyle you had adopted. What was their reaction?”
Ah. So that was what this was about. Pity tugged at Ginny’s well-armored heart. Well, she supposed she ought to have expected this. A thing was so much easier done in conjecture than reality. But it was far too late to go back now. All she could offer this ridiculous, gallant innocent were some lies to soothe the transition from Diamond of the First Water to Pariah of the Highest Order.
“I don’t have much family to speak of. A younger sister,” who hadn’t spoken to her in a decade, “an uncle,” likewise, “and a few cousins here and there. They were not pleased, but eventually they learned to accept that over which they had no control.” By cutting off all but the barest contact with her.
She finished pouring the chocolate, hoping Charlotte did not notice the deliberation with which she did so while she searched for the right things to say. “The aristocracy is well used to scandal, Lottie. You will be a nine-day wonder. Everyone will be agog only until the next bumble broth catches their attention.”
“So as soon as another’s ruin is effected, I shall be forgotten.” Charlotte’s tone was dry.
Perhaps she owed the girl the truth. “Forgotten but never forgiven.
“Some of your family, depending on the degree of affection they hold for you, will do what they can to ease your way. But for their children’s sake, they will not be able to publicly receive you in their homes. At least those in town.”
A tremble shook Charlotte’s slender figure, but her gaze remained steady, her voice calm as she said, “I see.”
“If you find yourself a powerful enough lover, and an ardent one, he might force your company upon his acquaintances—his male acquaintances. And some of their wives might be pressed into receiving you at some of the less elite gatherings. But by and large, you will forever be outside of the circle in which you once moved.”
Ginny half expected anger, tears, a messy scene of reproach and accusation. Charlotte surprised her. Though she grew pale, she only nodded. “Thank you for your candor.”
Charlotte’s calm acceptance made Ginny feel small and guilty. They were feelings she loathed and thus instinctively struck out against. “I suppose you do not feel you were adequately warned,” she said shortly.
Charlotte’s smile broke Ginny’s heart. “You are wrong.”
Ginny closed her eyes, hating the emotions she had long thought herself rid of—self-recriminations and guilt. They bubbled up within her, unchecked and undeniable, forcing her to consider what she, in her ambition and determination to do what she deemed right, had done. What right had she ever had to embroil this…this girl in her world, condemning Charlotte to her own fate?
“There is an alternative,” she heard herself say. “You can leave London. But you would have to do so at once.
“You can go to your brother-in-law, the marquis. You will never again enjoy the prestige and admiration you once did, but you might recover some portion of it. Even the most straightlaced matron might be made to accept that you made an error, a youthful peccadillo, if you are seen to adequately—and publicly—regret it by hiding yourself away on the marquis’s country estate for a few years. In time, you might return to Society.”
Ginny could not tell if the girl heard her. She looked faraway, gazing into a future Ginny could only imagine.
“I love my sisters,” she murmured. “I have dear friends who my actions have put in untenable positions.”
“I know.”
“I dislike having them suffer on my account, because of the affection they bear me.”
“I understand.”
Charlotte shook her head, as if trying to clear her thoughts. She bit her lip and passed a trembling hand wearily over her face. “I do not know,” she whispered to herself. “I do not know.”
Ginny reached out and gently touched her arm.
With a tired smile, Charlotte stood up, her chocolate cooling untouched in its porcelain cup. “Thank you, Ginny. I must go.”
“But,” Ginny asked, “what will you do?”
“Yet another thing that I do not know,” she answered quietly and without another word left.
She had never assumed taking Ginny’s place as St. Lyon’s mistress would be easy, but she hadn’t realized it would cost so much. And, fool that she was, she had never fully appreciated that it wasn’t just her and her sisters who would have to pay the price.
No one, least of all she, had bothered to ask whether others were willing to pay the price required for her to become publicly disgraced. No, she had kept that choice for herself. The knowledge had haunted her since Lady Welton’s visit, plunging her into an abyss of doubt and self-recrimination. She hadn’t left her room in two days, pleading a headache as she tried to navigate her way to an answer. Finally, desperately, she had sought Ginny’s advice. The courtesan’s answer only left Charlotte wondering whether she had the right to continue on with her masquerade or the right to refuse the alternative Ginny had suggested. She still did not know.
She pulled off her gloves, setting them beside the silver slaver that had once held a dozen invitations a day but now held but a single letter. Sightlessly, she picked it up and carried it to the morning room, her mind on the day at the abbey two years ago when she had embarked on her exciting career.
It had seemed so noble then, so glorious, a great masquerade for the good of England undertaken in her father’s memory. What would he say if he knew what she had become…at least, what the world thought she had become? Would he be proud if he knew the reasons for her actions? Or would he only be amazed and dismayed?
Had she done only what her wild heart had wanted? Were her motives dross or fine? And most importantly, did her motives
matter?
She entered the morning room, dropping her shawl on a chair as she passed. Distracted, she picked up the ivory letter opener and slit the wax seal from the envelope. Without much interest, she opened the letter. Upon seeing that it was from Kate, her heart lurched.
She read:
Dearest Charlotte,
I am sorry not to have written in so great a while, but the regiment’s need to move with all haste has denied me those free hours which I have generally set aside for correspondence. It has been a trying month, little sister. We lost several of the regiment last week in unexpected skirmishes. Poor Lt. McHenry lost his arm and he newly wed with a wife at home. But I console myself with the knowledge that at least he will be returning to her. Which leads me to the only bit of happy news I can impart:
Kit has been called back and we will be returning to London by the end of the month! How I wish it could be for good. But it is only to report and confer with his superiors. Unless this war ends soon, we shall be returning forthwith to the Continent. Oh, Lottie. I want so desperately for this awful conflict to be done!
How glad I am that you are safely in England, my darling, and lest you fret over my safety, I make haste to assure you that the officers’ wives are kept well away from the field of battle at all times. But though I am safe, and Kit takes as much care as he can to shelter me from this wretched business, one cannot ever be so far away that one is safe from the knowledge of what occurs on the battlefield.
There is so much destruction. So much waste. So many lives ended and so many more destroyed and not only our soldiers’, Lottie, but also our enemies’—for when one sees a man bloodied and in agony, one cannot help but feel pity for his state no matter which side of the conflict he is on! But even more grievously still, it is heartbreaking to see the effect war has upon the lives of the people who live here, unwilling spectators, a captive audience to the barbarism of war.
So many of the fields that we pass stand unharvested and untended. The barns are empty, their stores stolen or confiscated. Those who can flee before us do, and those who cannot stay to bear witness to the horrors.
God did not mean men to kill one another. He has set within each of us a revulsion of the act that these soldiers must find some means of circumventing in order to do what needs to be done. But it wounds them so, Lottie. I know, for I have seen the aftermath of “glorious battle.” I have walked amongst the tents late at night and heard them crying.
It is my worst fear that their nightmares will not end when, God willing, they return home but will plague them for the rest of their lives. It is a terrible thing we ask of civilized men, Lottie, to engage in killing one another.
I only wish that I could do something to bring about a finish to this war. I would do anything! Anything! But what can I do except support my dear Kit and hold the hands of the wounded and dying? And pray to the Good Lord that this fighting ends, that this war is resolved quickly. Every day so much is lost—for all people. It must end. Pray God, it ends, Lottie. For all our sakes.
Your loving sister,
Kate
Carefully, Charlotte folded the letter, calm returning to her for the first time since Lady Welton’s visit two days ago.
“Miss Nash? Can I get you anything?”
Charlotte looked up to find Lizette standing in the doorway, regarding her with a worried expression. It was an expression she had grown used to in the past forty-eight hours, hours when she had declined Dand’s company and every suggestion that they go out and set Society’s tongues wagging faster still. Hours when she had shut herself away—uncertain what she would tell him when he demanded to know what was wrong.
Well, she would soon ease Lizette’s mind. And Dand’s. She was done with hand-wringing and second-guessing her course of action. Kate’s letter had reminded her that she was in the unique position to do something other than pray for an end to this war.
“Yes, Lizette,” she said with a smile. “You can set out my gold tissue dress. I am going out this evening. And when Monsieur Rousse returns, you must inform him that we have a play to attend tonight and that I insist he be present for the curtain fall on the first act.”
Lizette’s pert features bloomed into a smile at the saucy tone Charlotte employed. “Yes, ma’am!” she said, bobbing a curtsy.
14
Hamstead House, Bedford Square
July 30, 1806
“AND SO OUR PLAY DRAWS TO ITS CLOSE,” Dand said as the rented carriage rumbled toward the Countess Hamstead’s mansion.
The invitation had been sent and accepted well before Charlotte’s fall from grace, and as Countess Hamstead herself enjoyed a somewhat checkered past, she had made no attempt to disown the invitation. Or perhaps she had assumed that Charlotte still possessed enough nicety of feeling to prevent her from embarrassing both her hostess and herself by arriving.
Alas, Countess Hamstead, Charlotte thought, your rout provides simply too perfect a stage to pass up.
She shifted and the paste diamonds she’d borrowed from Ginny glimmered in the murky light, the deep inky blue velvet of her cape dissolving into the shadows while her bosom glowed as pale as a dove’s breast above the daring décolletage.
She felt calm, composed, sure of herself. No nerves. No unease. Just a tiny bit of impatience that the next act be finished. In the opposite corner from where she sat, Dand silently lounged. After tonight, they would part ways. He would go back to France and she…to Scotland.
The carriage rocked to a halt, caught in the crush of traffic moving at a snail’s pace along the boulevard leading to the Hamstead mansion. He was silent for a long moment, even his gloved hands, white against the severe darkness of his evening dress, were motionless where they rested on the silver top of his walking stick. She sensed his ease slip away. She could almost feel the intensity of his gaze.
“Are you quite ready for this evening?” he asked as the carriage started up again.
“I am,” she replied. “And you?”
“Oh, most definitely. Though I still don’t see why I have to be the one to be given the old heave-ho.”
He was offering her a distraction, she realized. Gladly she took it. “We have discussed this at length. St. Lyon must think I am not some pitiful young girl, but an unsentimental opportunist. One looking for a richer and more generous protector.”
“I suppose it makes sense. But I warn you that my masculine pride may never fully recover from the insult you intend to deal it tonight.”
“And I make haste to reassure you that it is not the weight you carry in your breeches but the one you carry in your purse that will be called into question.”
“Dear me, Lottie.” Dand drew back, shocked. “How exceedingly gamy.”
“Wasn’t it, though?” she replied complacently. “I have been practicing such lines all evening. Ginny has been sharing the most delicious insights with me.”
“I should hate to imagine,” he said dryly.
“There is no sense in ruining myself in a halfhearted sort of way. I shall ruin myself with panache.” She smiled and hoped she at least looked gallant. She would like to end this conversation with Dand secure in the belief that she could carry off her part in tonight’s performance with aplomb. “Or at least humor.”
“How I will miss you, Lottie,” he murmured. “I have truly enjoyed these days together.”
“As have I,” Charlotte returned graciously so that he would not suspect the full extent of the truth she had just uttered. Those hours they had spent closeted together meant a great deal more to her than she was willing to admit. Even to herself. And those hours when their roles required him to flirt with her, to touch her, she would miss even more.
Dand’s endearments made her limbs weak. Dand’s ardent gazes made her pulse race. Dand’s whisper-light caresses made her catch her breath. And Dand’s kiss…? Enough to make a more foolish girl, a greener girl, a more romantic girl than she, lay awake at night and wonder where such kisses ultimately led
and despair that she would never find out.
Luckily, she was not that girl.
Still, she thought with an abrupt return of the irreverence and audacity she had rediscovered upon reading Kate’s letter, what with all the sacrifices she had been making of late, she ought to have a safe-conduct to the head of the queue when the time came for her to stand at the Pearly Gates.
The carriage drew to a halt. She pulled back the curtain and stared up at the flight of broad marble steps leading to the open double doors brilliantly lit at their top. Footmen stood in a line on either side of the doorway, receiving the guests that flowed like a spangled river up from the street.
“This…is insanity,” Dand uttered softly. Even in the darkness she could make out his crooked smile.
“So you’ve repeatedly told me,” she said but without rancor. They were too far along now to cry off and they both knew it.
“It was not supposed to happen,” he murmured. “Madness.”
“Mad horse,” Charlotte corrected, thinking of the carriage that had struck down Ginny and so profoundly altered her own destiny. “I wonder what spooked it? There is undoubtedly a lesson there: The best laid plans can be laid to waste because of a scrap of paper, a boy’s peashooter, or a slinking cat.”
“Yes.” Dand’s voice trailed off. There was a long moment of silence and then with exaggerated gallantry, he said, “Whilst I have the opportunity to do so, let me commend you on your performance these last few weeks.”
He sounded like an admiring fellow professional applauding his cohort’s performance before the closing night’s final act. “Thank you. And I, yours. And now, I suppose we’d best get on with it?”
“Yes.”
Neither of them moved.
“Lottie.”
“Yes?”
“You know I am to return to France in a few days.”
“Yes. Pray, be careful.”
“Yes, yes.” He brushed away her worries, “But…what I wanted to say is…You know that after tonight I can’t come to the house. And if we chance upon one another in some public place, you must give me the cut direct.”
My Surrender Page 16
