The Seduction of Lady Charity: The Baxendale Sisters Book Four

by Maggi Andersen

  “Have you visited Scotland, my lady?” he asked her mother, as they entered the parlor.

  “No, alas, I have not, my lord,” Mama said.

  “Then it is my pleasure to invite you and Lord Baxendale to Castle Craighead. Scotland is very beautiful in autumn.”

  “Thank you, my lord, but I’m afraid that’s impossible. Perhaps another time. Lord Baxendale is unwell.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.” Gunn jammed his broad body into a dainty brocade-covered chair, looking uncomfortable.

  “Shall I have the portrait delivered to your London address, Lord Gunn?” Charity asked as she took the seat opposite him. She thought he looked quite out of place, so big and brash. Was he a rake? She’d seen no sign of it, but he did make her a little uneasy.

  “No thank you. I’ll call to collect it next week,” he said, as the tea tray was brought in.

  After Lord Gunn had left, Mama came into the studio. “Why did Gunn want to call in person to collect the painting?” She cast Charity a narrow-eyed glance. “I expected he would send a servant or have it delivered.”

  “As did I, Mama,” Charity said mildly. She suspected the Scot was not done with them. “He has made up his mind that we must visit his castle. I imagine he is seldom thwarted.”

  “I doubt he’d be too disappointed if I didn’t go,” her mother said dryly. “It’s you who draws him here, my dear.”

  “Perhaps.” Charity set another half-finished work on the easel.

  “What do you think of him?” Mama asked.

  She attempted to read her mother’s expression. “His manners are deplorable, but I rather like him. He has paid most generously for his portrait.” She still couldn’t believe that she’d actually earned money doing what she loved.

  “What if he asked you to marry him…would you consider it?”

  Charity widened her eyes. “Are you so keen on me marrying you’d even have me marry Lord Gunn?”

  “What nonsense.” Mama said briskly. “I merely wondered if you liked him in that way. I did hope you would marry Robin. But I now realize it’s unlikely.”

  Charity felt a rush of guilt for not having told her mother about Robin’s proposal. She’d almost succumbed but decided it would upset her father too much to learn of it. And as Robin had stopped writing to her, she supposed his affection for her didn’t run very deep. She drew in a breath. “I thought you didn’t like Lord Gunn.”

  “As I have said, I am reserving my judgment.” Her mother glanced around the room. “I shall have to take Vanessa to task. When did she last clean this room?”

  “Please don’t. I asked her not to. I don’t want her tidying my paints and whisking dust onto a wet canvas.”

  Mama frowned. “Then dust the room yourself, please. I am leaving before I start to sneeze. The smell of all your painting paraphernalia is bad enough.”

  Charity smiled. “I must have inherited my creative desires from someone, Mama.”

  “Yes,” Mama said, a small smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “It could have been your father’s Great Aunt Letty. She became quite mad in the end.”

  “Oh, Mama, I believe you are embroidering,” Charity said with a laugh. “But tell me, did she have talent?”

  ****

  His patience wearing thin, Robin stood before his new valet and waited for him to stop fiddling with his cravat. Robin was forced to admit the arrangement was skillful and praised him for it.

  After Ponsonby whisked a brush over his black superfine-clad shoulders, Robin went downstairs to join his sister, Louise. They stood to greet the guests as they entered the ballroom.

  The widowed Lady Boothby curtseyed before them, her tall ostrich feathers bobbing. “Your Grace.”

  “Lady Boothby. I don’t believe you’ve met my sister, Lady Miller.”

  “How do you do, Lady Miller. May I present my daughter, Kitty.”

  “Kitty. How charming you look,” Louise said.

  Kitty bobbed, her cheeks flooded with pink, her enormous brown eyes dark with either apprehension or excitement, he couldn’t be sure. She wore white silk, trimmed with lace and blue ribbons, and her slim arms below the capped sleeves looked pale and rather cold. Hadn’t she gained some confidence from her come-out ball? She hadn’t been short of admirers. But they might not have measured up to her mother’s expectations. Poor Kitty was like a lamb to be slaughtered on the altar of her mother’s ambition. Robin felt rather sorry for her and a little protective. “Would you save me a waltz, Lady Kitty?”

  “Certainly, Your Grace,” she said in her soft voice.

  With a gratified smile, Kitty’s mother ushered her daughter into the ballroom.

  “Sweet girl,” Louise said when a pause came in the line of guests.

  “Who?”

  “Kitty Boothby.”

  “Very young. Rather shy perhaps.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “So you took pity on her.”

  “Her mother is ambitious. Kitty was pushed toward every suitable male at her come-out.”

  “Including you, of course,” Louise smoothed her long kid gloves with a thoughtful look. “I can see how things are. She is young, Robin. She may yet become more like her mother.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “It’s to be hoped she marries well. A good thing she is pretty.” Her intelligent blue-grey eyes observed him. “Do you not think so?”

  It was a good thing that Louise lived in Devin, and that her adoring husband would claim her after the ball and whisk her back home again.

  “I suspect you are planning to meddle. I do wish you wouldn’t.” Robin nodded a greeting to Admiral Frobisher, who had just appeared at the top of the stairs. Stroking his white beard, his cheeks reddened from the climb, Frobisher hurried over to them.

  “Oh! Unfair, as if I would,” Louise protested under her breath while giving her hand to the admiral.

  “And unnecessary,” Robin said as the next in line, Lord Margate and his wife, another determined mother, and their daughter approached. “I do believe I can manage that part of my life quite well without your assistance.”

  “Of course you can, but you’ve been rather distracted of late, have you not?”

  Robin inhaled sharply. He’d deliberately stopped writing to Charity in the hope she would miss him and write a more personal letter. Then they could proceed along those lines. She had not. In fact, she hadn’t written at all. And this morning, he’d read in the newspaper about her portrait of Lord Gunn. Robin was pleased for her, of course. He clenched his jaw. But the fellow was a known rake. Robin didn’t take much stock of rumors, but the one about Gunn seducing a lord’s wife in the garden at a ball had sounded convincing, especially as Lord Templestow banished Lady Templestow to the country in the middle of the Season.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said with studied indifference.

  “Oh pooh,” his sister said irreverently before falling into an elegant curtsey at the approach of the Marchioness Lansbury.

  Chapter Five

  A fierce wind rattled the windows and sent a sharp barrage of rain against the glass, causing Charity to look up from her letter. It was peaceful and warm in the parlor with the burgeoning fire. “Lord Gunn writes that he’s holding a party to unveil the new portrait.”

  Mama put down her knitting and frowned. Lord Gunn’s name appeared to have disturbed the peace somewhat. “In London?”

  “No, at his Scottish home. He has invited us to attend.”

  “Well, I don’t see how—” her mother began.

  “What’s this?” Her father strode into the room. Since he’d recovered from his illness, he’d begun to take more of an interest than was usual in what occurred around him.

  Expecting him to refuse the invitation out of hand, Charity explained.

  “Well, then, we must accept.” He took a seat near the fire and leaned forward, warming his hands. “When is the occasion to be?”

  Suspecting an ulterior motive—to s
ee her married to the baron—Charity returned to the letter. “The sixteenth of next month.”

  Mama cast him an anxious glance. “Autumn in Scotland will be very cold, my love. Are you sure you should?”

  “A Scottish autumn won’t kill me. Don’t mollycoddle me, my dear.” He unfurled his newspaper with a snap. “We have been confined to this house for too long. It will do us all good.”

  Charity wasn’t sure how she felt about bearding the lion in his den. Gunn was inclined to sweep away all opposition to his wishes with a shrug of his big shoulders and a decisive nod of his auburn head. Might he have an ulterior motive in wanting her to come? Was she in danger of being swept off her feet? Aware that her well-guarded freedom was at stake, she glanced at her mother, who seemed reluctant. Yet even she made no bones about the fact she wanted Charity to marry.

  “I don’t see how I can accept. I must complete the portrait of Chaloner’s children, and now Mrs. Seymour has asked me to capture Herbert in oils before he loses his front tooth—”

  “It’s so horrid out.” Mercy entered the room in a rush, swiping a damp blonde ringlet from her eyes.

  With a tsk, Mama patted the sofa. “Have you been out in this weather? You’ll catch your death. Come and sit by the fire.”

  Smelling of cold, fresh air, Mercy threw herself down beside Charity. “I took Wolf for a walk. Is that a letter? Who’s it from?”

  “We are discussing a possible trip to Scotland,” Charity said. “Lord Gunn has invited us to the unveiling of his portrait.”

  “Oh yes, do let’s go. I should very much like to see Gunn’s castle. I spoke to him outside on the carriage drive. He told me it’s right by the sea.”

  “And I imagine that it would be buffeted by dreadful gale-force sea winds,” Charity said weakly, aware she was outnumbered.

  “There will be men in kilts,” Mercy added with a surprisingly wicked smile at Charity.

  “Eh?” Father dropped his paper to peer at Mercy over his glasses.

  “Tartans are beautiful,” Mercy said with a lift of her brows. “Lord Gunn’s especially.”

  It would undoubtedly be good for her reputation, Charity thought. She would just have to manage Lord Gunn. “Well, as everyone is in agreement, shall we go?”

  “We shall. We’ll spent a few days with my sister on the return journey,” Father said.

  “A splendid idea, Baxendale,” Mama said. “You shall be able to rest. It’s such a dreadfully long way.”

  “It’s a while since I’ve seen Christabel, locked away in that draughty mansion,” Father said. “Her last letter was filled with references to some book. I believe she is becoming quite peculiar.”

  Charity wondered if Robin’s castle was far from her aunt’s and if they might see him. She would so love to learn how he faired, even though she was disappointed and cross with him for no longer corresponding.

  ****

  The evening went smoothly, if one could judge by the bright chatter of his guests rising in the smoky, scented air to compete with the orchestra playing a waltz by Schubert. Robin had to admit the success of the affair gave him a good deal of satisfaction. The swirling bright silks and white debutantes’ dresses and the men in evening clothes formed a colorful kaleidoscope of movement, which was reflected in the polished parquetry of the ballroom floor and the huge gilt-framed mirrors around the walls.

  Louise and Robin’s secretary, Spencer, had done a splendid job in organizing the weekend for a hundred guests, every facility laid on for their comfort and entertainment. Breakfast had been served between ten and eleven that morning, after which the Chaplain was available for prayers in the chapel. Those guests disinclined to go on a shoot with Robin were left to their own devices, either to read in the library or visit the billiard room or the music room. Many of the ladies preferred to converse in the drawing room or wander in the gardens.

  Robin was proud of the Harwood gardens; their layout and planting was peerless, and their reputation drew many requests to view them. While he led Kitty in a waltz, he decided to invite her to join him tomorrow for a stroll. She was a dainty lady, so small she barely reached his shoulder. With her big, anxious brown eyes, she reminded him of a fledgling bird. Not an exotic species, a shy garden bird like a tree sparrow or a bullfinch.

  He wondered idly if Charity had seen the golden oriole again. He missed their discussions about birds and art and wished she could view the many books on those subjects he’d unearthed in the library.

  He found himself considering which bird brought Charity to mind. He remembered taking her skating one winter when the village pond had frozen over. She’d been as graceful as a swan. He grew annoyed with himself and tightened his hold on Kitty’s hand.

  Kitty raised her head to cast her shy glance at him.

  “Are you enjoying the ball, Lady Kitty?” he asked in an attempt to draw her out and distract himself from his thoughts.

  “I am, Your Grace. Very much.” She turned to look at her mother where she sat observing them.

  Robin had danced with several debutantes during the evening. Pretty, some of them, but not one interested him enough to seek more of their company. He knew it was unfair to expect any to challenge him. Debutantes were constrained by their circumstances, at least until marriage allowed them the freedom to express themselves. He gazed down at the dark head of glossy curls. Would Kitty ever break free of those tight strings? He imagined Lady Boothby would never quite let her control of her daughter slip.

  When the dance ended, he escorted Kitty back to her mother. The man who married Kitty would have to take on Lady Boothby as well. He supposed that in itself would be a challenge. If he could get past Kitty’s shyness, perhaps he’d discover an interesting person with opinions of her own. He would endeavor to tease her out if they had a moment alone in the garden.

  Whatever Francis said, Robin would have to marry. It wasn’t healthy for a man to go too long without feminine companionship, and he wasn’t inclined to take a mistress. He’d known men who complicated their lives when they became too fond of a mistress, or the mistress became too fond of them, and then came the messy and distressing attempts to part. All very well to expect one to play the game, but emotions weren’t so simple. The previous evening, when the supper and card parties ended in the early hours of the morning and the guests had retired, Robin knew of some who went in search of the bedchamber of a new love interest, either that or one of longstanding. He wasn’t a prude; it didn’t bother him that such things went on. Lady Nash, a charming widow, had invited him to join her in her bedchamber after the ball. He’d been tempted but, oddly, to do so seemed deceitful, although whom he was deceiving remained unclear. If it were Charity, she would never know, and he doubted she would care. Despite Charity’s youth and inexperience, her view of life was never narrow and puritanical.

  Robin joined Francis Bellamy, who stood with a group of friends discussing their successes or failures at cards the previous evening. While the inevitable subject of horses took over the conversation, Robin looked across the ballroom at Lady Nash, who offered him a discreet smile. He felt sure none of them would let such an opportunity slip by, and most likely, some were planning just such an end to the evening.

  Was he not free to indulge in a discreet liaison with a woman who also had no ties? Robin had not accepted, but neither had he declined her enticing offer.

  Chapter Six

  Scotland

  When Charity first saw Craighead Castle appear through the trees, she found herself in agreement with Lord Gunn. As he’d promised, the late afternoon sun did turn the stone of the western wall to honey. Apart from that patch of warmth, however, the castle lay in shadow, a grim stone edifice adorned with turrets and crow-stepped gables, overlooking a restless, grey sea.

  The carriage stopped, and she abandoned her warm rug to step from the Baxendales’ snug vehicle, where the coal box had kept her feet reasonably warm. Shivering, more with anticipation than cold, she blinked into the icy,
salt-tinged air. Mama hurried across the gravel in a scarlet, fur-trimmed wool pelisse, a spot of bright color as she bundled their father indoors.

  A footman led them into a stone-flagged baronial hall, its walls covered in an awe-inspiring array of crossed swords, weapons, and armor, evidence of a warring past. In silence, they gravitated toward the roaring fire in the mammoth stone hearth, which greeted Charity with a welcome blast of heat.

  Above them, Gunn stalked down the winding stone staircase, his long legs taking the steps two at a time. The thought that the man never did anything by halves made her uneasy.

  Mercy nudged her arm. “He’s wearing his kilt.”

  “Hush,” Charity murmured.

  The tartan of blues and greens swirled around his bare legs. His calves reminded her of oak trees. Like the rest of him, they were sturdy and well muscled.

  Gunn greeted her parents in his distinctive voice.

  Mama removed the warm scarf from Father’s neck. “We look forward to enjoying your hospitality, Lord Gunn, but first the earl must rest.”

  “But of course. A dram of Scotch whisky, Lord Baxendale, to warm you?”

  Father, his face leeched of color, straightened his spine. “An excellent notion, Gunn.”

  A servant appeared at Gunn’s side. “Escort Lord and Lady Baxendale to their bedchamber.” Gunn bowed. “I trust a rest shall fortify you.”

  When her parents climbed the stairs, Gunn’s lively eyes settled on Charity. “I’m delighted to welcome you to ma home, Lady Charity. To witness you view your work in situ pleases me greatly.”

  “I’m honored to be here, Lord Gunn.”

  “I asked you to call me Angus, remember? Tonight, at a banquet, ye shall see how well a Scotsman treats his guests. Tomorrow, the unveiling and, if ye permit, after breakfast, a tour of the castle. And now, some tea perhaps.”

  “Thank you. Mercy and I look forward to seeing more of your home.”