“Yes…” Charlie forced herself to smile. “Don’t mind me. Another cup of tea and the company of my dearest friends will quickly restore my equilibrium. Ah, and here comes the waiter with our pot now.”
As Olivia began to dispense fresh tea for everyone, Charlie’s attention was drawn to the teashop’s doorway. The gentleman who’d been talking with Lord Rochfort had just entered. He was well-dressed, and a large leather folio was tucked beneath one arm. Upon removing his beaver hat, he revealed a balding pate. That’s when she remembered where she’d seen him before. The hair at her nape stood on end.
He was the male visitor Cressida had received at Devereux House when Charlie had been taking tea with the dowager duchess and Diana. Charlie’s gaze narrowed on him as he crossed the bustling teashop to one of the cake displays near the counter.
The fact that this man knew both Cressida and Lord Rochfort might be inconsequential. But what if it did mean something?
“What is it?” asked Olivia as she passed Charlie her replenished cup of tea. “You seem distracted.”
“Lord Rochfort hasn’t come in, has he?” asked Sophie, her worried gaze darting to the door.
“No,” murmured Charlie. “But the gentleman the baron was speaking to outside has. And I think I recognize him.” She quickly explained how she’d glimpsed him through the drawing room doorway at Devereux House.
“That does seem a wee bit odd,” observed Arabella, peering over her glasses at the man who’d now taken a seat at another table on the opposite side of the teashop. “He has the look of a man of affairs about him. Someone professional rather than a member of the ton. But maybe that’s just because he has that folio with him. It lends him a business-like air.”
“Yes…” Charlie beckoned over the waiter who’d brought their tea. She was such a frequent visitor to Gunter’s, she knew most of the staff, and they knew her. “Jacques, I know this may seem like a peculiar question, but that bespectacled gentleman who just came in and is now sitting over there”—she gestured discreetly in the stranger’s direction—“do you by any chance know his name? Or what he does for a living?”
The young man frowned for a moment, then nodded. “Bien sûr, my lady. It’s Monsieur Erasmus Silver. I believe he’s a…” He rubbed his chin. “How you say, éditeur de journal? A newspaper editor. Oui.”
“Newspaper editor?” Charlie’s pulse quickened. “Have you any idea which particular paper he works for?”
Jacques’s brow furrowed in concentration again. “Perhaps it is the Beau Monde Mirror? I’m sorry I cannot be more certain.”
A wave of white-hot anger surged inside Charlie at the knowledge that the man blithely sipping his coffee on the other side of the room worked for the publication that had done nothing but belittle her and besmirch her reputation for the last four years. She suddenly felt like she’d been thrust into a furnace. Indeed, her skin prickled and her cheeks blazed with heat. And then her fury hardened and cooled like newly forged steel. Fierce determination settled in the pit of her stomach, and a plan began to take shape in her mind.
Aware that Jacques was awaiting further direction, Charlie managed to bury her ire and summoned a smile. “Thank you so much. You’ve been wonderfully helpful.” When she took care of the bill, she would make sure the young man was rewarded with a sizable tip.
“Well,” said Sophie once the waiter had moved on to another table. “It looks as though you’ve discovered who the tattler in the Dowager Duchess of Exmoor’s household is.”
“Perhaps,” said Charlie. “But I think I’d like to test that theory before I denounce Max’s mother as a two-faced, backstabbing witch.”
“How will you do that?” asked Olivia.
Charlie smiled. “I have an idea, but I’ll have to ask one of my respectable married friends to assist me.”
“Oh, I will,” declared Sophie, her blue eyes dancing with excitement. “What do I have to do?”
Charlie placed her linen napkin on the table and smoothed down the skirts of her walking gown as she stood. “Just play the part of ‘respectable chaperone’ while I join Mr. Silver. This won’t take long.”
“Good luck,” offered Olivia.
“And we want to hear all the details when you return,” added Arabella.
Charlie grinned. “Bien sûr.”
Erasmus Silver’s bushy eyebrows plunged into a frown when Charlie stopped by his table and offered a greeting that encompassed a bald-faced lie. “Mr. Silver, fancy meeting you here,” she said brightly. “It’s so lovely to see you again. Would you mind if we joined you?”
His tone was frost-laden as he peered over his wire-rimmed spectacles at her and then Sophie, who waited close by. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know you, Miss…”
Charlie placed a hand over the fichu at her throat. “My goodness, how embarrassing,” she replied. “It’s Lady Charlotte Hastings, Mr. Silver. We have a mutual acquaintance—Cressida, the Dowager Duchess of Exmoor. You recently visited Devereux House while the dowager duchess and I were taking tea.”
“Oh…I…” Now Erasmus Silver had to decide whether to call Charlie out for lying about their non-existent prior relationship or to go along with her ruse. Behind his spectacles, his pale gray eyes narrowed to slits. “Of course, Lady Charlotte. I remember now.” At last, he stood as etiquette decreed. “Why don’t you and…” His gaze skipped to Sophie.
“Lady Malverne, my sister-in-law,” Charlie supplied by way of introduction.
“Why don’t you and Lady Malverne take a seat?”
“We’d love to,” declared Charlie with false sweetness.
Once she and Sophie were settled—and after Mr. Silver had taken a moment to push a notebook and pencil back into his folio—he pinned Charlie with an expectant look. “Now, what can I do for you, my lady?”
He was astute enough to realize that Charlie didn’t wish to linger about making small talk over cups of tea or coffee and plates of cake, and that was fine with her too. If he’d said, “I’m a busy man, now get on with it,” she wouldn’t have minded in the least. Only just resisting the urge to upend his hot cup of coffee in his lap, she placed her forearms on the table and leaned forward in a conspiratorial fashion. “I understand you’re the editor for a certain publication of some renown, the very popular Beau Monde Mirror…”
Mr. Silver sat up ramrod straight and squared his shoulders, almost as though he were preparing for an attack. Given the fact the paper had been waging war against the Earl of Westhampton’s daughter and her friends for several years, Charlie couldn’t blame him. “You are correct, Lady Charlotte,” he said stiffly. “But I would’ve thought you would know that, considering we’ve apparently already met.”
Charlie didn’t flinch at his little dig. Instead, she leaned even closer and lowered her voice. “Well”—she glanced about their table as though checking who was in their immediate vicinity and might be eavesdropping—“I’m sure you’re always on the lookout for the latest on-dits for your newspaper’s society page. And I happen to have an especially juicy tidbit just for you. If you’d like to hear it…”
Mr. Silver grew very still. “Go on. I’m listening.”
Charlie really hoped her gambit would pay off. “Before I share my intelligence with you, Mr. Silver, I need your assurance that you won’t divulge the name of your source. Because the subject of the on-dit would be most upset if she were to find out who broke her confidence. It could prove rather awkward for me.”
Mr. Silver’s eyes gleamed. “So, you know this person well? You’re certain your intelligence is sound and not just an unsubstantiated rumor?”
“Oh yes,” Charlie lied. “And if my word isn’t enough, Lady Malverne here”—she nodded at Sophie—“can corroborate my scandalous story.”
Sophie inclined her head. Apart from a certain telltale twinkle in her eyes, she maintained a serious expression. “Yes, indeed. I certainly can.”
“Well, then,” said Mr. Silver, this man who’d created
untold havoc in her life and that of her dearest friends. “I’m all ears, Lady Charlotte.”
Charlie looked the gossip-hungry editor in the eye. “It involves none other than the Dowager Duchess of Exmoor herself,” she said. “It seems my mother-in-law-to-be is not the model of decorum that everyone thinks she is. You see, she’s been having an affair with one of London’s most notorious rakehells…” She paused for effect before adding in a melodramatic whisper, “Baron Rochfort.”
Mr. Silver snorted. “Surely you jest.”
“I do not,” said Charlie. “While visiting Devereux House, I stumbled across several love letters penned by the dowager. She spoke at length about their trysts. And I hope you can forgive me for being so indelicate, Mr. Silver, but she also mentioned Lord Rochfort’s particular proclivities when it comes to bed sport.” She dropped her volume to a dramatic whisper again. “I could elaborate further about the baron’s penchant for riding crops and birch rods—and goodness, just imagine the fun you could have with the title of the article: ‘Birching the Baron’, or even ‘Disciplining the Duchess’—but I feel Gunter’s Tea Shop is not the place for a young lady such as myself to divulge such vulgar details.”
Above his starched neckcloth, Mr. Silver’s face had turned a deep ruddy shade that bordered upon puce. “Yes. Quite,” he said in a strangled voice. “But I think you’ve provided me with sufficient information, Lady Charlotte.”
Charlie blinked. “I have?” Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Sophie pressing a lawn kerchief to her mouth to suppress a fit of laughter. “But you haven’t heard about the time—”
The editor of the Beau Monde Mirror held up a hand. “That’s quite enough, my lady. I shall make a note of all you’ve shared with me, but I cannot promise that this story will end up in the paper.”
“Whyever not?” asked Charlie. “I mean, you’d make a fortune in sales. And you never use anyone’s full name in your gossip column—pardon me, I mean ‘Society Page’—so you cannot be sued for libel. And as you said, you don’t divulge your sources, so how can there be a problem?”
“I’m afraid there are some things that even the Beau Monde Mirror cannot publish.”
Charlie’s tone hardened. “Oh, I see. Or is it more the case that you’re quite happy to slander and humiliate particular members of the ton that you see as easy prey, but there are other individuals that you won’t touch with a ten-foot barge pole? That hardly seems fair.”
“Life in general isn’t fair, my lady,” replied the editor coldly.
“Oh, believe me, I learned that lesson four years ago, Mr. Silver. Thanks to you.” Charlie stood abruptly. She’d had enough of conversing with this “gentleman”, and she was now quite certain where the loyalties of the Beau Monde Mirror’s editor lay, given he had all but refused to print anything that cast aspersions on the dowager duchess’s uprightness of character. He was protecting her and possibly Lord Rochfort as well. But why?
More importantly, now that she’d kicked the hornet’s nest, would she get stung?
By the time Charlie got back to the table where Arabella and Olivia still sat, her trembling legs felt like blancmange. What on earth had she been thinking? The ramifications of what she’d just done could be catastrophic.
With Sophie’s support, she recounted her conversation with the editor and her fears for the future. “What if Erasmus Silver goes to Cressida—or even Lord Rochfort—and tells them what I attempted to do? To say they won’t be happy would be an understatement. And should I tell Max?” She caught the gazes of each of her friends. “How will he feel when he learns I said terrible, horrible, untrue things about his own mother? I don’t wish to upset or anger him, not when things between us have been going so well. Indeed, tonight he’s taking me somewhere special. A surprise he’s been planning since the beginning of the week.” She buried her face in her hands as anxiety twisted her insides into tight knots. “Oh, what have I done? I’m such an impulsive fool.”
Olivia patted her shoulder. “You’ve collected evidence to support your theory that Cressida is the one who’s been feeding damaging stories about you to the Beau Monde Mirror.”
“But that’s just it,” sighed Charlie as she dropped her hands. “It’s only a theory. I haven’t proved it at all. Not really. Yes, Cressida knows Mr. Silver and he appears to want to protect the dowager duchess’s reputation, but as for anything else…” She shrugged. “It’s still nothing but speculation on my part.”
“In any event, I think you should tell Max what you’ve learned,” said practical-as-ever Arabella. “I truly believe it won’t affect how he feels about you. He’s defended you against his mother’s insults and machinations at every turn.”
Yes,” said Sophie. “You must be honest with him. It might just be the ammunition he needs to call out his mother for her duplicity. I, for one, am certain she’s guilty. And Max might also find it interesting to know that Lord Rochfort is on friendly terms with Mr. Silver.”
“Considering Lord Rochfort gave my stolen diary to someone at the Beau Monde Mirror, I suppose it’s not all that surprising,” Charlie said dully. “But you’re right, my dear friends. I can’t keep this from Max. The sooner I tell him about all of this, the better. I just pray that he’ll understand why I did what I did.”
Chapter 20
Many of our dedicated readers no doubt believe ‘cleanliness is, indeed, next to godliness’. But for anyone who is a doubting Thomas or Thomasina, you might find the following essay, On the Efficacy of Baths in Preserving Health and Restoring Beauty by Dr. Brompton, a Physician, to be most informative.
The Beau Monde Mirror: General Health & Medical Miscellany
Exmoor House, Grosvenor Square
“His Grace is not in the library, my lady,” said Chiffley as soon as the door to Exmoor House opened. “He’s in his private chambers. With his valet.”
“Oh.” Charlie frowned. “Oh, I…” She twisted the handle of her reticule with gloved hands. “The matter I need to speak to him about is quite urgent. Is there any chance—”
Chiffley sighed and Charlie felt a pinch of guilt. Her indecorous intrusions undoubtedly vexed the man no end.
“I shall have Harvey here”—he nodded toward one of the nearby footmen—“escort you upstairs to His Grace’s sitting room. His Grace has just returned from Angelo’s Fencing Academy, so I’m not sure what state you’ll find him in.” He peered past her, out to the square. “You haven’t a maid with you?”
Charlie lifted her chin. “No.”
Another long-suffering sigh. “Would you like me to send up one of His Grace’s maids with a tray of refreshments?”
Charlie narrowed her gaze. “No. Thank you.” While the butler seemed determined to preserve her reputation yet again by arranging some sort of chaperonage, she didn’t have time for this. The longer she waited about on the doorstep, the greater the chance there was of someone noticing that Lady Charlotte Hastings was paying an unaccompanied visit to the Duke of Exmoor’s townhouse in broad daylight. Even though they were engaged, it still wasn’t the “done thing” and would no doubt raise an eyebrow or two. “I won’t be staying long,” she added for good measure.
The butler stepped back, his expression resigned. “Very well, my lady.”
“Thank you.”
The moment the suitably expressionless footman showed her into Max’s sitting room, Smedley, his valet, emerged from a connecting room—presumably Max’s bedchamber. The man’s eyes turned as round as saucers as soon as he saw her. “Lady Charlotte. My goodness,” he exclaimed. “His Grace is—”
“What the devil is going on, Smedley? Can’t a man have a bath in…” Max’s words died on his lips when he appeared in the open doorway. Dressed in nothing but a thin linen towel that was slung low about his lean hips, his eyebrows shot up while Charlie’s mouth dropped open.
Good God! Max’s muscular physique was…
She literally had no words for such chiseled perfection. The dusting o
f hair in tantalizing places including the thin trail which arrowed down his taut lower belly straight toward his… Charlie swallowed and heat scorched her entire face. To think she’d been pressed up against that breathtakingly beautiful body only yesterday when Max had kissed her in the rain in Hyde Park… She clutched at the doorframe with one hand. No wonder her own body had suddenly turned liquid with longing.
While she continued to gape like a featherbrained peagoose, Max disappeared, but a moment later he was back, cinching a royal blue satin robe around his waist. “Leave us,” he said to the room, and Smedley, Harvey, and another footman who’d been lingering all goggle-eyed by the sitting room door immediately scurried away.
Charlie drew a bracing breath and somehow found her voice. “Max, I… My apologies for interrupting your…” She had to drag her eyes away from the captivating sight of his partially exposed pectoral muscles and back to his face. “I…I had to see you. Of course, I didn’t mean to see this much of you…” Oh, bother. She was rambling. She dropped her gaze, but then she couldn’t seem to stop staring at Max’s lower legs—his muscular calves and his shapely bare feet. Good heavens. Even his feet were gorgeous…
And that’s when she noticed something odd. The little toe on Max’s left foot was missing. It simply wasn’t there. But there was a pale scar. Had he been injured at Waterloo? Nate had never mentioned it. Compassion welled in her heart. To think of Max suffering, even if it was just the loss of a pinkie toe, made her unaccountably sad.
When she dared to look up again, Max’s mouth was twitching with a smile. It was clear he didn’t seem to mind the fact that she was blatantly staring at his bare legs and feet as he said, “No harm done, Charlie.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned with studied nonchalance against the doorjamb. “Although, given the fact you’ve managed to persuade Chiffley to let you in, I suspect it’s something important.”
How to Catch a Devilish Duke: The Disreputable Debutantes Page 24
