‘Somebody has to watch out for my sister.’
‘Because obviously I will only lead her astray.’
‘You do have form in that area, Charity, and you know Dottie loses all common sense when she is around you.’
‘Does she? I think you need to corroborate that sweeping statement with evidence, Griff, as I do not know it at all.’
He paused to allow the footmen to serve the soup, then lowered his deep voice to a whisper which created goose pimples on her skin. ‘What about the time you dragged her down the Dark Walk at Vauxhall so that the pair of you could have a secret assignation with Lord Denby?’
‘As I recall that incident, if Dorothy and I were guilty of anything it was wanting to see the fireworks properly and everybody knows that the end of the Dark Walk nearest the fireworks tower is the best place to see them. We were also completely chaperoned the entire time by Hope, Luke and your good self.’
‘Only because you were forced to be.’
‘Did we try to escape your overprotective clutches once?’ She was sorely tempted to whack him on his thick head with her soup spoon. ‘No. We didn’t. Unlike my sister and her now husband who had an entirely inappropriate assignation of their own that night, Dorothy and I remained with you the entire time and were with you when we all happened to stumble upon Lord Denby—who was clearly only there with his friends to view the fireworks too.’
‘As I recall it, you flirted with him shamelessly throughout the display, so it was a good job I was there.’
That hadn’t been premeditated. She had barely known Lord Denby before that fateful night and had only shamelessly flirted with him in the first place because Griff had been such a disapproving stick in the mud who had expressly warned her to steer clear of the group of gentlemen the first moment they spied them. His erroneous but typically suspicious assumption of her motive to misbehave had been like a red rag to a bull—so she had. As she had on countless similar occasions before. Simply to vex him.
‘I flirt with every man shamelessly as a point of principle.’ Except him. She had never once tried to practice her wiles on Griff as he was so stiff and disapproving of her they probably wouldn’t work and would likely backfire if she did. ‘There is no harm in a bit of flirting now and then if it means nothing, and at that time I hardly knew Denby so it most definitely meant nothing...then.’
He would see straight through that blatant lie if she tried to embellish it because all her flirting with Denby still meant nothing as far as Denby was concerned—beyond the physical. He was so non-committal about anything else, even the promised house party hung in the balance, which was probably the real reason she had neglected to inform Dorothy of it in the first place. Her hand-picked future duke hadn’t sounded that enthused by the suggestion, despite agreeing to it, albeit reluctantly after she had allowed him to kiss her again and much more passionately than she was comfortable with.
‘But I digress... You have argued that it is Dorothy who lacks all common sense around me and who needs protecting, yet she never flirted with anyone at all that night, did she? You are punishing her for my apparent misdemeanours and that is hardly fair.’
‘If I hadn’t been there...’
‘Oh, for pity’s sake, Griff, if you hadn’t been there, I’d have still shamelessly flirted while I watched the fireworks because I enjoy flirting. Everybody knows that.’ She was good at flirting. So good that it made her stand out and she revelled in the attention whenever Griff was anywhere nearby—that was the pathetic truth. ‘Then, your sister and I would have come straight back to the rest of the party exactly as we always do. What else would we have done? We are grown women, not idiots and we know perfectly well how to behave. We certainly managed well enough all those years you fiddled with your silly steam engines in dreary Sheffield.’ While she pathetically counted the days until his next fleeting visit home. Not that they ever proved to be worth the wait because he was never pleased to see her anyway.
‘Do you know how to behave? It was an ill-considered whim of yours which could have ruined Dorothy’s reputation.’
Charity rolled her eyes. ‘How? If she was doing nothing wrong and there was nobody around to see anyway?’
‘But what if somebody had seen, Charity? What if her name had been plastered all over the gossip columns and there had been a scandal? Then what would have happened?’
‘The gossip columns print rot and scandals pass.’ She knew that from experience as there had been quite a few. But like her father, she was from the never complain and never explain school of thought, which helped her float well above all the nonsense until it passed. Nonsense which, to her shame, usually had its roots in her own impulsive and reckless errors of judgement before it was embellished further in print, so she only really had herself to blame, exactly as Griff had said. Drat him.
‘Perhaps for you they do, because you are so used to them or do not care about them or downright enjoy them, but Dorothy doesn’t have the voice of an angel or an army of devoted opera fans who will turn a blind eye to her many transgressions.’
‘And what is that supposed to mean?’ Although she knew full well what he was alluding to, it stung regardless. As a lifelong friend to her family and her similarly maligned sisters, he should know better. Salacious gossip was a lot like brambles in a garden. It always started small but soon got out of hand, until the barbed fronds of entertainment choked out all the truth beneath them and all anyone could see were the tangled thorns.
Griff made no attempt to disguise his disdain. ‘Because of what you do, society will always give you more leeway when you misbehave than they ever would if my sister did.’
The when and the if in that sentence said it all. In his judgemental mind, Charity always misbehaved and always had, whereas Dorothy would be incapable of it unless she wilfully corrupted her. ‘You believe everything they’ve ever printed about me, don’t you?’ She had always suspected he had a low opinion of her, but it had never been explicitly said aloud.
His hesitation was a moment too long and then he decided to stare resolutely into his soup as he answered, ‘Not everything. I do give you the benefit of the doubt occasionally.’
‘Occasionally?’
‘There is always a basis for every rumour, Charity—especially around you. You forget, your legendary exploits with the gentlemen even managed to travel the two-hundred-odd miles to dreary Sheffield. Assuming only a quarter of what those stories say are true, that still means you have kissed significantly more men than a proper young lady ever should.’
She sat rigid as she absorbed the damning insult for all of five seconds before deciding he could go to hell with his holier-than-thou attitude and unflatteringly low expectations. Then she calmly stood, channelled every bit of her acting prowess to look unperturbed for the rest of their party, pretended to catch her skirts on the table leg and with a well-aimed tug to release them, tipped the entire contents of his soup bowl into his lap.
Chapter Three
Last night in Covent Garden the great and the good witnessed the angelic soprano Miss Charity Brookes accept not one but six curtain calls and a raucous standing ovation as the four-month run of the critically acclaimed The Marriage of Figaro finally ended. But fear not, Dear Reader, as I have it on good authority that she will reprise the role she was born to play again in the summer after her sell-out tour of the north is concluded...
Whispers from Behind the Fan
—May 1815
‘Surely there is no more luggage?’ Evan, the Brookes family’s coachman shook his head as she handed him a huge hatbox. ‘I think you officially now have twice as much as everyone else, Miss Charity.’
‘Of course, I have twice as much as everyone else.’ She shrugged, unrepentant, as he helped her into the carriage where Griff and his sister were patiently waiting and had been for the last twenty minutes while her maid redressed her hair. ‘Nob
ody else here has to pack costumes or wigs or stage make-up.’ She arranged herself next to Dorothy and grinned, looking effortlessly beautiful and full of life. ‘Isn’t this exciting, Dottie? Four weeks of unmitigated fun and adventure stretch before us.’ Then the smile was significantly less sincere when she glanced at him. ‘In the absence of anything fun to do, I suppose you have diligently planned our route? I have to be in Lincoln for rehearsals by the fifth, but I want to stop off at Cambridge on the way as it has such pretty streets and eclectic shops.’ Clearly she intended to relegate him to some sort of assistant for the duration.
Not that he cared if it earned her compliance. He waved his neatly organised timetable at her, pointing to the perfectly drafted columns of dates, times and booked stopovers.
‘As you can see, we shall overnight in Baldock, then head to Cambridge first thing tomorrow. If the weather holds, you will be there by luncheon, Charity, so will have plenty of time to shop for your fripperies. The following day, we shall eat luncheon in Stilton, the home of the famous cheese, then press on to Stamford, the home of one of my favourite inns. Then it’s Grantham on Thursday night followed by a dawn start so that we arrive at the theatre in Lincoln as stipulated early on Friday.’
Griff was already counting the minutes till then. By that time he would have been encased in this carriage with her for four interminable days. At least in Lincoln he would have some respite. She had rehearsals both Friday and Saturday and would perform on the Saturday night, which he hoped would keep the minx busy enough to give him several blissful hours of peace to recuperate from the ordeal. As they were stuck there all day Sunday, awaiting her second performance on the Monday, and it was anybody’s guess what mischief she was bound to get into during those unoccupied hours, he would need to have his wits about him.
‘Everything’s loaded so Evan and I are ready when you are.’ Lily, Charity’s maid, poked her head through the open window closely followed by Augustus and Roberta Brookes, her parents who had come outside to wave them off.
‘Have a marvellous time, my darling!’ Roberta Brookes fussed with her daughter’s already perfect blonde curls before kissing her noisily. Then she tearfully squeezed both his and Dorothy’s hands. ‘Look after my precious baby.’
‘We will.’ Or at least he would. Dottie would likely be more a hindrance and an accomplice to Charity than a help to him.
‘And write often. All of you. I want to hear everything you all get up to.’
‘Let them go, woman.’ Augustus Brookes practically peeled his wife’s fingers from the window frame before smiling jovially. ‘Have fun, darling, and do try to listen to Griff.’ He shot him a pointed look, one which confirmed all Griff’s worst fears about the very real risk of shenanigans. Then he shook his hand with all the impassioned firmness of a man who despaired of his youngest daughter but still hoped for the best.
‘I am entrusting you to save my headstrong daughter from herself, Griff, and no doubt, I shall be indebted to you by the end of this debacle if you manage it. Good luck herding these two. I suspect you shall need it but if anyone can do it, I have faith that you can. You have always had such an old head on your young shoulders that sometimes I forget that I am twice your age.’ An unflattering compliment if ever there was one. One that made him sound exactly like the fuddy-duddy Charity always accused him of being. Then Augustus Brookes wagged his finger at her which she typically ignored. ‘Whatever happens, under all circumstances, I have appointed him to be in charge, so listen to him, Charity, as you would listen to me and do as you are told.’ As if that had ever happened.
She didn’t agree. Not that either of her parents noticed as the carriage lurched forward the second she rapped on the roof. ‘Au revoir, Papa! I miss you already, Mama!’
Griff left her and Dottie to chat excitedly while he watched out of the window as the city disappeared, allowing their conversation to waft over him and trying not to enjoy the sound of Charity’s voice.
She was a natural raconteur who always managed to make even the most banal topics sound engaging. However, today’s topic was anything but banal. It was an interesting, witty and self-effacing behind-the-scenes account of her final night in Covent Garden, the day after she had dumped hot tomato soup in his lap and ruined his favourite cream waistcoat in the process.
As self-absorbed as Charity could be, she was also remarkably self-aware, poking fun at her inability to do anything on time and blaming the latest catastrophic hair crisis for causing the poor stage manager to have to plead with her outside her dressing room door to take her place in the wings less than a minute before the curtain lifted. She had Dottie in stitches describing how she tried to avoid Figaro’s bad breath in the first scene while still trying to convince the audience they were devoted young lovers who were about to be wed. But he had eaten an entire onion tart in the inn next door to the theatre beforehand for his dinner and she suspected not all of those noxious alliums had been thoroughly cooked. As soon as that scene was done, she had accosted a stagehand and sent him on a mission to find some fresh mint leaves Figaro could chew on before the script dictated she had to embrace him in the final act. When none could be found, she went onstage clutching one of the roses an admirer had sent her and inhaled that scent each time the fetid Figaro and his hellish halitosis came near.
Griff vividly remembered the scene.
Could picture it clearly and had thought at the time he had never seen her wield a rose before. The flower had been pink. He remembered that too for some reason, but she had used it so comically and seamlessly that night he had put the thought clear out of his head while he was swept away by her performance exactly as he always was. Not that he would admit that to Charity or his sister. Or anybody else for that matter. Some things were just too personal and uncomfortable to ever have to admit aloud.
Nobody knew that thanks to his unhealthy obsession he had intentionally watched The Marriage of Figaro at least once a week since it opened in January, or that each time he heard her sing ‘Deh vieni, non tardar’ she left him with tears in his eyes.
Nobody knew any of this because they all assumed he had to be dragged kicking and screaming to the theatre, and he fully intended to keep it that way. It was curiosity that drew him. The conundrum of her. He wanted to—no, needed to—finally work her out to understand the strange hold she had on him, that was all. He wasn’t one of her devoted minions who hung on her every word.
Far from it.
That particular night when he had gone to see her sing, which he had done with alarming frequency since she had made her stage debut in the chorus of Così fan Tutte last summer, he took his preferred invisible and solitary seat in the gods where nobody could see him. It was always easier to watch her when he didn’t have to worry about how the sound of her voice made him feel or how he powerlessly reacted to it.
There was something mesmerising and moving in the way Charity performed which always stole his breath and plucked at his heart strings, leaving him strangely overwhelmed and off kilter by the final curtain every single time. To begin with, he had stubbornly assumed it was the genius of Mozart which affected him so viscerally because the alternative explanation was as unthinkable as it was unpalatable. It wasn’t Charity. It couldn’t possibly be. He was much too sensible to become entranced by her. Yet after experiencing the same phenomenon at the perhaps twenty or thirty performances which his stubborn pride adamantly refused to count, he was forced to acknowledge it was all down to her and, exactly like every other man she encountered, she had thoroughly bewitched him with her talent, her beauty and her charm.
Which was all a depressing and thoroughly pathetic waste of his time because no matter how much he might think he wanted her, he really didn’t want her and he certainly didn’t want to keep thinking about wanting her either. That was the heart of the problem.
It was also a futile and vast conundrum which he would likely never solve, unlike t
he simpler one in his satchel which he most definitely would. As the built-up roads turned green and leafy, he fished it out of his bag and forced himself to focus on the diagram which was also responsible for keeping him up at night. He might never get to the bottom of the unfathomable mystery that was Charity, but he was damned if he would let the mechanics of the planned new Philpot power loom best him!
* * *
‘Surely it is time we stopped?’ Her voice snapped him away from the intricacies of the steam pipes he was rearranging and reluctantly back to the present. Beyond the window was nought but rolling fields now and Dottie was fast asleep. By the look of her, all mussed and softly snoring, his sister had been sleeping for a considerable amount of time too.
Griff took out his pocket watch, surprised to discover they had been on the road for a good two and a half hours. ‘We should hit Hatfield by noon.’
‘Noon!’
‘It is only half an hour away, Charity. That is no great hardship.’
‘For you maybe, but then you seem perfectly comfortable all spread out.’ She gestured to his legs which, to be fair to her, had taken over all the available space between them, and the small gap they hadn’t was filled with the spilling contents of his bulky satchel. ‘This isn’t your personal study, Griff.’
‘Sorry.’ He hastily gathered up his things and deposited them on the bench beside him. ‘I completely forgot where I was.’
‘And clearly also completely forgot that you possess the most ridiculously long legs on the planet and that there are two other people in this carriage reluctantly sharing it with you.’
‘I usually travel alone.’ Which sounded as pathetic as Augustus Brookes considering them middle-aged contemporaries. ‘When I am on business, that is.’
How Not to Chaperon a Lady--A sexy, funny Regency romance Page 3
