Never Kneel to a Knight

by Regina Scott

  Charlotte stiffened. “Then you can’t stop it?”

  He shook his head. “Not with His Royal Highness sanctioning it. The time and place are already set, a week from today at Wormholt Scrubs by Fulham. Most of the men in London will likely attend. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

  Charlotte nodded and let him go on his way. He had been her last hope. If neither Matthew nor Lord Harding would speak to the prince, she had no faith she could sway His Royal Highness, even if she could find a way to converse with his exalted personage. Matthew was going to have to fight.

  But the Gentleman was wrong about one thing. It would not be just the men of London who attended.

  ~~~

  “Since when are you and Miss Worthington friends?”

  At Gentleman Jackson’s question, Matthew nearly dropped his guard. As it was, he had to step back to avoid the boxer’s punishing right.

  “You know I served as bodyguard to her and her brother,” Matthew said, raising his fists and circling. “Likely she feels a certain loyalty.”

  He’d come to the salon on Bond Street two days after the trip to Gunter’s in hopes of practicing. Now he and Jackson were stripped down to shirts and breeches, fists wrapped in mufflers, and feet positioned forward and back. Behind the boxing champion, drawings on the walls laid out proper techniques and impressive stances, while near the door other devotees hurried to divest themselves of their coats and top hats in hopes of following Matthew onto the hardwood floor.

  “Loyalty, eh,” Jackson mused. He threw a punch. Matthew blocked and counter-punched, but the boxer jumped back in time to escape the blow.

  “Loyalty to my sisters, especially,” Matthew insisted. “She’s helping them enter Society.”

  Jackson grunted, but from the statement or the punch Matthew landed, Matthew wasn’t sure.

  He wasn’t any more sure of the matter when he put on his coat to leave a while later. For a moment, in the coach yesterday, he’d considered again whether Charlotte might care for him. Why did he torment himself? He’d seen how she interacted with her maid, their family cook Mrs. Hestrine—always polite, always kind and thoughtful. She wasn’t so different with him.

  Usually.

  But once in a while, there was a look in her eyes, a tone in her voice, that could set a man to dreaming.

  He snorted, and the couple who had been approaching on Bond Street hastily stepped out of his way. He tipped his hat in apology. The wife smiled. The husband did not.

  Well, what did he expect? Even in a fancy new coat and breeches, he would still appear the brute to some. Charlotte had ever treated him as if he might be more. He still didn’t understand why she had taken on the role of etiquette teacher to his sisters, but it was clear she cared about their welfare. She wasn’t attending his family for his sake.

  Was she?

  He could call it doubt; he could call it hope. It persisted in raising its head, for all he tried to quell it. He was a baronet now, a knight. That inched him closer to her position in Society. He was doing all he could to be a gentleman. Was it possible Charlotte returned his regard? He had to learn the truth or go mad.

  He didn’t wait for Charlotte to come up to his study when she arrived the next day. He joined his sisters in the fussy sitting room, where they were making plans for the at home. He tried not to interfere, sitting and watching instead.

  Charlotte didn’t look his way any more often than was necessary for good company. When she poured tea, she gave him no more than she gave his sisters. She didn’t linger in his company before taking her leave, offer him any kind of encouraging look.

  He had been right about her feelings for him, or lack thereof, and he had never been less pleased about the fact.

  He escorted her to her coach. Gentlemen did that sort of thing, didn’t they? She paused, hand on his as he prepared to help her up into her seat.

  “You are practicing for the fight, then?” she asked, grey eyes cool.

  “Here at the house and with Gentleman Jackson,” he answered.

  She nodded. “Good. What do you know about your opponent?”

  Was she interested? Why did that raise his hopes yet again?

  “Only what I’ve seen and heard,” he allowed. “He’ll have power behind his blows. Jackson says he tends to lead with his right. The times he’s fought at the salon, he’s won five times and lost three.”

  “So, he can be beaten,” she said, eyes narrowing as if she was considering strategy.

  “Everyone can be beaten,” Matthew told her.

  Her gaze brushed his. “What’s your record?”

  “Ten wins, no losses.”

  Her eyes widened, drawing him in. “That sounds good. Is it good?”

  He shrugged, determined not to preen at her obvious admiration. “Good enough. I’m not worried about this fight. You shouldn’t be either.”

  She sighed. “Easier said than done, I fear. But I’m glad to hear you’re confident of victory.”

  He hadn’t said that, but he didn’t correct her. It was one more fight—one last fight, he reminded himself. Whether he won or lost didn’t matter so long as he never had to do it again.

  For only when he knew himself to be a gentleman could he begin to think he might earn the love of a woman as fine as Charlotte.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After Matthew’s reception by the prince and the news of the impending fight, Charlotte wasn’t sure what to expect from the at home. She had worked hard with Ivy and Daisy to make it a success. She had sent notes to any lady and gentleman with whom she could claim acquaintance. The sitting room was neat and clean. Ivy had arranged flowers on the mantel and side tables. Tuny had been persuaded to entertain Rufus in the rear yard with one of Ivy’s cinnamon buns to console her for missing the fun.

  Ivy and Daisy looked lovely in their muslin gowns, Ivy’s sprigged in spring green and Daisy’s in buttercup yellow. In a duskier green gown herself, Charlotte sat with them as the clock in Matthew’s study upstairs struck two, the sound echoing through the silent house.

  Daisy’s face fell. “No one came.”

  “Give them time,” Charlotte cautioned, though she felt as if she’d eaten a rock instead of eggs and toast that morning. “The members of the ton love to be fashionably late.”

  The knocker sounded for the first time at a quarter past two. The maid ushered the dowager Lady Carrolton and Yvette, Countess of Carrolton, into the room.

  “Miss Bateman, Miss Daisy,” Yvette greeted them in her musical voice, her figure swathed in a fashionable muslin gown with an excess of flounces. “How grand to see you again. Mother Carrolton, allow me to introduce our hostesses.”

  For much of the time Charlotte had known Lilith, her mother, Lady Carrolton, had been frail, her face narrow and hollow. Now her eyes were as bright as a crow’s. It didn’t help that she tended to favor dark colors, though someone, likely Yvette, had persuaded her to don purple-striped muslin today.

  “I know Miss Worthington,” the elderly woman declared with a voice designed to carry. She leaned heavily on her daughter-in-law’s arm as they drew closer. “It’s still Miss Worthington, is it not? You’re a spinster.”

  “I am as yet unwed,” Charlotte acknowledged, making sure not to sound unsettled by the fact. “But I’m certain I won’t be able to say the same for long about the Misses Bateman.”

  Yvette made the introductions, and the two sat on chairs facing Ivy and Daisy on the sofa.

  “Bitter almond,” Lady Carrolton announced. “It will do wonders for blotchy skin.”

  Daisy’s hand flew to her creamy cheek.

  “I am certain Gregory said bitter almond was a poison, Mother Carrolton,” Yvette said with a look of apology to Charlotte and her charges.

  Lady Carrolton waved a hand. “Some concessions must be made to attract a husband.”

  Charlotte was glad when the knocker sounded again.

  Indeed, it sounded for more than two hours, as visitors paraded t
hrough the sitting room. Some came for gossip, digging for information about the upcoming fight like ravens searching for grubs. Others came from curiosity but stayed to chat. Ivy and Daisy received compliments on their poise, their fashion sense, their lovely home, and their gracious welcome. Ivy was glowing with pride, and Daisy’s eyes sparkled.

  Charlotte was equally pleased. While none of the high sticklers had deigned to call, enough members of the Beau Monde had visited and left clearly impressed. The girls shouldn’t lack for invitations in the days to come.

  But the visitor who pleased her most was Lord Kendall. The slender marquess arrived near the end of the allotted time, when the sitting room was empty of other guests. Every sable hair of his head, mustache, and beard in place, he bowed over Charlotte, Ivy, and Daisy’s hands in turn before flipping back the tails of his navy coat and taking a seat near Charlotte.

  “A lovely room,” he said.

  “Ivy’s inspiration,” Charlotte replied with a look to her pupil.

  Ivy’s smile was small and tight as her gaze dropped to her fingers in her lap, fingers pressed so tightly together they might have been a ball of yarn.

  “Indeed,” he said. “What inspires you, Miss Bateman?”

  “Nature,” Ivy said, speaking to her fingers. “God made so many beautiful things it is difficult not to be inspired.”

  “True,” he allowed, leaning back in the chair. “Although this room does not remind me of Nature so much as the Greek pantheon. We might as well be sitting on Mount Olympus.”

  Daisy made a face. “Where’s that? The Lakes District?”

  Lord Kendall raised a brow.

  “We haven’t begun studying geography,” Charlotte put in smoothly. “But I’m certain Ivy had a particular scheme in mind when she decorated this room.” She nudged Ivy’s slipper. When Ivy glanced up, Charlotte smiled pointedly.

  “Yes, of course,” Ivy said dutifully, gathering herself. “I wanted a space that would welcome guests and be comfortable for our family.”

  “Family is very important,” the marquess agreed. “I believe I heard you had a hand in raising your sisters, Miss Bateman.”

  Now, who had been telling tales? Or had he been trying to learn more about Ivy? Some in the ton would have thought Ivy’s role with her sisters to be more suited to a nanny. But Lord Kendall’s tone seemed admiring.

  When Ivy didn’t respond immediately, Daisy jumped in. “Ivy was only twelve when our mother died, my lord. I was six. She took care of me and Petunia, who was a baby.”

  “Commendable,” he said, gaze on Ivy. “Do you like children, Miss Bateman?”

  Ivy flashed a smile, the warmth of it brightening her countenance, brightening the very room. Lord Kendall blinked in the beauty of it.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, tone as brilliant as her face. “There’s nothing more fulfilling than seeing a little one grow into who she was meant to be.”

  Daisy smiled fondly at her. “I’m glad you’re my sister, Ivy. I don’t know what we would have done without you and Matthew.”

  Lord Kendall’s smile faded. “I hesitate to bring up what may be a painful subject, but are you concerned about your brother in this upcoming fight?”

  Ivy paled, but Daisy tossed her head. “No. Matthew will win. Matthew always wins.”

  His mouth quirked. “I’m glad to hear that. I will be sure to cheer for him at the event.”

  Charlotte eyed him, a daring idea taking shape. “Miss Bateman and I would love to do the same. If only we knew someone who would be willing to take us along.”

  He straightened. “A fight is no place for a lady, Miss Worthington. If Sir Matthew was here, he’d say the same.”

  “Sir Matthew is wonderfully broad-minded when it comes to the place of women in Society,” Charlotte said brightly. “I realize, of course, that we couldn’t go openly. I suppose we could go in my carriage. It is closed. Still, I wonder at the potential danger. Would we be surrounded by ill sorts, do you think?”

  “Perhaps not as many as usual, given His Highness’s interest in the event,” he allowed. “But I wouldn’t want you to go unattended.”

  Charlotte clasped her hands together. “Wonderful! Then we may count on your escort. Isn’t that excellent news, Ivy?”

  Ivy had been watching the exchange, but with interest or dismay, Charlotte wasn’t sure. Now Matthew’s oldest sister shook her head at Charlotte before turning to the marquess, who appeared to be trying to formulate a plan of escape, if the furrowing of his manly brow was any indication.

  “You do not need to accompany us, Lord Kendall,” Ivy told him. “I would not want to inconvenience you or put you in a difficult position.”

  His brow cleared, and he inclined his head. “On the contrary, Miss Bateman. It would be my honor to be of service. Shall I have my carriage here an hour before the fight? That should give us time to reach Wormholt Scrubs.”

  “Perfect,” Charlotte assured him.

  They spoke of commonplaces a moment before he excused himself. Daisy tiptoed to the sitting room door to watch him leave, then turned with wide eyes to her sister. “He likes you!”

  Ivy raised her chin. “I’m sure he was only being polite. I know you were trying to help, Miss Worthington, but I cannot like how you manipulated him.”

  “And gave us an opportunity to see this fight,” Charlotte reminded her just as a sound came from the entry.

  “Pardon me, madam.” Betsy, who had been opening and closing doors all afternoon, sounded testy. “I didn’t hear your knock.”

  “I didn’t knock,” came a bold female voice. “I don’t need to knock at my own door.”

  Daisy paled and ran back to join Ivy, who had risen. Ivy put her sister protectively behind her. Charlotte rose as well, not sure what she was about to face.

  An older woman breezed into the room. Her hair might have been grey, but it certainly hadn’t come by the titian color naturally. The red emphasized the black of her plucked brows and the glaring yellow of her rumpled gown, which dipped low enough around the neck so as to leave no question of her figure. She glanced around, reddened lips curling.

  “Putting on airs, I see,” she sneered. “Well, we’ll have no more of that now that I’m here.”

  “Mrs. Bateman,” Ivy said, voice shaking. “This is Matthew’s home.”

  Mrs. Bateman? So, this was Matthew’s unlamented stepmother. She sashayed into the room, beaded bag swinging from one meaty fist.

  “The Beast of Birmingham,” she said in her high, sharp voice. “I remember. But I’m your mother, and I have rights too.”

  “You’re no mother of mine,” Daisy declared.

  Mrs. Bateman’s blue eyes flashed a warning, and Ivy hitched back from her. Enough of that!

  Charlotte stepped forward. “Now, Daisy. Remember your manners.” She turned to the woman. “Mrs. Bateman. I’m afraid our at home just ended. You’ll have to visit another time. If you’ll leave your card, we’ll let you know when might be convenient.”

  Matthew’s stepmother gaped a moment. “Who are you?”

  “This is Miss Worthington,” Ivy put in, straightening. “She’s sponsoring us for the Season.”

  Mrs. Bateman’s eyes settled on her stepdaughters. “Sponsor, eh? We’ll have none of that either. I raised you girls proper.”

  “Not that sort of sponsor, madam,” Charlotte informed her, cheeks heating until they likely matched the red of Mrs. Bateman’s hair. “Sir Matthew hired me to help his sisters acclimate to London Society.”

  “Sir Matthew.” The sneer was back on her face and in her voice. “I heard about that. It was in all the papers. His fancy friends won’t think so highly of him once I tell them a story or two. Abandoning his poor old mother to fend for herself.”

  “I’m sure Sir Matthew would be delighted to take up the matter with you,” Charlotte said. “At a later time. Betsy! Would you show Mrs. Bateman to the door?”

  The maid peered uncertainly through the doorway, but Mrs. Bate
man stalked forward and seized Charlotte’s arm, fingers digging into her flesh.

  “I’ve had about enough of you, missy. You’ll be the one leaving.”

  Charlotte tried to yank away, but the woman was strong. Though Charlotte dug her heels into the new carpet, Mrs. Bateman managed to tow her toward the door.

  “Please!” Ivy cried, running after them. “Don’t hurt her. She’s been kind to us.”

  “Because your brother paid her,” Mrs. Bateman declared. She shoved Charlotte out into the entry.

  Charlotte’s slippers skidded across the wood, but she kept her feet and turned. Before she could protest, Mrs. Bateman stabbed a finger into her chest, pushing her back a step.

  “Get out, now, before I throw you out.”

  She was bruised and shaking, but she refused to bow. “Ivy, Daisy, fetch Petunia and Rufus from the yard. Betsy, take Anna and go stay with Mr. Winthrop’s staff. We will all leave.”

  Betsy fled, but Mrs. Bateman’s look shot to the girls huddled in the doorway, their faces pinched. “Don’t you move, or it will go worse for you. I came for Petunia, and I won’t leave without her.”

  Daisy darted out of the doorway and ran down the corridor toward the rear yard.

  “Go,” Ivy begged Charlotte. “Daisy will take Tuny and run. Find them. I’ll stay until Matthew gets home.”

  “Ivy, please come with me,” Charlotte pleaded.

  Mrs. Bateman raised a fist, to strike Charlotte or Ivy, Charlotte wasn’t sure. But the woman addressed herself to Charlotte. “You find those brats and bring them back, you hear?”

  “I’ll find them,” Charlotte said, more for Ivy’s benefit than for that of the horror in front of her, “but I will never allow them to enter this house with you in it.” She turned and left.

  ~~~

  Gentleman Jackson still knew how to throw a punch. Matthew rubbed his jaw as he climbed the steps to his house as evening approached. He braced himself for the excited bay, the click of nails on wood as Rufus ambled to greet him.

  But the entry hall was empty and silent.

  Tuny was probably playing with the dog in the rear yard, Betsy helping Anna with supper. It wasn’t so very late. Perhaps they could all take a walk, and Charlotte could tell him how this at home had gone.