by Erica Vetsch
She rose from her chair, as graceful as a swan, and left the room. Charlotte slumped.
What had just happened?
On shaky legs, Charlotte pushed herself up and went to the entrance. Sarah stood there with her cloak, a carefully controlled lack of expression on her face. As Charlotte drew the gray wool garment around her and picked her muff up from the hall table, a door opened in the back.
Amelia Cashel. Pippa’s mother. Looking much better than she had the last time Charlotte had seen her just a week before. She had her hair combed, a clean dress, and more rounded cheeks, as if she was eating regularly. The faded beauty that had been hinted at under the dirt and strain was easier to see now.
“I heard you were here. What are you doing?” She put her hands on her hips, her mouth a tight line. Charlotte could see the resemblance between her and her daughter. “You shouldn’t be here.”
I don’t know why I’m here. Whatever I thought would happen, didn’t. Charlotte shook her head, too embarrassed to speak. She was a lady, a daughter of an earl, and she’d just been humiliated by a baseborn prostitute.
“My lady, I thank you for the things you sent, but you can’t be coming round here. This isn’t what I wanted for my girl, but it’s providing for both of us right now. If the boss finds out you’re here, he’ll take it out on us. Might even dismiss me.” She brushed past Charlotte to the door. “I never should have talked to you down there on the river. Pippa rounded on me for even letting you know about us, about her. You need to leave us alone. You have your life, and we have ours, and they won’t be crossing anymore.” She opened the door, holding it and waiting for Charlotte to leave.
Charlotte stopped in front of her, looking out into the street, where the sunlight was fading. “I only wanted to meet her, to see if I could help in some way.” To try to right at least a bit of the wrong done to you both.
“You can help us by leaving us alone. Your family has done enough harm to me and mine.”
With tears smarting her eyes, Charlotte hurried outside.
How could you help someone who didn’t want to be helped?
CHAPTER 5
“ONE WOULD THINK you had no interest in being a lady of the ton,” Mother scolded. “You come home late and refuse to say where you’ve been all afternoon. You barely had time to dress for this ball, and now you’re dragging about like a sodden lump. Pull your shoulders back and act like the daughter of an earl.”
Charlotte made an effort to straighten and put … if not a smile, at least not a frown on her face. “I do apologize, Mother. I have much on my mind at the moment.”
The daughter of an earl. Pippa was the daughter of an earl too. What if their situations had been reversed? What if it was she who was forced to work in a brothel to support herself and her destitute mother, while Pippa went to balls and danced and ate and socialized?
Of course, if Pippa were in Charlotte’s place, she would’ve married straight away during her first Season. A woman as beautiful as she wouldn’t have gone unnoticed and unclaimed for long.
The Boswells passed them in the hallway of the Pemberton home, and Charlotte didn’t know where to look. Dudley breezed past her as if he didn’t see her, but she knew he did.
The coward.
As she had been hurrying away from the house on King’s Place this afternoon, she’d bumped into Dudley Boswell at the foot of the steps. He clearly had been on his way inside the brothel—where her sister worked—and Charlotte didn’t know who’d been more stunned at their encounter. She had stood there gape mouthed as a trout yanked from a river, and Dudley had turned as red as a soldier’s coat, eyes boggling, feet shifting.
The way he kept his face averted now and almost scuttled away from the Tiptrees caught Charlotte square in the sense of humor, and a laugh tickled her throat. But as she laughed, tears pricked her eyes too. She lived in such a duplicitous society. And her failure with Pippa burned. She felt raw and shameful.
Mother shot a glance her way. “You aren’t becoming hysterical, are you?”
“No, Mother.” Charlotte strove to pull herself together.
“Now,” Mother said, raising her chin, straightening her shoulders as if about to march into battle. “I want you to put that mind of yours, the one you’re so proud of, to work tonight. Be agreeable, cultivate pleasantness, and hopefully, garner the interest in someone who might be willing to marry you. I shall be doing my part, and I expect you to do yours.”
Father appeared at Mother’s elbow and offered his arm. He raked Charlotte with a steely glance. “Behave yourself” was all he said.
What wouldn’t she give to be somewhere else? Even in the rookery, scared to death, she had felt more her own person than she did here.
The rookery brought images of her rescuer, the man the pub patrons had called Hawk, to her mind. Where was he now? What was he doing? He was as romantic a figure as she’d ever encountered. Though she knew she would never see him again, she still continued to think of him. He had captured her imagination—she, who was as pragmatic and practical as they came. Still, a girl could have a secret tendresse, couldn’t she? She wasn’t in love with him. She was merely intrigued by the idea of him. He was a dashing, mysterious hero such as she would find in a book. She knew it was silly, but she had precious little else to enjoy in her life at the moment.
They entered the stream of people going into the ballroom. Perfumes mingled, ostrich feathers waved, and jewels sparkled. Voices, laughter, good-natured jostling. The Pembertons would be pleased. The debut ball for their daughter would be labeled a “crush” in tomorrow’s paper, all a hostess or debutante could wish.
Charlotte followed her parents through the receiving line, giving her congratulations to Felicity Pemberton on her debut. Felicity was all wide eyes and round cheeks, flushed with excitement and flashing smiles in every direction.
Charlotte felt in the sere and yellow alongside Felicity Pemberton. And from the admiring glances being tossed her way by some of the young bucks, Charlotte knew Felicity would find little trouble garnering her share of offers.
That and the fact that her father was immensely wealthy. Charlotte had no idea whether her own father was wealthy, because according to him, finances were much too far above a female’s ability to comprehend, and also because they were no business of a woman’s to be meddling with. He should be as rich as Croesus since once he had hold of a shilling, he would fight a legion of Romans rather than part with it.
The ballroom was stunning, the floor polished to glass, and everywhere, in spite of the cold February wind outside, baskets and bouquets of flowers brought summer color and fragrance indoors. More than one hothouse conservatory had been raided, by the look of things.
Her own come-out had been much quieter, in the oh-so-distant past. A simple dinner-dance that didn’t really qualify as a ball. A string quartet rather than the orchestra that now played softly, waiting for the debutante to take the floor for the first dance.
Her first dance had been with a distant cousin brought in for the task by her mother. He had fulfilled his requirements and vanished to the card room, leaving her standing on the dance floor like a dumped puppy. The evening had been awkward and painful, and she had been happy when it was over.
Charlotte banished those memories. She wasn’t that maladroit girl anymore. She was a grown woman, veteran of many a society event, capable, sensible.
If she was all those things, why did she feel so small, insignificant, and ready to head for the nearest door? She imagined her own likeness could grace a dictionary beside the word gauche.
Drifting away from the receiving line, Charlotte looked over the guests, not admitting even to herself that she might be looking for anyone in particular.
Bumping into him at the bookshop had been unexpected. That she’d been so pleased about it disturbed her. She fingered the necklace at her throat. Father had eyed it with a frown when she’d come downstairs to go to the ball, and she’d almost regretted wearin
g it. He didn’t approve of jewelry, and he was capable of taking it from her. The way he’d looked at it, she could almost see him weighing up how much it might be worth and searching out the nearest receiver’s shop to pawn it.
“My dear, you’re looking well.” A bass voice rumbled at her shoulder.
She smiled up at General Eddington. His white whiskers were particularly magnificent tonight, and he took her hand, bending over it with the panache of a man twenty years younger.
“Thank you, sir.” He was resplendent in evening dress, but he wore a medal around his neck to remind himself or everyone else of his former status as a decorated soldier. “You’re looking quite well yourself.”
He preened at her compliment, but he had a look in his eye that made Charlotte uneasy. It was too bright, too intent, and he hadn’t given her back her hand. She tugged gently to remove it from his grasp.
“So nice to get to know you a bit better last night at dinner. You play a heady game of whist for a woman.” He stepped closer, crowding her, his chest brushing her arm. She stepped back.
Inwardly she bristled at the crowding and his qualifier, but she tried to keep her indignation out of her face. For a woman, indeed. She played a heady game of whist, period. Gender need not come into it.
“Thank you. I enjoyed the evening very much.” And she had, though not because she had won. She kept her eyes on the guests, looking for one tall form among the throng, only half listening to the old general.
“I had hoped you did. You see, I spoke with your father earlier today at our club.”
“Did you?” She tapped toe to the music. Would he come? Surely he had been invited. He was much desired as a guest these days.
“Yes, though it has been a very long time since I’ve spoken to a father about his daughter.”
She stopped tapping. “Pardon me?” He had her full attention now.
“You see, I’ve been a widower for some time, and … looking for a bit of comfort in my old age, you know. Not seeking a child bride, but someone a bit more mature.” He gruffed and bumbled, his face florid. “I was hoping you might consider a union between us …”
Was the man actually proposing? Marriage?
He was old enough to be her … grandfather? She must’ve looked as shocked as she felt, because his face reddened further, and he backed up a step.
“I can see that I caught you unawares.” His lips were stiff, his bearing erect.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.” She blinked, her hand coming up to finger the locket at her throat. “I never expected …” She tried to keep the revulsion out of her face, praying she succeeded.
In a flash, he gathered himself, putting on a military bearing. He stiffened, as if on a parade ground, and with a click of his heels, he gave a crisp bow. “Of course. I chose a poor place to address this topic. Perhaps I can call on you tomorrow? We could make things more official at that time.”
No! Her mind shouted the refusal.
When the general flinched and people around her gasped, she realized she hadn’t kept the shout internal.
Why couldn’t the floor just open up and swallow her right now?
She inclined her head to a small alcove, and he marched into it, scowling. She followed, still not sure of what had happened. Lord, what kind of sick joke is this? Is this the answer to my prayer for a way out of my father’s house that doesn’t involve Aunt Philomena and Yorkshire? What are You doing? I know I said any marriage would be better than staying in my father’s house, but … this?
He turned in the small space, crossing his arms, glaring down at her.
“I’m s … s … sorry, sir.” She had to say something, but what? “You do me a great honor, but …” I couldn’t possibly marry a fossil like you, to be the comfort of your declining years. Her mind boggled at the thought. Just how old do you think I am?
Perhaps I should introduce you to Aunt Philomena. The two of you are of an age … An absurd desire to giggle at this ridiculous notion rose up her throat, and with great effort she throttled it.
“Please, excuse me, sir. I do appreciate your offer, but I must decline.”
“Your father led me to believe my proposal would be well received.” His side-whiskers jutted from his jowls. “In fact, he guaranteed it.”
“My father was mistaken. He does not speak for me in this issue.” He’d better not. She would not marry General Eddington no matter how much her father had promised. She had no more books for him to burn. What else could he do to her that would hurt as much?
A flash of being tossed out of the house and having to fend for herself like Pippa crossed her mind. Her skin prickled.
“How can he be mistaken? Surely he knows if you’re entertaining another suitor.”
So the general thought the only reason she would refuse him was because she was being courted by someone else?
“Sir, I appreciate the honor you do me, but I must refuse your offer of marriage, not because there is someone else who has proposed but because …” How could she let him down easily? It wasn’t his fault, and he wasn’t a bad man.
If only her rescuer on that dark night, the man they called Hawk, would swoop in and rescue her now. She’d gladly race away with him if he came into the ballroom that minute.
That was an idea. Perhaps she could hand the general his congé gently if she claimed to be in love with someone else.
But then her truthful nature rose up and prodded her conscience. She could not lie. She would not lie. There had been too much lying and pretense in her life for her to embrace it as the easy way out.
Tell the truth and shame the devil.
“Thank you for your offer, but it is quite impossible. I do not care for you in that way, and frankly, the age difference between us is absurd. I am sorry if my father led you to believe otherwise, but I cannot marry you, sir.”
“I see.” He stroked his jowls. “You are rather juvenile in your thinking after all. I had assumed you would be more pragmatic, seeing as you have been unsuccessful in finding a husband for so long. I would ask you to take a few days to consider my offer, but I can see it is repugnant to you. Good evening, Lady Charlotte.” He gave a stiff bow and left her in the alcove, still stunned, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.
She had offended the man, but what else could she have done? The evening was a disaster before the first dance. She stepped reluctantly out of the alcove, and locked eyes with the Duke of Haverly. Her heart gave a small lurch.
He really was handsome, exuding masculinity. So tall and well muscled, assured, and eye-catching. A real-life Hawk-type hero.
Now that was fanciful, and if her cloaked-and-mufflered rescuer was a far-fetched suitor, the Duke of Haverly was more so. He was so far out of her reach as to be mythical.
With a start, she realized she was staring, but then again, so was he. Warmth spread through her as he started her way.
But before he reached Charlotte, her mother stepped in front of her. “Charlotte Tiptree, did you actually … Words fail me. I just saw General Eddington. What were you thinking? I despair of you.” She hissed this stream of words in a whisper. “Your father is trying to make amends with the man, but really, you are the absolute most frustrating girl. It isn’t as if you have proposals littering the floor and filling up the ash bins. A respectable match, and what do you do? Treat the man as if he has some scrofulous disease.” Her hands fluttered. “I’m mortified, that’s what. I don’t know what your father will say when he catches up to you. Why must you be so vexatious to me?”
“Good evening, Countess Tiptree, Lady Charlotte.” The duke greeted them with a polite bow.
Her mother’s transformation was comical. She went from acidic to amiable in a flash. “Your Grace, what a pleasure.” She bobbed a quick curtsy, and then inclined her head to Charlotte, who followed suit.
“Very nice to see you again, Your Grace.” Please, Lord, don’t let him bring up the bookshop. Mother won’t understand.
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nbsp; The duke seemed to catch her silent plea. “You seem to have suffered no ill effects from our revelry at the Washburns’ last night. And I see we are both sporting the spoils of war.” He raised his hand, where the gold ring that matched her necklace sparkled.
A tingle of pleasure went through her to be linked once more with him as victors. Behind him, the music swelled, and conversations ceased. Their host, Lord Pemberton, led Felicity into the center of the ballroom. With a flourish, he presented her to the guests, and then he handed her off to a young man who had been selected for the purpose of partnering her for her first dance. Other unmarried guests formed up to join them in a reel, and to her surprise, the duke made a bow. “With your permission, Countess?” He held his hand out to Charlotte, and Mother blinked.
“Yes, of course.”
Charlotte put her hand into his, feeling the warmth and strength of his fingers even through her evening glove.
She was going to partner the Duke of Haverly? He’d swooped in and rescued her from Mother’s scolding as neatly as the Hawk in the rookery.
He found places for them in the twin lines, standing across from her, elegance personified. His dark hair was gathered into a queue at the nape of his neck, an old-fashioned style, to be sure, but it suited him. He wasn’t afraid to be a bit different, and she liked that.
She caught curious looks from some of the guests. They must be wondering why the duke would choose her to partner when there were so many younger, prettier options.
She wondered herself. Pray she didn’t embarrass herself by tripping or stepping on his toes.
Why had he asked her?
Perhaps he was doing his duty, being a good guest by dancing with a neglected maiden. He was punctilious and polite, after all. The light seemed to dim around her.
Then he smiled, and bless her, he winked. She was sure of it this time.
A gurgle of laughter burst from her, drawing attention. Punctilious and polite? He was a rogue under that fancy linen.