Dukes Prefer Bluestockings (Wedding Trouble, #2)

by Blythe, Bianca

  She jerked her head toward her mother. “I-it was quieter.”

  “Who wants quiet at a ball?” Lady Isla asked.

  Charlotte was silent, and she scrunched her handkerchief together.

  “Let me introduce you to the baronet’s son,” Mama said. “He’s most important.”

  Lady Isla widened her eyes. Mama hadn’t recognized the duke.

  “Oh, you should hurry then,” Lady Isla said, her lips twisting imperiously again. “It must be so special when people who lead quiet country lives attend a ball. I can’t imagine how dull their lives must otherwise be.”

  Charlotte’s chest hurt, and she allowed Mama to drag her toward the baronet’s son. They moved across the ballroom floor.

  “Where did that man go?” Mama mused.

  “I met Sir Seymour,” Charlotte said.

  “Well, you can’t marry him,” Mama said. “He’s already got a wife.” She peered about the ballroom.

  Charlotte looked about the ballroom, half-expecting to see a squat man in attire that wouldn’t look amiss in a hunting field, with hair with rather less gray than Sir Seymour’s.

  When Mama squealed and pointed, the man in question, though he was squat, didn’t appear like he’d been anywhere near a hunting field. He wore an amethyst waistcoat of such vibrancy it gleamed even from his distant location. His blond hair was carefully coiffed, and he was surrounded by a bevy of elegant gentleman.

  “He appears occupied,” Charlotte said.

  Mama sighed. “He does, doesn’t he?”

  “Charlotte!” Georgiana squealed, and Charlotte turned her head to see her sister and father approaching. “You were dancing! With the duke!”

  Mama’s eyes rounded. “Truly?”

  “Indeed,” Charlotte said.

  “Why how ever did you manage that?” Mama asked.

  “He asked me.”

  “My dear, I cannot believe you danced with a duke.” Mama fanned herself. “How marvelous! I wish I had seen it. It would have been the most incredible thing.”

  “Apart from your daily visions of me.” Papa smiled at Mama.

  Delicate pink spread across Mama’s face, and she giggled in a manner that made it very easy to imagine what they would have been like in their youths.

  Mama and Papa seemed so happy now. How could Charlotte tell them she was going to die? She didn’t want to cause them anguish. Would her last days be of hearing them wail and despair?

  She couldn’t permit the duke to share her secret. She’d have to convey the importance to him at once.

  “Was that the man near the curtains?” Mama asked. “He was most handsome.”

  Charlotte smiled. For once, Mama was absolutely correct.

  “Though I did wonder why he was inquiring about your health,” Mama continued. “He did seem most concerned.”

  “He was?” Georgiana frowned.

  Mama blinked. “I suppose that was odd. It is not an eccentricity commonly attributed to dukes.”

  “Oh?” Charlotte tried to laugh, and Georgiana’s eyes narrowed.

  Chapter Eight

  Charlotte had to stop the duke from informing anyone of her illness.

  The thought stayed in her mind during the rest of the ball, and it remained in her mind on the carriage ride home and as Flora helped her prepare for bed. It even remained in her mind as she lay in her bed, willing herself to sleep.

  I need to speak with him.

  The thought was ridiculous. Everyone would talk if she visited him at Hades’ Lair. Gaming hells were no place for women. The ton frequented such clubs, and her presence would be noticed straight away.

  I could visit him at night—

  She shook her head, willing herself to not ponder the possibility of simply calling on the duke now. That was the sort of thing everyone would think inappropriate, even though the streets would be quiet, and she would have less chance of discovery. After all, when she wore her black hooded cloak, she would blend perfectly well.

  In fact, it would even be logical to visit him now.

  If it would be improper to visit him at any time, why not visit him when fewer people would be around to see him?

  And though London was dangerous, this neighborhood was not the East End.

  Anyone who saw her might think her a servant or shopkeeper’s wife.

  There’d be no reason for them to assume she was someone who frequented ton events.

  It was all utterly logical.

  Charlotte had always been termed good. She was definitely not the sort of person who was expected to visit dukes at odd hours of the night. But perhaps she’d been termed good simply for her tendency of not speaking with the frequency of Georgiana. By the time she was born, Georgiana had been contentedly babbling away, most likely about the virtues of flowers and plants, while Charlotte’s language did not yet extend to more complex statements than “Mama” and “Papa.” So Georgiana became the talkative one, and Charlotte became the quiet one. And because being talkative was only a virtue for French salon proprietresses, Charlotte was also referred to as good. Her blond hair made it easy for members of her father’s congregation to compare her to an angel. But Charlotte didn’t want to only be good. She wanted...more.

  She lifted her torso and pushed her blanket away. Leaving this house would be tricky. It would be difficult to explain to anyone why she was wandering it. Hopefully everyone would be sleeping, but if not...

  She calculated the likelihood of detection.

  If only her room faced the street. Georgiana’s room had a tree beneath it. Unfortunately, Charlotte’s room faced a courtyard, which while quiet, would not help her get to the duke’s club. The large door downstairs was heavy, and she would almost certainly wake someone up if she closed it.

  Perhaps she should use the roof. There must be an advantage to it not having a sharp tilt, and it wasn’t rain protection. Flora had told her before that the roof leaked. No doubt Flora would be happy when the season ended and they all returned to Norfolk. The maid had certainly given enough hints, musing over the loveliness of the landscape. Flora preferred writing letters to her family in France on her half days than exploring the capital.

  Papa would be happy to know at least one person considered that county with great favor.

  She sighed. She should be content to return home. Norfolk wasn’t unpleasant, even if it was small and far from London. The long stretches of flat land allowed one to see for miles, and there was something about the open expanse of landscape that she craved. But somehow seeing the ocean before her, even though it was miles away, and not in comfortable walking distance, had made her one day long to actually sail on it, actually visit new destinations.

  Lady Isla was right. Perhaps she had lived a dull, countryside life.

  But one thing Charlotte was certain of: she was dying, and it didn’t matter if she misbehaved.

  She attempted to put on her darkest dress, the one she’d worn in mourning for her grandparents. The clasps were difficult to hook in the dark without Flora to assist her. She decided to just slip on her dark hooded cloak over her shift. At least she managed to put on her boots by herself.

  Now is the time.

  Her heart tightened again, but she pushed the door open.

  The corridor was dark, and her parents’ snores made their presence on the other side of the corridor impossible to forget. Her heart soared toward her throat, and she fought the urge to slink back to her bedroom.

  I can do this.

  She wavered at the staircase. She wouldn’t call the staircase grand, but its bannister curved in an interesting manner and it landed in the foyer. From there it was only a few short steps to the main doorway. Hopefully no one would wake up when she opened the main door.

  But the door is noisy.

  She shouldn’t risk it.

  She hesitated and then opened the door to the servants’ staircase. She’d never gone down it before, even though her family had come to London for the past three years.
There was no bannister, and she moved her hand to locate the wall. She found it quickly—the staircase was narrow. The room smelled musty, and she hoped her fingers were not becoming dirty. She didn’t like it when her fingers became dirty.

  Finally, she came to the end of the staircase and pushed through a new door. The floor beneath her changed to an uneven tile, and she took care to avoid stepping too heavily. She shouldn’t be able to see the tile, and she frowned. Light glowed from beneath a door.

  Candlelight? At this hour?

  One of the servants must be awake. Would Cook start so early? She didn’t think so, but... Charlotte pressed her lips together and quieted her steps.

  The servants’ door was at the end of this corridor. She wouldn’t have far to go. She just needed—

  The door from the lit room creaked and swung open.

  Flora stood before her. “Miss Charlotte?”

  Even though Charlotte was forever being told she was too thin and too short, invisibility was something she was evidently nowhere near achieving. “It’s me.”

  “What are you doing?” Flora’s French accent seemed to have vanished momentarily. Flora should be pleased that her accent wasn’t present during stress. Most people found any accents they had grew stronger during anxiety. Hopefully Flora simply wasn’t feeling any anxiety, and she found it utterly normal for Charlotte to be wandering the house after dark.

  Her family’s maid might not be as intimidating as traditional guards. Flora clutched some paper in her hand, and some ink stained her fingers. Charlotte was quite certain her maid possessed no sword or pistol to direct at her, but that did not make her presence any more appealing.

  Flora might do her hair and help her dress, and she might know how uncomfortable Charlotte found certain textures and how loud noises distressed her, but despite their closeness, that didn’t mean that the maid wouldn’t scream.

  “I-I thought I might go on a walk,” Charlotte said.

  “At this hour?” Skepticism sounded in Flora’s voice. “You shouldn’t be here, mademoiselle,” Flora said, her French accent restored, and Charlotte’s shoulders sank.

  “Please don’t tell anyone,” Charlotte said.

  “Are you meeting someone?” Flora asked.

  Charlotte was silent.

  Meeting was most certainly the wrong word.

  “Are you in trouble, mademoiselle?”

  “Me?” Charlotte shook her head vehemently. She resisted the urge to give a hearty laugh.

  The night might be dark, but Charlotte felt Flora’s gaze remain on her.

  “I’m going to pay a call on someone,” Charlotte said matter-of-factly.

  “It’s past midnight.”

  “It’s important.”

  And it’s the sort of call one couldn’t make in the daylight.

  In the daylight, anyone could see her.

  And in the dark—

  “Well, I’m leaving,” Charlotte said.

  Flora pressed her lips together. For a horrible moment, Charlotte thought the maid might scream to wake up the house, but she only said, “I’m coming with you.”

  “You don’t need to,” Charlotte whispered.

  “I’m worried about you,” Flora admitted. “And I understand being put in bad positions, mademoiselle.”

  “It must have been difficult to come here during the wars,” Charlotte said. “Being French.”

  “Er—yes,” Flora said.

  Charlotte opened the servant’s door to the outside. They were at a lower level, and she climbed the stairs to the street.

  “Now where are we going?” Flora whispered.

  “To see the Duke of Vernon.”

  The maid gasped. “Oh, I do need to tell your parents, mademoiselle.”

  “Nonsense. I simply need to discuss some matters with him.”

  “You mean you’re not attempting to—”

  “To what?”

  “Bed him?” Flora squeaked.

  “Good heavens, Flora. That would be quite out of the question. Wherever would you get such a thought?”

  “I’ve—er—heard he’s handsome.”

  “Well that has absolutely nothing to do why I’m seeing him,” Charlotte said primly.

  Chapter Nine

  Floorboards creaked outside his office, and Callum frowned. London had not been unnaturally warm. This whole year had been chilly. There was no reason for the floor to be expanding, as if revolting from the shock of heat. Had he been at Montgomery Castle, he would have dismissed the noise as belonging to a particularly adventurous dog, undaunted by the darkness, in pursuit of crumbs and exploration. But Callum did not have a dog in London, even though it occurred to him that this should perhaps be rectified.

  The noise halted.

  Perhaps Callum was experiencing an overactive imagination, the sort normally derived from delighting in penny dreadfuls or magic lantern performances on windy nights. Perhaps townhomes in the middle of London were susceptible to ghosts, even though he would have thought if they truly existed that he’d be more likely to find them either in Montgomery Castle or Lord McIntyre’s estate in Scotland.

  He forced himself to concentrate on his ledger. The numbers were not adding up. There was a mistake.

  He attempted not to become distracted by thoughts of Miss Charlotte Butterfield. Her impending death shouldn’t concern him.

  Death befell everyone. His parents were dead. His guardians were dead. Many of his friends were dead, victims of Bonaparte’s army. The exact destinations of the Frenchmen’s swords and muskets had varied, but too many encounters had been fatal.

  No, Callum should not be pondering the fate of Miss Charlotte Butterworth.

  And yet Callum’s heart still squeezed at the injustice of her illness.

  The elegant townhomes in Mayfair offered an illusion, aided by an abundance of columns and porticos, that life was perfect. One only had to wander from the neighborhoods’ boundaries or venture to where the servants toiled, to see that was not the case.

  The tick-tock of the grandfather clock in his bedroom seemed less an expression of Schwabian technical expertise than a harbinger of doom, the sort of morose item that had no place in any room.

  Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

  Callum didn’t wait for the pendulum to complete its gloomy task. He strolled to the clock, opened the glass case, and paused it. The ticking stopped. If only he could pause Miss Charlotte Butterworth’s march toward death with similar ease.

  Footsteps moved over the corridor, and Callum frowned. Most likely, it was a servant, even if servants shouldn’t be wandering the corridors at night. Heavens knew they did more than enough work during the day.

  Still.

  That was definitely the sound of footsteps.

  And there definitely should not be the sound of footsteps here.

  Could someone be robbing him? Ice prickled his skin, and Callum opened his desk drawer. He grabbed a knife from inside.

  The door opened, and a woman appeared.

  He blinked, and she strolled into the room. The woman had blond hair and a face he could never forget.

  “Miss Butterworth?” he asked.

  “Your Grace.” She curtsied, as if she were calling on him, as if there could be a normal reason for her presence. White fabric seemed to glow from the hem of her black cloak. White fabric that looked curiously like a shift. White fabric that made him conjure up all sorts of indecent images. Plain cotton shouldn’t be that enticing, and he groaned.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Visiting you. I think it is obvious.”

  “There’s nothing obvious about you coming here.” He glanced at her again, wondering if he’d imagined the shift. He had not. Her cloak was slightly open, perhaps from the movement of her curtsy, and the strip of pale fabric seemed to move enticingly. That blasted shift was what she wore to bed, and images of Miss Charlotte Butterworth on a bed seemed dangerous. He averted his eyes. “How did you get in?”


  “Hat pins have many uses. I’ve always found their main function rather uninteresting.”

  He had a strange urge to chuckle. “I’m certain you are aware of how utterly inappropriate it is for you to be here.”

  “We are not alone,” Miss Charlotte Butterworth said briskly. “I brought my maid.”

  “Your maid?” Surprise jolted through him.

  “I hadn’t planned it,” she admitted. “But you can consider her a chaperone.”

  Personally, Callum thought a maid was more likely to be a false witness to a compromise. Charlotte couldn’t be concocting such a scheme? He hadn’t thought her the type.

  He ran a finger along his cravat, wishing he’d not decided to loosen it at some point tonight.

  He knew he shouldn’t be relieved Miss Charlotte Butterworth hadn’t taken it into her mind to compromise him, and yet... Speaking with her was pleasant, and he’d had a sudden vision of not just speaking with her.

  Her figure was petite and perfect.

  Blast it, this was his fault for not seeking a mistress. There were more than sufficient married women and eager opera singers who could have been happy to bed him. He shouldn’t be looking at fresh-faced debutantes with imperfect hair, no matter how late at night they appeared in his room.

  “Flora!” Miss Charlotte Butterworth said. “Please introduce yourself to the duke.”

  After a pause, a dark-haired woman stepped from behind an oversized vase. “Oui, mademoiselle.”

  Callum would have to remember that his library did not require hiding places, especially when the people hiding were strangers.

  He turned to the quivering woman. “I take it you are Miss Charlotte Butterworth’s maid?”

  The woman nodded and dipped into a deep curtsy. “Indeed, Your Grace.”

  “You may rise. No point in being uncomfortable when it’s already so late.”

  “Merci, Your Grace.”

  Callum frowned. Something about her seemed almost...familiar, and he narrowed her eyes. She looked away hurriedly.

  Most likely, she’d worked at another establishment he’d attended. Maids might not switch employers often, but they did it with more frequency than their employers switched homes.