‘What are you—where the hell do you think you’re going!’
‘To bed. To think.’ It was difficult to walk, her limbs heavy and aching with regret, but she had to. She had to walk away from him now if she wished to live with a shred of self-respect—to become the person she was capable of being. The air felt so much colder than before as it blew over her bare shoulders; Charlotte hugged herself tightly, willing herself to not look back. ‘To—to begin the process of becoming good at heart.’
‘You’ve always been good at heart.’ Robert’s voice sounded ragged with pain. ‘Always.’
‘I’m not doing it for you. You don’t need to tell me.’ Charlotte closed her eyes, tears beginning to form. ‘All you’ve done is alert me to the problem, Mr. Duke. One I will correct on my own terms.’
It was only fifty or so steps to the house, but it felt like a thousand miles. A thousand cruel, lonely miles in an endless desert, with no trace of water to drink. Charlotte kept her head held high, even as tears began falling down her cheeks.
She couldn’t look back at him. Couldn’t do anything other than go back into the glittering splendour of the house and head for her bedroom. Tomorrow, as impossible as it sounded, she would need to begin her transformation.
Horace Pembroke, when all was said and done, was not a cruel man. An easily-angered man, yes, and certainly not familiar with the new ideas and manners racing through London like runaway carriages, but decent at heart. As soon as he’d finished that unwise conversation with Charlotte before the ball, he knew he’d been irrational with his anger and unwise in his suggestions—and had been shocked beyond measure when Charlotte, with the usual scandalous flair that characterised her existence in London’s social ferment, had behaved as if a union with Robert Duke had been happening for months.
Had they really been courting in secret, under everyone’s noses? Astonishing. So astonishing that Horace had almost forgotten how much he distrusted the Duke brothers, with their aggressive business practices and impolite way of speaking to their betters. Not that he was obsessed with class, of course—he had no title to speak of—but there was such a thing as the proper order. He had made his money after a great many years of very hard work, and the Duke brothers’ sudden ascension into wealth and splendour thanks to new farming innovations felt annoyingly close to cheating.
Robert Duke’s performance at the archery competition had turned his previous suspicions on his head. The man couldn’t have been more courteous, more respectful—he was a gentleman from head to foot, despite his lack of title. And when he had looked at Charlotte, with Horace surreptitiously watching his gaze, there had been that pure, glorious spark of real sentiment that lit his whole self from within.
Horace remembered what that spark felt like. He had felt it for his late wife, her many flaws notwithstanding. He had loved her to distraction, his days glowing with it, and he had always secretly hoped that Charlotte would experience the same devotion. Love-matches were vanishingly uncommon, yes, especially when money was involved—but if anyone could attract a gentleman who was utterly devoted, it would be Charlotte.
She had. He’d seen it. But now, one week later, everything had been turned upon its head again.
‘Well?’ He irritably turned towards Harry the footman, who lowered his gaze with a gulp. ‘Has she come out?’
‘Not yet, sir. She’s going through her gowns, sir.’
‘Her gowns?’
‘Yes.’ Harry paused, evidently weighing the usefulness of what came next. ‘She says she’s going to give them to the poor.’
Horace’s face darkened. With a shake of his head and an irritated wave of his hand, he sent a relieved Harry on his way as he rose from his desk.
The gowns were the latest casualty. She had begun with the silver, to his extreme consternation—he was fairly sure two or three teaspoons had vanished into her skirts despite his strongly-voiced disapproval. Charlotte had stood her ground with a stubbornness that was almost admirable, saying that she was going to sell them and donate the funds, and Horace had decided to believe it was a passing phase rather than a disturbing new facet of his daughter’s personality. But then two of the paintings in the gallery vanished, then the linen napkins from the dinner service—and now, most annoyingly of all, the gowns.
It was his fault. He never should have criticised her gown-buying; it was an expense, but she had been correct about William’s extravagant habits as well. He should have pulled them into the study together and disciplined the both of them equally. Now he had a daughter who seemed determined to give away everything of value within a hundred-foot radius, who was silent and ashen-faced at dinner, who could be heard weeping at night…
… and who hadn’t received a single visit from Robert Duke in a week.
Horace shook his head as he left the room, making his way towards the sound of rustling silks and satins. He could probably stop Charlotte giving priceless dresses to the poor, but would be entirely inadequate if something of larger import was at play. Pembroke Manor had mourned in the past, when his wife had taken residence in Paradise—it couldn’t be allowed to slide back into that mire of dejected misery.
Knocking gently at the door of the dressing room, waving away a frightened-looking maid, he waited to hear a refusal. When none came, he opened with door with an uncharacteristic swell of fear.
His daughter sat on a chaise-longue amidst a sea of silks and satins. Horace tiptoed gingerly over the tide of luxurious fabrics, wincing when he stepped on something that looked particularly expensive, until he sat with a sigh of relief by Charlotte’s side.
‘You can’t complain about me giving away the gowns.’ Charlotte’s cheeks were streaked with tears. ‘You never wanted me to have so many anyway.’
‘You can have a new gown every day if it stops you from crying.’
‘I must give them away, but I don’t know who to give them away to. I don’t think the church will accept them.’
‘I don’t think the church can give ball-gowns of purple silk to the unwed mothers that come begging for new shoes, no.’ Horace paused. ‘And—and why do the gowns need to be given away?’
‘Because I’ve never given anything to help those less fortunate than myself. I’m fit for nothing.’
‘You have always helped your friends. You helped Dorothea tremendously after the failure of her parents, even though she refused all offers of greater help.’ Horace gently wiped a tear from Charlotte’s cheek, shaking the offending droplet away. ‘My dear, I’m not a clever man. I can make money, and use that money to make more, but the vagaries of the human heart are closed to me.’ He looked at his weeping daughter with a tremendous upswell of sympathy. ‘Please tell me what ails you. I’ll never be able to guess otherwise.’
‘I’ve learnt many terrible things about myself in a short period of time.’ Charlotte sniffed. ‘I’m making every effort to remedy them, but time is short—that would explain my unreasonable excesses of emotion.’ She stiffly patted her father’s knee. ‘You needn’t trouble yourself further.’
For a moment, Horace was tempted to accept the frankly ludicrous explanation and leave. Anything rather than sit with his precious daughter’s sadness. Fighting his own weaknesses, he looked at Charlotte with his most serious face. ‘Are you telling me that Robert Duke criticised you?’
‘No. Absolutely not.’ Charlotte’s face crumpled. ‘If anything, the opposite. And so I realised that—oh, I am so hopelessly spoiled, and not fit for him at all!’
With a fresh shower of tears, she curled into the chaise longue and sobbed. Horace reached out a trembling hand, hopelessly patting his daughter’s shoulder as he tried to make sense of what on earth was happening.
Oh, dash it all. Not everything had to make perfect sense. Not when he knew that he had to help—had to undo the mistake he had made at the very start of all this mess, by so lazily punishing her and not William.
‘My dear—you are my daughter. You are a Pembroke. There is no
being on this earth, royalty included, to whom you are inferior. I believe this with every breath in my body.’ His voice shook with the force of his conviction. ‘You must know this. And whatever that young man has said to you—’
‘He hasn’t! Oh, he truly hasn’t! He said the opposite—he said that I was perfect, perfect in every respect, but I’m not! I’m a spoiled, conniving woman who insisted he play-act a courtship with me in an attempt to keep my allowance!’ Charlotte turned to him, her face red and puffy with sobs. ‘I’m so sorry, father! I’m the worst creature alive!’
‘Please don’t worry. Please don’t exert yourself like this.’ The discovery that the union was a false one was oddly comforting. It meant he knew his daughter well, rather than suddenly finding out she was having passionate affairs of the heart. And what woman of spirit hadn’t tried to shake a few more coins out of their father’s pockets? ‘You’re nowhere near the worst creature alive, and you know it.’
‘I promised a donation to the orphanage where he grew up. I didn’t even think about it. And then I ended it, ended it quite horribly, and now the orphans won’t have food and clothing because—because I was frightened!’ Charlotte’s shoulders shook as she buried her head in her hands, sobs mingling with her words. ‘I… I didn’t want to tell you… I thought you would be angry…’
‘You seem to be angry enough at yourself, my poor child. You don’t need more.’ Horace patted her shoulder again, ruefully shaking his head. Robert Duke was clearly a more principled man than he knew. ‘Is this why you’ve been attempting to sell everything that isn’t nailed down? This donation?’
‘Yes.’
‘How much are you meant to give?’
‘We didn’t specify. Only that it should be large.’
Horace sighed. Unparalleled as Charlotte was, she didn’t display the level of financial acumen that he would like in his only daughter. ‘Then that can be arranged.’
‘Oh, father. Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure that I don’t want you weeping all over the house for the foreseeable future. I’m willing to pay any amount of money to avoid that.’
‘You’re kind, father. You’re kind even when you don’t think you’re being kind.’
‘As are you, my dear. You’re much kinder than me.’ Horace nodded, wondering how he could continue saying sympathetic things for much longer. He was doing well enough, but a mortal man could only do so much. ‘And—and you should visit the orphanage. Not me.’
‘Me? But why?’
Because if you keep sobbing all over the upholstery, I’m going to have to redecorate. ‘Because it’ll do you good to get a little fresh air. You’ve never been one to pine away inside.’
‘I… I suppose.’ Charlotte grew still. She straightened her back, losing a little of her wounded look. ‘It would be a wise idea.’
‘And perhaps you could take Dorothea with you.’
‘Much as I love her, I don’t think I could stand to be around someone so very happy.’
‘Then go with a maid.’ Horace paused. ‘Are you really telling me that there’s no hope? For you and the Robert fellow?’
‘I don’t see how there can be. Especially given how we began.’
‘Take advice from an old man, dear. How things begin is rarely the most important thing—it’s how one continues.’ Horace looked at his daughter, hoping she took the message to heart. ‘Now organise your hair and face, for goodness’ sake, and go and do good in the world.’
London was bursting at the seams with business, its streets a ferment of trade and leisure. Robert walked along the winding tangle of streets that made up the garment district with John trailing him, his brother managing to pant out a couple of breathless words. ‘Is a letter really out of the question?’
‘I’ve tried to write her a letter. I’ve tried to write her a dozen letters. They’ve all ended up in the fire—nothing I put down comes out right.’
‘I didn’t say you shouldn’t buy her a present.’ John struggled to keep pace with Robert as they walked down the bustling street, narrowly avoiding men holding large parcels and women holding small dogs. ‘I’m saying that it’s important to know what present to give. Money isn’t everything.’
‘I’m not going to buy her a horse and leave it outside her townhouse. Something small. Something that—that speaks of what we’ve shared.’ Robert looked doubtfully at John. ‘I was thinking of a ribbon. One in the same colour as that lovely gown she wore—do you remember it?’
‘The blue one?’
‘Yes. I managed to get the name of the modiste out of Thomas. Dorothea’s always going there—her name’s Anne Fletcher. I’ve probably been told the name a thousand times before, but I’m dashed if I could remember.’ Robert increased his pace. ‘She’ll be able to help me think of something better, if the idea of a ribbon suddenly sounds idiotic when it comes out of my mouth.’
As John concealed a smile behind his hand, Robert walked faster still. If he moved, and spoke, and acted, he would be able to stop thinking about what happened. About the way she had looked at him—about the things she had said to him, the pain in her voice as she recalled the cruel things he’d said about her.
He should have kept her there. He didn’t even have wider society to use as an excuse. He had listened to the careless words of his past and failed to adequately comfort her—failed to tell her how his feelings had changed. Or better, that his true feelings had been revealed.
Love. He held the word in his mind, letting it pain him, before deliberately pushing it back down into the depths of his core.
‘Fletcher. Is that it? John pointed to a shop-front that seemed almost deliberately plain compared to the more elaborate ones that flanked it.
‘I suppose. I imagined it being more… frilly.’
‘It doesn’t need to be frilly when it has perfect gowns.’ John shrugged. ‘Let’s ask, at least.’
As they entered the shop, the plainness of the outside became an elegant, almost masculine severity. With such a plain background, the splendour of the gowns displayed on the shop floor was highlighted; Robert looked around, mouth open, aware that John was doing much the same.
‘These are beautiful.’ He turned to Robert. ‘Astonishing.’
‘Don’t get ahead of yourself. They’re beautiful examples of a thing—like Henry and his vase sketches.’
‘Not true. They’re like my sketches.’ John went to a grey gown, gently touching a sleeve. ‘There’s a spark to them. A fire.’
Artists were strange creatures, but Robert could almost see what his brother meant. A soft cough came from behind him; he turned, grateful to meet the modiste and finally begin his errand.
Anne Fletcher was different from how he had imagined her. Small and pale, with reddish-blonde hair that she wore in a style as simple as her shop-front, she looked at both Robert and John with polite, wary incomprehension. ‘May I help you, sirs?’
‘You are the modiste to Miss Charlotte Pembroke, are you not?’
‘It would be wrong of me to reveal anything about one of my clients.’
‘And I’m not asking you to reveal anything that could be considered personal. I promise.’ Robert spoke with fervent, evident desperation, his hands tense against the wood of the woman’s desk. ‘Neither do I wish to reveal anything about myself, although I think my current dilemma is more than visible to anyone with good sense. I find myself in the most deplorable pit of sentiment.’
Anne’s mouth twitched, the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. ‘I think it may be a common dilemma for a gentleman.’
‘It’s not common for me.’ Robert sighed, his shoulders slumping. It still felt good to be understood, even if it was by a stranger. ‘I must give her a gift. Something that won’t frighten her. Something… something small, and perfect.’
Anne was silent for a long, thoughtful moment. Robert, recalling the way his brother Henry looked when he was working out an obscure problem, realised he was in t
he presence of a truly creative mind.
He looked surreptitiously over at John. His brother was staring at Anne, his lips slightly parted, hands slack at his sides. Only when Robert gently cleared his throat did he close his mouth, standing to attention with the crisp eagerness of a soldier.
‘Small and perfect.’ Anne’s voice was doubtful. ‘A jewel seems more apt than anything that can be procured here.’
‘But a jewel is—is too much. It’ll scare her, and that’s the last thing I want to do.’
‘Miss Pembroke isn’t easily scared.’ Anne paused. ‘Did you have an idea in mind?’
‘A ribbon to match the blue gown you made for her.’
‘The sea blue one. I see.’ Anne smiled. ‘It became her very well indeed. I suppose a ribbon could be made.’
‘Wonderful.’ Robert paused, frowning. ‘But you don’t seem convinced.’
‘I’m not.’ Anne looked down at the sheet of paper in front of her, covered in spidery handwriting. ‘May I offer an opinion?’
‘Please.’
‘A ribbon is a pleasant gift. A very nice one, in fact. But it doesn’t express any particular sentiment. It’s a gift for friendship, not—not more than friendship.’ Anne’s cheeks delicately coloured; Robert heard John’s slight intake of breath. ‘There must be something with more meaning that can be given.’
‘You appear to be advising me not to use your services. Not the best tactic for a businesswoman.’
‘I do well enough.’ The quiet gravity in Anne’s voice made Robert regret his tone. ‘If I can’t help you, sirs, perhaps you could leave me to my—’
‘Don’t listen to him.’ John’s tone was low and urgent. Robert blinked, the tension in the room abruptly changing. ‘I’m sure you can help us.’
‘I don’t see how you’re sure.’
‘Because the gowns here show you’re a—a brilliant mind.’
Such a compliment would be astonishing if given to a woman John liked. To a relative stranger, it was unthinkable. Robert stared at John, wondering if he needed to drag the man outside and make him come to his senses.
Blushing in Blue: The Brothers Duke: Book Two Page 6