No matter how many other girls might be presented, Charlotte would be the prettiest of them. A diamond of the first water. An Incomparable. She would make the most impressive and important match in history, barring only the Royal family. She might even land a prince, if one happened to be seeking a bride.
Instead, by the time she would have boarded her father's carriage for Town, she would be shackled to an ancient marquess who wanted her dowry, and whose good opinion her father wished to cultivate. She had never considered she might ever be so unlucky.
A loud banging on the front door interrupted her dismal woolgathering, and she slipped her feet into the brocaded shoes that didn't match the dress that wasn't the printed silk dinner gown her mother had chosen. Charlotte had changed her attire four times today. First, her very finest morning gown, then a promenade dress, then a tea gown, with changes in accessories and coiffure each time, waiting endlessly for her future husband to appear. Now, finally, a dinner dress—of her own choosing—that made her look fat and sallow, the quilted nankeen twill sturdy enough to withstand his grandson, surely a horrid little boy who would tear the seams and vomit on whatever she wore, just to be nasty.
Pulling a Prussian-blue-and-blush-pink Kashmir shawl about her shoulders, she dragged her feet down the hall from the library, where she had been watching the candles burn low, hoping for one more day's reprieve. Freezing cold air blew in the front entrance and up the stairs before the heavy oak door was closed, and she shivered under her wrap.
Not even one more night to pretend she would remain free.
"Of course, Your Lordship," she heard faintly, "Lord and Lady Effingale are in the drawing room. They are expecting you. If you will follow me." The Effingale's butler, Latham, gave her no quarter, either, rapidly showing the man in to see her parents before she could get a good look at him through the pine garland wrapping the first-floor banister.
Before long, someone would come to collect her for this wretched meeting with the awful man who was to be her husband. Better she should jump out her bedroom window and escape before she was summoned. She turned to do just that when she heard a footman open the front door once more. Over her shoulder, she saw a man stomp his boots on the stone floor. She turned and watched him shake the snow off his greatcoat before handing it, and his top hat, to the footman, who was struggling not to laugh aloud at something indiscernible. Charlotte had never before seen a gentleman joke with a footman, and rather hoped Latham didn't catch him at it.
He was a young man, though older than she, and handsome, with dark-brown hair, tanned skin, and an easy smile. When he was escorted down the hall to the drawing room, Charlotte found herself not quite so inclined to throw herself from the window. Rather than wait to discover her fate or induce it herself, she squared her shoulders and took the stairs as through she were descending into the ballroom at Carlton House.
At the drawing room door, she waited, hoping to hear anything that might be to her advantage, but the voices were too low. When Latham cleared his throat behind her, she jumped. Without any acknowledgment she had been eavesdropping, she held her head high and opened the door.
"My dear," her father said, all smiles, crossing the room. "Come in, come in."
Her mother's mouth fell open then snapped shut at the sight of her daughter's attire, her eyebrows flying up to meet her hairline, and Charlotte bit her lip to keep from smirking. She held her head just a bit straighter and adjusted the shawl over the shoulders of the high-necked gown, knowing she would pay for her insurrection, probably for days to come.
Thankfully, Papa wouldn't know a good gown from a bad one; she was his beautiful baby girl, no matter what she wore. "Lord Firthley, might I present my daughter, Charlotte Amberly?"
The slightest bit miffed that her father held this gentleman in higher regard than he did his own daughter, presenting her as though she were a child, not a young lady ready to be married, she hid her pique behind a fake smile, curtseying as low as she might in the Queen's Drawing Room.
"My lord," she said, peeking from under her lashes. He was tall, not undignified, but her worst fears were realized: his skin looked like translucent oilskin, his hair was so thin and colorless, he might as well have none, and dark spots showed on his balding pate. The hand held out to take hers was as gangly as he was, long fingers bony and weak, like the wing of a dying sparrow fluttering between her fingers.
"My dear Miss Amberly, I am delighted to make your acquaintance." He looked her up and down as she rose, as though she was a horse for sale at Tattersall's, lingering on the foot-long Turkey red fringe of the shawl. She flipped it across her forearm as she looked for the little boy, but only caught the amused eyes of the other gentleman, who had risen from a chair when she entered, but remained across the room, making no effort to interrupt. She wished he would. She wished anyone would.
"Miss Amberly, may I present my grandson, Alexander Marloughe, Earl of Herrendon?" Even as he made the introduction, the marquess stared at her bosom as though it were framed by the almost-indecent gown her mother had chosen.
She looked around again for a horrid little spoiled brat peeking out from behind a chair. The earl smiled at the gasp she gracelessly swallowed when he bent over her hand. Up close, he was as handsome as she had thought. His hair was sandy, lightened by proximity to his face, darker than most Englishman, but not enough so to make him look foreign. His nose was straight, his teeth even and bright behind a grin that seemed to embrace all the joy she had ever felt. Once drawn into the ambit of his smile, his luminous eyes and a sardonically arched brow held her there.
"As you are peering about the room at a height of two feet, I gather you were expecting someone younger?"
"Ye—I mean no, my lord." She felt herself blushing and, not for the first time, wished she weren't so fair. "Of course n—only, we were—I was—I only thought…"
Her mother's eyes flashed, and her head shook just slightly.
Charlotte choked out, "Welcome to our home, my lords. Has Mother rung for tea? Surely you must be chilled through."
The earl raised a brandy glass, and Lady Effingale smiled at Charlotte's gracious affability, eyes only slightly narrowed, looking closely for fault. "Tea will be here shortly. Please, gentlemen, take a seat."
Charlotte slid into a chair as fast as she could, to avoid being seated on a sofa, and forced into close proximity with her future husband, but the decrepit old man took a seat in the nearest armchair. The earl, by contrast, sat as far away as he could while still maintaining a semblance of manners. Ankle crossed over his knee, arm draped across the arm of a chair turned slightly away from the assemblage, Lord Herrendon took in the art on the walls, sipping the brandy, distancing himself from the conversation.
Perhaps, she thought, spirits rising just slightly, she wasn't meant to marry the old man at all! Perhaps the betrothal would be to this handsome, young man now staring into the fireplace. Trying not to slip sidelong glances at him, and wondering what made him look so sad, she warmed to her line of reasoning. Men never wanted to be married. Surely his reticence could be chalked up to—
"It must be very strange, Miss Amberly, to be affianced without once meeting me," the marquess began, his tongue wetting his lower lip as he stared as her chest.
Her spirits dropped like a ship's anchor.
She cleared her throat, pulling the shawl tighter, feeling as though she were naked under his heated gaze. "It is, my lord, a bit. But of course…" She could barely free the words from her gritted teeth. "I will do as my father bids. I trust he has my best interest in mind."
A soft snort from across the room was ignored by everyone but Charlotte, who wanted, alternately, to giggle at the earl and defend her father from this interloper. Before she could do either, the marquess presented her with a square, shallow, velvet box she would treat like a snake, were her parents not watching. She stretched out her hand to take it, moving swiftly to keep him from touching her fingers. It must be a parure, and a sizable one,
given the dimensions and weight of the box.
"The Firthley rubies, of course, will be in your keeping. You may consider them a Christmas gift."
She unhooked the latch and opened the box, hardly wanting to look. Rubies the size of blackbird eggs, set in a rose-tinted gold. Beautiful. Stunning. A necklace that reached to the collarbone, bracelets, hair clips, a tiara, and a ring.
A ring.
The marquess placed the heavy, icy gold on her finger. Everyone in the room beamed except Charlotte, but when she looked away from all of the smiling, she noticed the earl wore a frown, too.
There were not enough rubies in the world to make her marry the Marquess of Firthley.
A few minutes too late to interrupt her unwelcome betrothal, a maid appeared with the tea trolley, and Charlotte was tasked by her mother to pour.
The earl kept his seat, blatantly turning the chair farther away, picking up a newspaper her father must have left on the table nearest the fireplace. Before Charlotte finished handing around teacups, Lord Herrendon's head was hidden behind the newssheets.
"Might I offer you a slice of plum cake, Lord Herrendon? Or gingerbread?" Charlotte attempted. "Our cook is known for her light hand with a batter." She held out a delicate china plate rimmed with gold, but the earl acted as though she hadn't even spoken.
His grandfather snapped, "Herrendon, I beg you mind your manners, Sir!"
Lord Herrendon poked his head over the top of the pages and shrugged. "I have nothing to add to the discussion, I'm afraid." His face disappeared again, and he rattled the pages.
A loud sigh left Lord Firthley's flaring nostrils before he turned back. "I apologize for my grandson's poor conduct. He was raised by his mother's parents in Greece, and they were…" he whispered, "…shopkeepers."
Charlotte's mother gasped, her father coughed, and the man behind the newspaper reacted not at all, but to say, "My mother's father owned the largest shipping concern in the southern part of Europe before Napoleon developed too much ambition, and I own what is left of it now. No one in my family has ever seen the back room of a shop."
As though he hadn't spoken, his grandfather continued, "He is, however, my heir, so I am hopeful," he raised his voice as though the man five feet away were hard of hearing, "the young man might yet be taught to behave in company."
"I know perfectly well how to behave in company," said the disembodied voice behind the newspaper. "I simply find myself superfluous to discussion of your marriage to a girl not even out yet and young enough to be my sister." He rattled the pages again and folded them. "A much-younger sister." Standing and stretching his arms behind his back, he added, "Perhaps, Lord Effingale, you have a library to which I might retire until your business transaction is concluded?"
Lady Effingale stood immediately, face flaming, and offered, "I can show you to the rooms we've set aside."
"Excellent. A bath and a change of clothes will be just the thing. I expect my valet will be waiting." He bowed in a way that was both disrespectful and entirely proper. "My lords, Miss Amberly, presumably, as it is so late in the evening, I will see you on the morrow."
Chapter Four
Christmas night, 1803
Charlotte loitered in the dark hall outside her brother's room, candlestick in hand, pelisse buttoned tightly over her riding habit. When she heard no noise behind the door, she cleared her throat. Nothing. She shuffled her feet. Still nothing. She thumped her shoulder against the wall just loudly enough to call attention to herself inside the room, but only to wake one brother, not both.
She shuffled her feet again and picked up the bag she had packed with a few changes of clothing, a hairbrush, and what was left of last week's pin money, after she had bought the hideous pink-and-blue shawl. If she had to shuffle much more, her slippers would wear through.
"What is it? Who is there?" Hugh's squeaking voice sounded under the door. Perfect. He was afraid, as he always was when he woke in a darkened room. She had snuck in half an hour ago to blow out the covered candle he always left burning. Her brother threw open the door, a four-branch candelabra lighting up the hall.
Charlotte gasped as though she were actually startled. "Hugh! What are you doing awake?"
He eyed her clothes and drawled, "I could ask the same thing. Where are you going in the middle of the night?"
"Er… nowhere… special…"
He drew himself up in the pose he effected when he wished to pretend he was already the viscount. "I can see you are lying, Sister. Will you tell me, or will I wake Mother and Father right now?"
Her face blanched. "No!" she whispered, pushing him into the bedchamber. "No, don't do that. I'll… I'll give you…" She reached into her reticule and removed a few notes. "I'll give you five guineas."
The execution of her plan was worth a hundred times that—if she had so much ready coin. She would beg, borrow, or steal after four days of taking sleigh rides with the marquess, playing dinner companion to the marquess, learning piquet from the marquess, going to the village with the marquess. If the word 'marquess' left her mother's mouth one more time, Charlotte would scream. Earlier this evening, he had given her his former wife's wedding veil as a Christmas present, quite the most ghoulish gift she had ever received, along with more jewels; this time, a pearl choker, which made her feel like a rabid pet. A few minutes later, she had wished she could bite the man. Tomorrow night, her father had said, when the Effingales hosted the neighboring gentry for a Boxing Day supper, her betrothal would be announced publicly, with a wedding soon to follow.
Hugh held out his hand and put the money into the pocket of his banyan. "Where are you going?"
"I'm… You cannot tell anyone… Do you hear me? You cannot tell a living soul. I've paid you five guineas for your silence. Do you promise?"
"I suppose," he drawled.
"I've met a soldier… in the village… I cannot marry that ghastly old man, so I… or rather, we… we are…"
His eyes rounded. "Never say you are eloping?"
Charlotte didn't say it.
"On Christmas?"
She shrugged.
"Mother will lose her mind! Father, too. They will murder you!"
"Not if you say nothing. I have to go. We have to be in Ports—Bristol by tomorrow evening."
"Portsmouth, eh?"
"I said Bristol!"
"Yes. Bristol. Of course. How silly of me to think you might lie while you are running away into the night." He was quiet for a moment, then said, "Ten guineas, and I will say nothing about Portsmouth until morning."
"I suppose it will have to do." She reached into the reticule and handed him two more notes and three coins. "You greedy devil."
"You had better use the head start, before I send Father after you." With the slightest bit of concern, far more than usual, he said, "If you do this, it will be the end of you."
"It will be nothing of the sort. Just do your part and leave the rest to me."
He gestured for her to leave his room. When the door closed behind her, she let out her nervous breath, resting her back against the wall. He would decide it was his duty to wake their parents before the sun came up, but not much more, which gave her less than five hours to stay ahead.
***
Sneaking into the stables proved difficult with the bitter cold wind whipping around her. The light of her candle extinguished itself not two steps outside the kitchen door, so she fought her way through the dark and the snow, now calf-high. She should never be taking her mare out in such conditions, but Lord Firthley had brought a special license with him from London, and the vicar would be attending tomorrow evening's festivities. She tightened the strings of her bonnet and wished she had brought a shawl as well as her pelisse, but there was no turning back. If she didn't leave now, she would be married by the end of the week.
Courage, she told herself. Nothing is ever accomplished by courting safety. If she wanted safety, she would marry the rich, old codger sleeping down the hall from her parents.
Setting her bag down just inside the stable door, she moved rapidly and silently to the stall where her mare, Aurelia, was kept. "Shh, my sweet. I know it is cold, but we must be off to Bristol…" She kept up a quiet monologue while she saddled the horse, and turned to lead Aurie into the larger stable.
"Name of Heaven!" she shrieked when she bumped into Lord Herrendon, who had been lounging against the wall, just out of her sight. "What are you doing here?" she hissed.
"Returning from a jaunt into your lovely village."
"That is evident by the smell of ale on your breath."
"Then why did you ask?" he smirked. "The real question, Miss Amberly, is what you are doing here. Proper young ladies are abed this time of night, not saddling horses and preparing to travel to Bristol. Especially on Christmas."
"It is no longer Christmas."
"I concede," he said, after a glance at his pocket watch. "Boxing Day, then."
"How did you… you have been eavesdropping! How long have you been there?"
"Long enough to know your horse settles when you sing Orange in Bloom."
"You beast! You horrible man! Go back into the house right now, and pretend you have seen nothing."
"Really, what kind of a gentleman would I be if I did that?"
"Clearly, you are no kind of gentleman, or you would have made your presence known."
He shrugged. "As I have not, however, and am now in possession of a goodly portion of your plan, you must know I cannot allow you to take this course. I may be no one's vision of a gentleman, but nonetheless, I cannot allow a gently-bred young lady to ride across country through a blizzard by herself."
Mistletoe, Marriage, and Mayhem: A Bluestocking Belles Collection Page 22