"Penrith," he reminded her, before waving for her to go on.
"I initially sought your company because my father had delivered an edict that in order for my sister to be allowed make her come-out, that I had to behave myself and procure the attentions of a duke."
"Is that so?"
"Y-yes," Charlotte stammered, feeling rather wretched. Had she not teased him for thinking himself as only a duke? And now, here she was, confessing that the only reason she had spent time with him initially was because of his title. The hypocrisy of it left her shame-faced and, worse, wracked with guilt at having hurt his feelings.
"I am sorry," she continued, "I will understand if you have no desire to see me ever again."
Penrith made a sound akin to a strangled cat, and Charlotte glanced at him with worry. Was he alright? She peered closely at the duke, and to her surprise, she found that he was—
"Are you laughing?" she queried, perplexed at his reaction to her heartfelt confession.
"Yes," Penrith wiped tears of mirth away from his eyes, before sobering up considerably as he realised Charlotte's confusion. "Forgive me. I just found it all rather amusing. Miss Drew, most women who set their sights on me, do so because of my title. That you felt the need to confess that you too had the same motivations—albeit more altruistic—does not surprise me. Nor does it offend me. We did not get off to the most civil of starts, and I am only glad that your papa declared that you needed to snare a duke, for it forced us together."
"Oh," Charlotte was a little dumb-founded by Penrith's elegant soliloquy, but never the less grateful for his magnanimity. She was not entirely sure that if the shoe were on the other foot, that she would be as gracious.
"Are you certain?" she ventured.
"Quite," Penrith was decisive, "Though I had rather hoped that your confession would be about something more pressing; the reason as to why you felt the need to pawn your jewels. Are you in trouble of some sort, Miss Drew? If you are, I beseech you to trust me. Your concerns are now mine, and I can remedy matters, but only if I know what they are."
His offer to help was so heartfelt, that Charlotte had to close her eyes momentarily to avoid reading the anguish on his face. She had hoped that Penrith might have forgotten about her little escapade at Rundell and Bridge but, of course, the tenacious duke had not.
How easy it would be, Charlotte thought, to tell him everything. She was certain that the duke would do everything in his powers to help. That he would ease the burden which worried her daily. But the secret that she hid was not hers to reveal.
Charlotte opened her eyes, and was about to politely refuse Penrith's offer to help, when the very man who had caused her so much anguish and worry, came barrelling into her in a drunken sprawl.
"Beg pardon," Charles Deveraux slurred, though as he caught sight of just who it was that he had nearly toppled, his contrite demeanour disappeared.
"Ah, Miss Drew," he said with a drunken sneer, so deep in his cups that he did not note the towering duke standing behind him, "Fancy seeing you here. Shouldn't a busy-body like you be out sticking her nose in where it's not wanted, and not swanning around at a ball?"
Charlotte, who had not spoken to Charles since the fateful evening when he had broken her fairy-tale view of the world, recoiled in horror. Both his words and his breath were abhorrent, whilst his face—once handsome—had now given away to fat. It was a wonder that she had ever considered marrying the man, when now she could barely stand to look at him.
Still, as much as she might sniff at his appearance and manners, Charlotte found that her voice had become stuck in her throat, at the very sight of Charles.
Thankfully, there was another voice to speak for her.
"Apologise."
"Eh?" Charles twirled around at Penrith's command, and his face paled as he registered—after a drunken moment's delay—the fierce mien of the Duke of Penrith glaring down at him.
"Apologise to the lady this instant," Penrith repeated, his voice low and deadly.
"Lady?" Charles cast Charlotte a rather disparaging glance, as if to say he thought her no lady. A menacing step forward from Penrith, however, soon changed his tune.
"My apologies, Miss Drew," he said with a slight bow.
Charlotte, who still could not speak, simply nodded in return. Thankfully, Charles took the slight bob of her head as an acceptance of his reluctant apology and disappeared quickly into the crowd.
"I should have called him out," Penrith growled, as his eyes followed Deveraux's progress.
"I'm very glad that you didn't," Charlotte replied, suddenly weary. "There is little call for using violence against a man like Mr Deveraux. His own pitiful existence is punishment enough."
Her words were heavy and the heady, flirtatious tension, which had existed between the pair before Charles' interruption, had vanished as quickly as coin from Prinny's coffers.
"Would you care for a dance?" Penrith queried, as the orchestra began to play a lively tune.
The music filled the ballroom, drowning out the sound of the chattering crowd, but Charlotte could not be tempted.
"I rather think that I might go home, your Grace," she said, forgetting his earlier edict that she should call him Penrith. "I fear I have a migraine coming on."
If Penrith was suspicious, he did not show it. Instead, he gallantly offered her his arm and escorted her to her grandmother's side.
Lady Everleigh, who would normally try to disabuse Charlotte from leaving any event early, was quite compliant when it was a Duke of the Realm making the request.
"How kind you are, to care for Charlotte's wellbeing, your Grace," Lady Everleigh simpered.
"Miss Drew's well-being is of the utmost importance to me," Penrith replied, though his eyes were not on the countess, but Charlotte.
"Well," her grandmother whispered, once Penrith had taken his leave, "It seems that you might marry a duke, my dear."
Charlotte made a noncommittal sound in response; the idea of marriage to Penrith had once been an anathema to her. Now, she could only hope that should he discover the secret she guarded, that he would still accept her hand—for Charlotte knew quite keenly, that she had already given the duke her heart.
Chapter Twelve
"Miss Drew is hiding something from me and I have every intention of finding out what it is."
As a declaration, it was quite dramatic, but Hugh's companions—both lost in their thoughts—failed to react appropriately.
Both Orsino and Montague, who were seated at their customary table in White's, were present in the room in body only. Their minds, Hugh thought darkly, were clearly elsewhere—and he could hazard a guess as to where that was.
They were thinking of women. Only the female of the species could render two of England's finest men so contemplative. Though that was no excuse for their poor show of manners.
"I'm going to strip naked and run down Bond Street at two, if either of you would care to join me," Hugh ventured, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Sounds good, old man," Orsino replied, his eyes glassy as he stared out the bow window onto James' Street.
"Capital idea," Montague added, before turning to both men with a frown, "I say, have you ever heard of Lord Pariseau?"
"Good chap," Hugh replied, recognising the name. "He inherited the title from his father just last year. He's quite the sportsman, if I recall correctly. He once knocked Gentleman Jackson out with one blow, and when hunting it's said that he can shoot ninety-nine pheasants out of a bag of one-hundred."
"Lud. You might as well write a sonnet for the man, if he's that impressive," Montague groused in return. The young marquess, Hugh noted, appeared pained by Hugh's summation of Pairseau's many attributes.
"Has he done something to you?" Hugh queried mildly, for Montague was not the sort of man to take umbrage with a man for no reason. In fact, the affable marquess rarely took umbrage with anyone—reason or no.
"Not to me, per se," Montague sighed, "But h
is name has, unfortunately, been linked several times with the lovely Lady Julia."
"The same Lady Julia who fled at the very sight of you, just last night?"
"Yes."
"The same Lady Julia who is—in your father's eyes at least—the last woman you should consider setting your cap at?"
"That's the one," Montague replied irritably, unimpressed by Hugh pouring a cold bucket of reality over the flames of his infatuation.
"And what of fair Rosaline?" Hugh pressed; for just last week Montague had been waxing lyrical about the beautiful courtesan.
"Who?"
Lud. Hugh stifled a sigh; if Lady Julia had managed to knock the very thought of Rosaline from Montague's mind, then he was lost to sense completely.
Thankfully Orsino, who had been staring thoughtfully out the window for the entirety of their exchange, returned to the land of the living to offer a distraction.
"What type of trouble do you think Miss Drew is in?" he queried, only five minutes late in his reply. Quite the delay for a man supposed to have lightning quick reflexes, Hugh thought with a smile.
"I don't quite know," Hugh confessed, "I fear that she has mixed herself up with some radical group, who are pressing her for funding. Why else would she pawn her jewels? She has no need for money—her father has accounts set up in every shop, and his credit is good."
"I doubt that Miss Drew would be silly enough to embroil herself with criminals," Orsino soothed, "There must be another reason."
But what?
Hugh had nearly had the truth from her last night, before Deveraux had come barrelling into them. He paused for a moment, as he reflected on Charlotte's reaction to her former beau. She had been unable to speak, so frightened was she of his presence. Was it possible that Deveraux had something to do with all this?
Hugh ran through a list of ways that Deveraux might be involved in Charlotte's troubles, but found that none made sense. The only idea which held any merit, was that Deveraux might be blackmailing Charlotte. But he quickly dismissed the idea as he recalled that Deveraux had—according to his mother—married a very wealthy American heiress. Besides, what secrets could the man have to bribe Charlotte with?
"I fear that I will never find the reason, unless I engage in subterfuge," Hugh decided with a sigh.
"You could just ask her outright?" Montague offered, rather unhelpfully.
"I have tried that," Hugh replied testily, "But she was unwilling to confide in me. No, a little old-fashioned espionage is what's required."
"If you're certain..."
Hugh shot Montague a quelling glare; of course he was certain. He needed to ensure that Charlotte was safe, even if he had to do so against her wishes. That he was slightly hurt at her reticence was of no matter, he just needed to ensure her safety.
"Well, gentlemen," Hugh said, pushing his empty tumbler away from him, "I'd best be off."
"I thought you weren't running down Bond Street until two?" Montague grinned, earning himself a glare from Hugh.
"I thought you weren't listening," he countered, as he rose to a stand.
"We're always listening," Orsino replied, with a languid smile, "If you want a reply, I'm afraid you'll have to offer something worthy of one."
"And if you want Miss Havisham," Hugh retorted, "I'm afraid that you will have to try more action and less staring mournfully out of windows. Good-day men."
Hugh swept from the table toward the door, with Orsino's blustering following in his wake.
"I do not want Miss Havisham," Hugh heard him grumble, as the door closed behind him.
The gentleman doth protest too much, methinks, Hugh thought, with the insight of a man who had also fought against his heart's desire for too long. But no more; he would find out what Miss Drew was about, and then he would make her his wife.
Good, old-fashioned espionage, for Hugh at least, usually involved instigating himself into certain social circles to try and decipher if a traitor lurked in their midst. Mostly, these circles were aristocratic, for Whitehall had taken note of the methods of King Louis' Secret du Roi and had deduced that men were most likely to blab to those they considered their peers.
Occasionally, Hugh attended meetings and gatherings of a less noble nature—such as the one at which he had first spotted Charlotte—but mostly, his targets were the peerage.
And Hugh knew, that when spying on the upper-classes, there was no better source of information than those who worked for them.
Good servants were almost invisible to their employers, and though they went unnoticed as they moved from room to room, it did not mean that they did not take notice themselves. Many a traitor had been outed by a tip from an unassuming scullery-maid, or a word from a disgruntled butler.
Thus, once he had returned home to change, Hugh found himself lingering on the west corner of Grosvenor Square, hoping that he did not look too conspicuous.
Thankfully the square was abustle with workmen, who were making alterations to several of the houses. Unlike St James' Square, Grosvenor was relatively new, and filled with the new money of the nouveau riche—such as Brandon Drew. The new owners of the mansions which looked over the park were keen to exhibit their wealth, and no less than seven of the buildings on the square were under renovation, each clamouring to be taller and grander than their neighbour.
Hugh kept to the shadows as he watched the Drew's home, number twenty-three, for some minutes. In time, a carriage drew up outside the door, depositing none-other than Dubarry at the front steps, and no sooner had his cousin entered the Drew's, than the door was opened again and a liveried footman emerged with a package in his hands.
Ah. At last!
Hugh watched as the footman made his way toward the corner of Brook Street, gave him a moment's head-start, then followed him. It was not a difficult task for Hugh to keep track of the young gentleman, for he stood head and shoulders above everyone else.
Hugh kept his distance as the lad made his way west from Brook Street, in the direction of Covent Garden.
He had been following him for a good half-hour, when the lad stopped at a little mews house in Barbour Street and knocked upon the door.
A woman—a rather young woman, by Hugh's estimates—answered his knock, clutching a sniffling infant in her arms.
"Miss Drew has sent this for urgent repair," the footman said, thrusting the parcel in his hands forward for the young woman to take. As her hands were already full, she was forced to place the infant down, though it immediately began squalling unhappily and tugging at her skirts.
"Thank you, Thomas," the young woman said, raising a weary hand to her brow.
"Shall I collect Miss Drew's last dress, since I'm here?" Thomas replied, and the young woman paled.
"It's not quite ready yet," she said, turning to place the package inside the door, before picking the baby back up into her arms, "Molly has been quite poorly. I sent word to Miss Drew and she was quite understanding of the delay."
"Yes, Mrs Thatchery," Thomas replied, before tickling little Molly under her chin, "Until next month."
Mrs Thatchery bid Thomas goodbye and closed the door. As the footman turned to head back toward Grosvenor Square, Hugh decided that now was the time to reveal himself.
"Does Miss Drew send parcels here monthly?" he asked, as he stepped into Thomas' path, hoping that the element of surprise might shock an answer from the lad.
"Like clockwork," he replied, before catching himself. "Who's asking?"
"The Duke of Penrith," Hugh said, adopting his most ducal manner. The poor footman looked suitably chastised, though he still regarded Hugh warily.
"And for how long has Miss Drew been sending these parcels?" Hugh continued on with his line of enquiry. The footman might wish to remain tight-lipped, but Hugh would get the information from him by hook or by crook if needs be.
"Around two years, your Grace," the footman provided, his brow furrowed with confusion, "Though, I hope you don't mind me asking, I don't see why
you're so concerned as to where Miss Drew gets her dresses mended."
"No, I don't suppose you would," Hugh sighed; he rather liked Thomas, it was clear that the lad intended to defend Charlotte to the best of his ability. Loyalty in a servant was to be commended, and Hugh had to pay him his dues.
"You're a good lad to try and protect Miss Drew," Hugh said, gently steering Thomas away from Mrs Thatchery's, "But I'm rather afraid that your mistress has become involved in something sinister and that Mrs Thatchery has something to do with it."
"Mrs Thatchery?" Thomas hooted, "Why, it's just her and the bairn in that house, your Grace. She ain't up to anything sinister, she's just trying to get by."
"Did you never wonder why Miss Drew, with a whole retinue of servants at her disposal, and the world's most diligent abigail, sought to have her dresses mended outside the home?"
Thomas shook his head, though it was clear from his expression that the penny was at last beginning to drop.
"I fear that Miss Drew is using those parcels as a means of smuggling money to Mrs Thatchery," Hugh continued, adding a note of urgency to his voice, "Tell me, what do you know of the woman?"
"Not much, your Grace," Thomas shrugged, "She's a widow, but she wears no ring. Though that don't mean anything when you've a mouth to feed, like she has. She mentioned once that she worked for some lord or other, but now she mends clothes."
"Which lord was it?" Hugh pressed, resisting the urge to take Thomas by the shoulders and shake him until he revealed the name.
"Gemini, I'm not sure if I recall," Thomas laughed, though his face lost its look of amusement when he caught Hugh's eye. "Mayhap it was Lord Pond-something. Lord Morass. No, Quagmire. No, I have it now! Lord Marshdon!"
Thomas was triumphant as he finally grasped the elusive moniker, though Hugh felt less victorious. Lord Marshdon, father of Charles Deveraux, was not the name he had expected.
"How old is the babe?" he queried gently, hoping that Thomas would not leap to the same conclusion as he. Though how could he, Hugh thought, when he was not furnished with the same knowledge as the duke.
Tamed by a Duke (Wilful Wallflowers Book 1) Page 13