Beside her, Penrith stiffened, and she vaguely hear him mutter something which sounded like, "I could compose sonnets too, if it was called for." But she ignored him. Charles Deveraux's attributes were not the point of this tale, it was his faults she wished to discuss.
"My head was easily turned," Charlotte continued, slightly shame-faced, "I had always thought myself a good judge of character, but it seems flowery words and Hobby boots were all it took to distract me."
She sighed a little, as she remembered how enamoured she had been by Deveraux. His charm had won her over, had made her forget her beliefs and ethics. She had sought new dresses, ribbons, and vanities to try and beguile him with, whilst ignoring the feeling of anxiety which surfaced in her whenever he made a cruel or snobbish comment about those less fortunate.
Charlotte rather regretted all her efforts in aesthetics now, for Charles Deveraux had not cared a jot about her appearance—the only thing he had been interested in was her inheritance.
"One evening, about half-way through the season, Lord Marshdon held a ball," Charlotte said, at last coming to the crux of her tale, "It was expected that Charles would propose to me, and I admit that I was rather excited by the prospect. The ball went on as a ball usually does, and towards the end I excused myself to—"
She hesitated; she had been about to say "visit the water-closet" but that really was not the sort of thing one said to a gentleman.
"Go on," Penrith waved a hand, urging her to skip over whatever it was that had tripped her tongue.
"On my way back to the ballroom, I overheard voices arguing nearby. I would have ignored it," Charlotte continued, not wishing to appear nosey, "But when I realised that one of the voices was Mr Deveraux's, I could not help myself from trying to find out what was going on."
She sighed, as the scene from over two years ago played in her mind. She had discovered Charles Deveraux towering menacingly over the diminutive Agnes Thatchery, whose face had been streaked with tears.
"Poor Agnes was sobbing and telling Mr Deveraux that she was carrying his baby," Charlotte recalled, attempting to keep her voice as dispassionate as possible, "She was frightened for her position, for her child, and for her future. Without his help, Agnes and her child would have ended up in the poor-house. And do you know what the cretin said?"
"I can guess," Penrith gave a heavy sigh. He was not, Charlotte noted, as innocent to the ways of some men as she had been.
"He told her to leave and to never darken his door again. That the child was no concern of his."
Charlotte allowed herself a moment to wallow in melancholy; before this incident, she had worn rose-tinted glasses when it came to the world. She had believed that all men were honourable and good, and obliged by society—and their own sense of right—to defend the fairer sex.
She had not realised that in their broken society only some of the fairer sex were afforded this protection. Women of money and class were to be cosseted and treated like dolls. Every other woman, it seemed, was just there for amusement. A sport to be played by unsporting men.
Charles Deveraux had told Agnes that he loved her, had sworn blind that he would make her his wife, then when he had taken his liberties and she served no other purpose, he had discarded her like rubbish.
"It was the unfairness of it all," Charlotte said abruptly, "Which caused me to involve myself. What difference is there between Agnes and I, other than the circumstances of our birth? We are the same age, the same height, we even have the same colour hair. If I had been in her shoes, my father—Lud, even Charles' father—would have been obliged to force his hand. They would have obliged him to save me and the baby from a life of poverty and hardship. But there was no one to do that for Agnes, so I—"
"Took responsibility for the girl yourself?"
"Yes," Charlotte tilted her chin proudly. She could not regret her actions, though some might condemn her for fraternising with a fallen woman. "Of course, I tried to browbeat Charles into assisting her first. He said I was foolish to waste any concern on a 'mere maid', and when I told him that I had no wish to marry a man such as he, he stormed off in a huff. He found an American girl with a fortune and married her a month later."
"How on earth did you secure the house on Barbour Street?" Penrith asked, interrupting Charlotte momentarily.
"With the assistance of my old governess," Charlotte replied, "She left our employ to marry a barrister and has been quite the champion of societal reform since. It was not difficult to find her, and she was quick to lend a helping hand. I have been pawning the gifts my father lavishes on me ever since, to cover the rent and other necessities."
"Well, you won't be doing that anymore."
Penrith sounded so fierce, that for a moment Charlotte mistook his meaning. Did he mean to stop her supporting Agnes because he disapproved? She cast him a horrified glance, but before she had a chance to voice her concern, he spoke.
"I will support Agnes and the child," he said decisively, "What you have done thus far is beyond admirable, Charlotte, but from here on in, it is no longer your concern."
"W-why would you do that?" Charlotte stuttered, "They have no connection to you at all."
"I think you'll find," Penrith said softly, taking her hand in his, "That anything which concerns you, now concerns me. I would like to be a shoulder for all of your burdens, Charlotte, and more besides."
The night air had suddenly stilled, and Charlotte noted for the first time the floral scent of the garden and the light spring breeze caressing her cheek. She glanced at Penrith, whose blue eyes twinkled with warmth, and felt any fears she had about his intentions melt.
"Thank you," she whispered, as he shifted slightly closer to her.
"Let me take the lead, Charlotte," he said, echoing his earlier words, "I desire only to look after you."
His hand reached out to cup her cheek. Penrith inhaled sharply as he tilted her face up to look at him, before he lowered his head to capture her lips with his.
It was different to their kiss in the rain—far more tender, but no less pleasurable. Charlotte allowed him to pull her closer, wrapping her own arms around his neck in response.
It was heavenly, she decided, as firm lips pressed against hers, searching, demanding, and loving. Penrith's thumb stroked her cheek and the warmth rising from his hard body thrilled Charlotte's senses.
She would have stayed, locked in that embrace forever, had a voice from the garden above not shattered their sense of solitude.
"Penrith?" a young man called from the veranda above, "Are you out here?"
The sound of footsteps approaching the stairs down to the sunken garden had Penrith leaping to his feet.
"I will take care of Dubarry," he whispered to Charlotte, sprinting forward into the darkness.
Dubarry? What connection did Bianca's beau have to Penrith? Charlotte stilled, straining every muscle in her body as she sought to hear what the pair might have to say to each other.
"There he is, the man of the hour!" a voice called, sounding a little wine-sodden to Charlotte's ears.
"You are in your cups, cuz," Penrith replied.
"Of course I am! Should a man not celebrate when he has won the hand of his fair maiden? And it is all thanks to you, dear cousin. If you had not stepped up to try and tackle your—what was it you called her?—blowsabella, I might never have stood a chance with Miss Bianca. My eternal gratitude to you, Penrith, for taming the shrew that is Miss Drew."
Penrith had tried, multiple times during Mr Dubarry's outburst to silence the lad, but he had not succeeded. Charlotte felt all the blood drain from her face as the weight of Dubarry's announcement sank in.
Penrith had only courted her so that his cousin might be allowed to court Bianca? This, of course, hurt, but not as much as hearing her character discussed so cruelly.
He thought her a blowse? A shrew to be tamed? Was she just a joke to him, an amusing tale to be recounted at dinner in White's?
Hurt turned to ang
er, as Charlotte thought on all of Penrith's soft words and promises. How had she been so stupid to trust a man—any man—after what had happened with Charles? They were all the same; they saw women as pawns to be moved around a chessboard for their own gain.
Charlotte rose quickly to a stand, searching for a way to flee the sunken garden. The only route of escape, she realised with a jolt, was the steps on which Penrith and Dubarry stood.
For a moment, she hesitated. Then righteous anger coursed through her veins; why should she slink away shame-faced? Penrith and his wretched cousin were the ones who should feel embarrassment, not her.
Charlotte lifted the hem of her dress and swept across the pebbles toward the steps. Penrith, his face pale, turned to look at her as she approached.
"Charlotte, I can explain," he said, reaching out for her hand, but she easily side-stepped him.
"I think your cousin has explained well enough, your Grace," she sniffed, casting both men as disparaging a look as she could muster. "You are both charlatans of the highest order. I bid you good-night and good-bye."
Tilting her chin proudly, Charlotte swept past both men, shocking Mr Dubarry—who was definitely deep in his cups—so much that he took a tumble down the steps.
The sound of cursing—Penrith's—followed Charlotte as she made her way back inside, but she did not stop to help. She did not stop moving, in fact, until she had corralled her grandmother and father together, and out the door to their carriage.
"D-did something happen, dear?" Lady Everleigh ventured, once the trio were safely ensconced in their vehicle and on the way back to Grosvenor Square.
Charlotte hesitated; how could she tell her grandmama what had transpired, when Lady Everleigh had pinned her hopes upon a proposal from Penrith? But then, her grandmother's disappointment could be nothing in comparison to the crushing pain in Charlotte's chest.
"I have been greatly disappointed, Grandmama," Charlotte finally said, though even as she spoke, she knew she was understating her suffering.
Her heart had broken in two, and she feared that it would never be whole again.
Chapter Fourteen
Hugh did not often think about the perception of time, but in the week following his disastrous ball, he found himself thinking on it constantly. How strange it was that sometimes a day could fly by, or an hour feel like a second, and on other occasions, time seemed to stop moving altogether.
Unfortunately, the latter currently applied to Hugh, who had found each day since Charlotte had waltzed out of his life interminable. Sad hours seem long, he though with a wry smile.
Oh, Hugh had tried to fill his hours well enough; calling on Charlotte, writing letters to Charlotte, arranging for bouquets of hot-house flowers to be sent to Charlotte...
Each of his efforts went unacknowledged. He had suffered the indignity of being told—five days in a row—that Charlotte was not "at home" by the Drew's stoic butler, Doyle. On the last such occasion, the butler had seen fit to take pity on Hugh, and had gently informed him that he did not think Miss Drew would ever be at home, should His Grace call.
Likewise, his letters, filled with heart-felt apologies, had gone unanswered. That they were probably being used for kindling, like one of Montague's lists, was not something that Hugh could bear to think about.
He had held out hope that perhaps his bouquets of flowers might at least have survived Charlotte's ire, until that morning, when he had called upon Agnes Thatchery to find that her small, cramped house resembled a hot-house.
"Miss Drew has sent a bouquet over daily with Thomas," the young woman had said, as she'd brought Hugh inside.
"I suppose they're from an unwanted admirer," Hugh had replied, attempting to amuse himself with dark humour.
"She must really not want him if she can't stand to look at these beauties."
The young woman's reply had been too astute for Hugh, who had quickly changed the subject to the reason for his call. Hugh had made arrangements, he informed her, for Agnes to take up residence at a cottage on his estate in Kent. There she would be given work—mending what needed mending from Penrith House—and Molly might be able to enjoy her childhood in the safety of the countryside.
"W-why are you offering to do this?" Agnes had asked, her expression more than a little wary. Hugh did not begrudge her her caution, after all the girl had been used and abused by the aristocracy before.
"I am doing this for Miss Drew," he had offered her a simple reply, "It is far easier for all concerned if I manage your care, rather than she."
Agnes had readily accepted his simple explanation, and after making arrangements for one of his staff to collect her, Molly and all of their belongings the next week, Hugh had taken his leave.
"I do hope that Miss Drew picks you over the other lout who is trying to woo her with the blooms," Agnes had whispered, as she showed Hugh to the door. "Miss Drew deserves the best of men, not some silly-sausage who thinks her head can be turned with flowers."
"Er. Yes," Hugh had been unable to reply. In Agnes' eyes, he was the best of men, but unbeknown to her, he was also the fool with the flowers.
With a heavy heart, Hugh had made his way home, but after a morning of dealing with dull correspondence from his estates, he decided that he needed something stiff to brighten up his afternoon.
Thankfully, as he entered the morning room in White's, he saw that his friends had also sought heartening libations.
"I take it Miss Drew has not replied to you?" Orsino called in acknowledgement, as Hugh took a seat at the table by the bow window.
"What gave it away?" he asked, stifling a sigh.
"Well, your face is as long as Prinny's tailor's bill, and you seem to have missed three buttons on your waistcoat," Montague supplied helpfully.
Hugh glanced down at his waistcoat, only to find that it was buttoned correctly.
"And you're so out of sorts that you believed you might actually have presented yourself as less than fully dressed," his friend added, with a roguish smile.
"I should call you out for that," Hugh grumbled, as he slipped into his chair, "It's not sporting to kick a man whilst he's down."
"If you're down, then what on earth should we call Dubarry?" Orsino questioned, with a nod toward a table near the back of the room. Dubarry's blonde head was easily spotted, given that his hair resembled a toppled haystack. His appearance was even more ébouriffé than usual; his clothes were hideously mismatched, his lapels bore wine stains, and he was, Hugh realised, deep in his cups.
"The younger Miss Drew must have given him the cut," Orsino reckoned, "People speak fondly of the brotherhood of men, but heaven help any man who might upset the sisterhood."
Hugh, having grown up with four sisters, realised this was true. There was nothing more frightening—or effective—than women united by a cause. The two Drew sisters had obviously joined forces against Hugh and Dubarry, and it was clear that hope was lost for both men. They would do best to surrender to their sorrow, rather than attempt to do battle against the sisters.
"Should I call him over?" Montague wondered, as Dubarry gave a loud, mournful hiccough.
"Well, as things can't seem to get any worse," Hugh replied, "I don't see why not."
Dubarry was duly summoned, and Hugh winced as he watched his cousin weave his way on unsteady feet toward them.
"How goes it, cousin?" Hugh queried, as Dubarry sank into the chair beside him.
"I have been pricked by the thorns of love and the wound, I fear, might be fatal," Dubarry replied morosely, taking a sip from the glass of wine he had carried over.
"Er. I take it Miss Bianca is unimpressed with you?" Hugh queried, while Montague and Orsino fought valiantly to hide their smiles.
"That might be something of an understatement," Dubarry gave a sigh as long as a winter's night, "She thinks me reprehensible."
"But you were only trying to help her," Montague interjected, outraged on the young man's behalf.
"Yes, but my atte
mpts at helping inadvertently hurt her beloved sister," Dubarry cast Hugh a withering glance, "Not to mention that she was upset that I had not told her of my plans."
Hugh squirmed in his seat; he was the reason that Dubarry had kept their plot a secret, and all because he had wished to lightly torture a bluestocking.
"She cannot hold it against you forever," Hugh said bracingly, wishing to offer the young man some hope.
"Never underestimate a woman's ability to hold onto a grudge. My mother still reminds my father about the time he described one of her cousins as 'comely', and that was twenty years ago."
Montague's face fell, as he realised that this was not an appropriate anecdote with which to regale Dubarry. The poor musician looked even more crestfallen after hearing the marquess' tale, which was worrying, for Hugh had not believed it possible that his cousin could look any sadder.
"Not that that has anything to do with anything," Montague mumbled, picking up his glass and placing it to his lips, perhaps in hope that if they were kept busy, he might not say anything else foolish.
"She will never forgive me," Dubarry gave a hopeless shrug, "And nor can I blame her. I have written umpteen letters, each one unanswered. What more is there that I can do?"
Montague, who had been busy sipping on his brandy, gave a splutter of indignation at Dubarry's words. The marquess looked askance at the young man, in obvious disapproval.
"What?" Dubarry questioned, impatiently.
"You have written her a letter?" Montague hooted in amusement, "No wonder the poor girl is ignoring you. You are not a clerk; you are her suitor."
"I have also sent her countless bouquets of flowers," Dubarry defended himself.
Hugh, who had taken the same course of action as his cousin, gave a silent cheer. What did Montague know about women?
"Take it from a man who knows everything there is to know about women," the marquess said, interrupting Hugh's thoughts, "A bouquet of flowers is nothing. Any man with funds might send flowers if he so wishes."
The brief congratulations that Hugh had allowed himself quickly vanished; Montague was right. A bouquet of roses, no matter how fragrant or beautiful, was—in the end—just a bunch of flowers. Any man could send one; Lud, an enterprising child might even pick one, if they were so inclined.
Tamed by a Duke (Wilful Wallflowers Book 1) Page 15