by Susanne Lord
Will would raise the two thousand and fund the expedition himself.
And there’d be no one to interfere with the true purpose of his return.
Will forced his lips into a relaxed smile. “Of course. I’m happy to share the proposal with you and your wife at any time. I look forward to meeting her.” Will paused, careful to match a neutral tone to his next words. “I did meet your sister-in-law, briefly.”
“Only briefly?” Ben returned his attention to the journal. “You mean to tell me Charlotte didn’t shackle herself to you and heap a hundred questions on your head?”
He opened his mouth to reply but where there should have been words, there was only an image of—God almighty—Miss Baker, shackled.
“I’m glad of it anyway.” Ben paged through his sketches, unaware of Will’s distraction. “Charlotte’s begged me daily to call on you so she could know you. She was already harassing me to collect the last installment of your reports from the Geographical Society.”
Ben lifted his head to meet his gaze. “She knows nothing of the violence that occurred there. You understand I’d rather she not know. The newspapers haven’t printed that story, thank God.”
“Only because they don’t have it. The broadsides got hold of the report, though. Printed some grisly drawings.”
Ben frowned, shaking his head. “Charlotte doesn’t read those—her brother and I don’t allow it. She’s lived gently. The incident would distress her.”
The incident. Blessedly, a memory of delphinium eyes rose, rather than the usual visions.
“I only mention it because Charlotte wishes to read the final volume. I’ve managed to put her off, but I warn you—she’s criminally charming and accustomed to getting what she wants. But I imagine you’ll like her well enough.”
“Like” wasn’t quite the word that came to mind. “Lust” wasn’t, either—though he was fairly certain that sentiment was in play.
There was something else about her. Something…warming. Like she’d disturbed some heavy curtain and let slip a ray of sun into a cold, dark room.
He shook his mind free of the thought. There could be nothing between him and the popular Miss Baker. But damned if he didn’t wonder what she was doing right now in that back parlor. And if she’d spared him another thought.
It didn’t matter. He’d vowed to his friends that he’d return. There might be one he may yet save.
And there wasn’t a woman alive who would sway him from his course.
Two
“You would not marry a man who enjoyed a fox hunt, would you, Patty?”
Patty’s attention was occupied with centering Charlotte’s brooch, but her lips pursed in a considering moue—over the brooch or the fox hunt, Charlotte could not tell.
“If I ever saw my Emmet atop a horse, I’d like to keel over dead.” Patty glanced at the clock atop the mantelpiece. “Lord, your gentlemen will be arriving any minute.” She fussed at something on Charlotte’s blouse. “This pleat’s got the very devil in it. I crimped it myself for ten minutes.”
The parlor had been laid ready for Charlotte’s visitors, but as it was Sunday, her maid was taking extra care with her appearance.
“But hypothetically,” Charlotte continued, “would you accept such a man?”
Patty wrinkled her freckled nose and stepped back to assess her handiwork. “Can’t say I’d be all that inclined to.”
“That is exactly my feeling. How men could find sport in running a poor animal to ground is beyond understanding.”
“Which gentleman is the hunter, love?”
“Oh, several of them hunt. Mr. Hatfield is most keen.”
“Is he the one with the teeth?”
There was no misunderstanding. “That is Mr. Matteson.”
Her maid paused. “Surely he’s not still in contention? None of his teeth touch each other. It’s like a tooth graveyard.”
Charlotte frowned. She’d not get that picture out of her mind now. “He really is the sweetest man, but no. I have never encouraged him.”
“What’s all this, then? Are ye narrowin’ the field a bit?”
Charlotte bit her lip against a giddy smile. For the hundredth time that week, an image of Will floated to mind and, for the hundredth time, she sighed. “It may be narrowed quite.”
Patty bent to study her, her eyes growing round. “What’s happened? Have you chosen?”
Charlotte pressed her hands together. She could not stop them fidgeting lately. “Well…it is not as decided as all that. He has not expressed an intention to court me.”
“Well, that don’t sound right at all,” Patty muttered, indignant on Charlotte’s behalf.
Charlotte squirmed, taking up the needlepoint pillow she had sewn of her childhood pony to hug. As usual, the maids had set it wrong side up. “But he might have called any day this week, Patty.”
“He’ll call, don’t you fret.”
She watched Patty’s face for another glimmer of assurance. “He is aware I receive visitors on Sundays…?”
“There you are!”
Charlotte beamed. “I did think perhaps today, but if not, Ben could—” She squinted at the wall, confused. “My needlepoint sampler is gone.”
Patty’s eyes slid from hers. “Is it?”
“Look. It was there yesterday.”
Patty didn’t turn. “Oh, I remember. The frame cracked. One of the girls said. It cracked.”
“Another one? And I was so pleased with how I had stitched the kitten’s stripes.”
Patty’s smile tightened. “That was meant to be a kitten, was it?” she asked wanly.
“That is the third I’ve hung that has—”
“So tell me of this gentleman!” Patty grabbed her hands and squeezed. “Ben could…?”
Charlotte focused on the topic at hand. “Well, Ben could invite him to call, but he is being particularly obtuse to my suffering.” She flung the pillow behind her—but gently, as Beatrice had always been her favorite pet. “A lady ought not press for information on any bachelor, but honestly, it cannot be borne.”
Charlotte lifted her chin, a martyr to love. “I suppose I will have to ask Ben to invite the man to dinner.”
Patty raised a brow. “You’ve never dangled after a man before.”
“I know! This is what Ben has reduced me to. He is a most unfeeling brother.”
“All right, all right.” Patty sat beside her. “Which lad is it then, love?”
Charlotte hesitated. She’d not told anyone. And marrying for love—as much as she hoped she might—struck against every dictate of her education. Had she not witnessed a lady or two among her circle marry for love, and descend from a state of comfort and fortune to an inferior condition?
But Will was a hero. And she was wealthy in her own right. And Patty was nearly a sister to her. “Do you promise not to tell anyone?”
“I think I can manage to keep it out of the papers.”
Casting a furtive glance into the hall, Charlotte clutched Patty’s hand. “Oh, Patty, once you meet him, I will be forgiven my machinations. He is the perfect man.”
“Then he’d be the first since Jesus.”
“He is not a peer,” she warned. “He holds no title at all.”
“No title? He’s not a soldier, is he? Or a clergyman?” Her hands flew to her cheek. “Oh, sweet Joseph, tell me he’s not on the stage.”
“No! Honestly, Patty.” She pulled the woman’s hands down. “An actor? I’ve not surrendered my wits. No, he is courageous and extraordinary and admired by everyone.”
Patty’s face was still pinched with worry. “Well, don’t be a month about it. Who is it?”
Charlotte paused for effect, pride in her own brilliance swelling in her breast. “William Repton.”
“The explorer? The cranky one what was here last week?”
Charlotte blinked at the description. “Well, I…I do not believe he is habitually cross. He was quite overwhelmed, I’m sure, by the company
last week.” Her maid looked unconvinced, sinking her pleasure a little. “Do you not think him admirable, Patty?”
“Ah, love. I’ll give you he’s impressive and right handsome, but he’s not like the gentlemen you keep company with.”
“Exactly! And he’s likely never held an oyster fork in his whole life. Do you see? I no longer have to accept any highborn man who would remind me of my lineage any time he was out of sorts with me—and that is just the sort of thing they would do, I can just see it.” She raised her chin against Patty’s sympathetic look. “I am not ashamed of my family. But we both know it to be the truth. I would have endured such an alliance for the family, but I do not have to. Not now.”
“What are you—”
“Because he came.” She blinked against happy tears. “He actually came and he is perfect. A hero, and not only that—he is who I want. I can marry for love and elevate the family name.”
“Charlotte—”
“There are other heroes, of course. I had entertained hopes for a young physician who had made great advancements in anesthesia—but he so rarely blinked, Patty, it was quite impossible.” She lowered her voice to an appropriately discreet and compassionate tone. “I could not help but wonder if he breathed too much chloroform himself.
“But a mariage d’amour with London’s most daring adventurer will make us the darlings of Society. Everyone wishes to know him and we will be welcomed everywhere, and that will extend to Lucy and Ben. No one would dare speak of their marriage. And the children—” She paused to collect herself, reaching to tuck one of Patty’s rust-colored curls beneath her cap. “The most discriminating doors will open for all of us. Even Wally.” At Patty’s doubtful expression, her smile shrank. “Well. Likely they would. Later.”
Patty sighed. “Ah, lass, why are you worryin’ about all that?”
Charlotte paused, struck by the question. “I always knew I would marry for influence. But I had so hoped to marry for love, as well.”
“A loveless union was never anyone’s plan for you.”
“No, I know,” she said meekly.
“Besides, what of Lady Wynston? Look at what the old dragon’s done for you these three seasons.”
“And I am eternally grateful for her sponsorship. But her influence never swayed the ton to accept Lucy, Ben, or Wally. I want my family in Society with me.”
“Ah, Charlotte.” She cupped Charlotte’s cheeks, staring grimly into her eyes. “Are you for certain this Mr. Repton will do?”
She bit her lip, trying to contain her widening smile. “I have never been more certain of anyone. And I do not know why, except…oh, I thought I had dreamed him, Patty, but that is wrong. I recognized him. Almost as if we had met before and loved each other from the first.” She laughed, hugging Patty. “Yes, he will do very well.” She sat back to grin at her maid. “But first, he must return to the house so he can recognize me, too.”
At last, Patty smiled. “I suppose he must, then.”
“You do think it possible, don’t you? We may seem very different, but I will love him better than anyone.”
“Heaven help the man who doesn’t fall in line with your wishes.”
Charlotte stood. “I ought to find Ben now.”
“Later, Charlotte.”
“But—”
“Charlotte.” Patty, suddenly all discipline and propriety, pointed her back to her seat.
She flopped down. “I really have no wish to receive visitors today.”
“I know, love.”
She sat up, straightening her skirts over her crinoline. “But I would not want to be accused of dallying with affections. Though I have been discouraging attention all week. At the charity concert for the Ruislip school, I collected my own lemonade.”
“Is that why all the London gentlemen are falling into decline?”
She swatted her maid, smiling. “No gentleman will be pained by my distance. The duke had no serious intentions, and the others were not long invested in their pursuit.”
“What of Viscount Spencer?”
What of Hugh…? She had no reason to doubt his intentions were anything but honorable, but how could she know?
She shook her head. “No earl-in-waiting will grieve any lady long.”
Goodley appeared at the door. “Lord Spencer,” the butler intoned. “And Mr. Matteson.”
Patty went to her chair in the corner and Charlotte smiled at her visitors, remembering to temper its warmth.
Lord Spencer bowed deep, presenting his lavish bouquet. Always such lovely gifts from Hugh, always so proper and solicitous. He would have been a brilliant match, and perhaps a better-than-average husband. He had passed many of her tests.
But there would be no more tests. There was not a test she could devise that Will Repton could ever fail. He was the answer, every time.
She must find Ben and insist he invite Will to dinner at once. After her visitors took their leave, of course. A quarter hour more.
Surely they would not stay long.
* * *
“Mr. Paxton has asked that you wait in the study,” the butler said.
Will nodded approvingly. A proper butler today. And good thing. He’d not forgotten today was Charlotte Baker’s receiving day for hopeful bachelors. There would be no repeat of last week’s nonsense. The door of the frilly back parlor was open but he couldn’t see even a foot into the room.
Will absently checked the buttons of his new coat.
Good. That was…good. Better to not be seen by Miss Baker.
The butler cleared his throat. “Sir?”
Will wrenched his gaze to the butler waiting for him at the study door.
“Is there anything you require?” the butler asked.
“No. Thank you.” His thigh protested his carefully disguised limp across the entry hall. One last glance at the back parlor—just in case—and he entered the study.
Right, then.
Right.
Better she not know he was here. Miss Baker might corner him all over again, plying him with tea and her pretty smiles. He was here for one reason only: to secure Ben’s agreement to be his cultivator here in England and the man’s one hundred pounds.
So that was…that was two reasons then. “Enough,” he grumbled under his breath. With no one to witness his gait, he limped toward the table to lay down his materials.
“I hurt my leg, too.”
Will started at the small voice. At the end of the room, in a wingback chair almost comically large for its occupant, sat the young boy he’d seen dashing across the foyer a week ago. His pulse pounded in his neck but there was not the usual sickening plunge of his stomach.
Perhaps because the boy made such a benign picture sitting there.
Or perhaps because he had his father’s familiar gray eyes.
“You must be a Paxton,” Will said.
“I’m Jacob.”
Will drew a blank. What did one say to a child dressed in a miniature admiral’s uniform?
He made his way to the most attractive seat—the one farthest from the child he could manage. Minutes passed and the boy wasn’t leaving.
Will cleared his throat. “I’m Will.”
The words had an undesired effect. The boy slipped from his chair and climbed into the one next to his.
“Are you Chinese Will?” the boy asked.
“Maybe. Yes. I think so.”
“Papa said you sailed in a ship to China. Did you see a shark or octopus?” His eyes grew huge. “Or a pirate? Did you fight him and hurt your leg?”
Will stared. The child appeared to be in earnest. “A pirate?”
The boy nodded.
“No.” He grimaced at the sentence he was about to utter. “I fought no pirates.”
“Did you see any pirates?”
“No.”
“Not even one?”
“No.”
The boy slumped in his chair, his small face collapsing in a remarkable expression of world-shatt
ering disappointment.
His thoughts flew back to Tibet. To the children. The baby had been weeks old and the boy…Emile was six.
“What are you? A boy your size?” Will asked. The boy didn’t seem to discern his meaning. “How old are you?”
“I’m almost five.”
“So you’re four.”
The boy nodded. “Almost five.” He pulled up the leg of his short pants to reveal a bandage on his knee. “I hurt my leg, too.”
Where the devil was Ben Paxton?
“Yes. Well.” Will glanced at the boy and his unwavering stare. “As men, we must bear the pain stoically.”
The child twisted his little body on the chair, dangling till his small, booted feet met the floor, and then he was bounding to the door. “I’ll tell Aunt Charlotte to kiss your leg and make it better. Just like mine.”
“What? Wait, uh—!” What was the boy’s name? “Jacob!”
But it was too late. Will made it to the door in seconds but the child had disappeared.
* * *
Surely her visitors would not…stay…LONG.
The thought repeated at the quarter hour, and the half, and every interminable passing minute until it was a shrill mantra in Charlotte’s mind.
If only these men had come at a common hour. But as one stood, another arrived, and rather than take his leave, as well-mannered ladies knew to do, the departing gentleman would be persuaded to stay a minute or two or ten longer.
And Will had not come…
“Capital, sir! Do you approve, Miss Baker?”
Hugh’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. She smiled, not knowing how to answer. Fortunately, Lucy took that moment to appear at the door.
Unfortunately, she was carrying a fully laden tea tray.
Oh no. No, no, no. An unnecessary husband test was about to commence—and she had spoken of this test in jest—
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Lucy was with child and, at seven months, her condition was apparent on her slight frame. Carrying a tray was rarely undertaken by the lady of the house, and certainly not by a countess under normal circumstances.
But the Baker circumstances had never been normal.
With her sweet smile, Lucy posed with her tray above her rounded belly. “I thought I might refresh the tea.”