It wasn’t so very long ago that unscrupulous men had made a practice of kidnapping heiresses as brides. When he thought what someone like Medmenham might do . . . Robert’s hand closed so tightly around the angel’s wing that it left a dent in his palm.
Robert forced himself to release his grip. It wasn’t as though Medmenham and his friends were going to kidnap Charlotte as a virgin sacrifice for their ridiculous Hellfire Club. At least, he hoped they didn’t have virgin sacrifices. And even if they did, they wouldn’t dare touch Charlotte. She was too well connected to be lightly trifled with, and by all that was holy, he would make sure that Medmenham and the rest of his crew knew it. No one toyed with the cousin of the Duke of Dovedale.
It was slightly lowering to know that the Dowager Duchess of Dovedale was probably more of a deterrent than he was.
The devil of it was, he probably was overreacting, prey to morbid fancies and all that rot. Feeling that he had already belabored the point far too much, Robert scuffed his shoes against the worn flagstones of the floor and said, “Just be wary of Medmenham, that’s all.”
Charlotte rose from her perch on the window seat and touched a hand lightly to his arm. Her gloved fingers were tiny and very pale against his sleeve, like a china miniature. “You’re very sweet to look out for me.”
“Sweet?” said Robert, with feigned indignation. “You’ll have me laughed out of my regiment.” The words were already out of his mouth before Robert remembered that he no longer had a regiment. It was an oddly empty feeling, no longer belonging to anything.
“Kind, then,” she said, smiling at him as though he were Lancelot, Sir Galahad, and the rest of the Round Table all wrapped into one.
Robert’s hand closed over hers. “You make it very hard to refuse a compliment.”
Charlotte tilted back her head, tossing a loose curl back over her shoulders. “I’ll just keep throwing adjectives at you until you accept.”
The faint light of the distant torches slanted through the uneven old windowpanes, sending golden flecks dancing along her curls like angels on pins.
Robert leaned forwards, his hand tightening on hers. “I’d better accept then, hadn’t I?”
Her lips looked very pink and soft as she smiled up at him, that small, close-lipped smile that was so distinctively Charlotte’s. It would only take just a whisper of movement, barely a movement at all, to lean forwards and brush those lips with his, to tangle his hands in that net of golden hair and kiss her until the torches in the garden flickered and died.
What in all the blazes was he thinking?
Dropping her hand, Robert stumbled back a step, bumping into his old friend, the carved angel. The angel’s wing jabbed him painfully in the ribs, like an outraged duenna.
Robert clapped a hand to his bruised side. He could swear the bloody stone angel was smirking at him. It served him right. What had he—no, he didn’t want to go into what he had been thinking. It was best to think about something safe and neutral, something that didn’t have anything to do with lips or kissing or other decidedly uncousinly concepts. Like refreshments.
“Would you like some ratafia?” he asked hastily. “I’ll fetch you some ratafia, shall I?”
“I don’t think there is any ratafia,” said Charlotte, blinking at him as though he had just gone mad, which, to be fair, he had.
“Lemonade, then,” he said, backing away towards the doorway. “Everyone likes lemonade.”
“Lemonade would be lovely,” said Charlotte, bemused but game.
Robert offered her his arm, a very stiff arm, held a full six inches away from his body, just in case her guardian angel decided to get feisty again.
“Shall we?” he said. “Let me take you back to the gallery. It’s getting a little chilly in here.”
“Really?” she murmured as she accepted his arm. “I found it quite warm.”
She didn’t know the half of it.
“Lemonade,” gabbled Robert as he all but pushed her back through the arras, into the warmth and light and, most importantly, people. Lots and lots of people. “Let’s get you that lemonade.”
“That would be lovely,” Charlotte said, and smiled up at him with her big, innocent, pale green eyes.
It was deuced uncomfortable being a canker with a conscience.
Chapter Seven
As they ducked under the tapestry, the glare of the candlelight hit his eyes like an attack of conscience. After the dim confines of the chapel anteroom, the light of the gallery was blinding, with all the candles in their mirror-backed sconces blazing away, beaming off of the gilding on ceiling and walls and the jewels worn by ladies and gentlemen alike. The sudden glow left spots in front of Robert’s eyes, like fireworks on the King’s birthday. Wincing, Robert imagined this must be what it would be like on the Judgment Day, with truth winkling out all the dark places in one’s soul.
“Hullo!” Lord Frederick Staines hailed him across the room. “There you are, Dovedale. We’ve been looking for you.”
“Oh?” Robert deliberately looked anywhere but at Charlotte.
It was an entirely unnecessary measure. Staines looked right over Charlotte’s head as if he hadn’t even noticed her presence at Robert’s side. Admittedly, being a good foot shorter than the two men, she was well below Staines’s eye level. And Staines wasn’t the sort of man to notice anything that didn’t immediately touch his own concerns.
Staines’s cheeks were flushed with what might have been wine or windburn or both. Judging from the matching color in Miss Deveraux’s cheeks, apparently he had been enjoying the amenities of the balcony, despite the inclemency of the weather.
“Are you coming?” Staines demanded, jerking his head in the direction of the door.
“Where?” Robert asked warily, prepared to politely extricate himself from high-stakes card games and absurd wagers, like betting on how many times Turnip Fitzhugh could hop the length of the gallery on one foot while balancing a glass of port on his head.
“To the tree.”
“I beg your pardon?” Robert might be going mad, but he wasn’t quite that mad. King George might occasionally think that he was Noah and lived in an ark, but Robert was fairly sure one didn’t go calling on trees at midnight. Or ever.
Staines looked at him as though he suspected Robert might be just a little bit thick. “To the Epiphany tree.”
Charlotte came to his rescue, stepping in before he could embarrass himself any further. “It’s an old country tradition,” she explained. “On Epiphany Eve, the gentlemen gather round the biggest tree on the estate—or at least the most convenient big tree—to scare away the evil spirits.”
“How does one go about doing that?”
Lord Henry Innes clapped Rob on the shoulder in passing. “You shoot them, man. What else?”
Robert eyed the pistol Lord Henry was idly swinging from one finger. He hoped to hell it wasn’t primed. “Does the Duchess know you have that in her ballroom?”
“It’s your ballroom now, old sport,” said Lord Henry, and went on swinging.
“Brilliant,” muttered Robert. “Why don’t you go along outside and I’ll grab up a weapon and be right with you.”
“No need.” Lord Henry produced the twin to the pistol in his hand. He twirled it professionally before handing it over to Robert. It was not, Robert was relieved to see, loaded. At least, not yet.
“Thought you might not have come prepared, having been away and all that.” Some of Robert’s surprise must have shown on his face, because Lord Henry added, “You’re one of us now. We take care of our own.”
“Not quite one of you yet,” said Robert guardedly, all too aware of Charlotte at his side.
Lord Henry brushed that aside with a sweep of his pistol. “Soon enough. Now we just need the rest of the kit for tonight.”
“The rest of the kit?”
Freddy Staines, who had been unabashedly sizing up the ladies as the men talked, popped back into the conversation. An expectant g
rin spread across his face, all but dislodging his ridiculously high shirt points. “The cider.”
Charlotte held up her hands. “I can’t tell you anything about the cider, other than that it is also a local tradition.”
“No old stories about it?” Robert teased. “No local lore?”
“Well . . . ,” began Charlotte, but Lord Freddy’s loud voice overrode hers as though she weren’t even there.
“To tell stories, you need to remember them,” said Lord Freddy sagely. “And you won’t after this cider.” Raising his gloved fist in the air, he called out, “To the tree!”
“To the tree!” echoed raggedly throughout the room.
The cry was seconded as loudly by the local men as it was by the London bucks. From around the room, red-faced squires rousted out muskets that looked like they had last been used during the War of the Spanish Succession and charged towards the ballroom door as though personally on their way to stave off a French advance. Or a horde of maddened trees.
Robert had assumed the locals had been invited as a courtesy to the county set; now he wondered whether they were part of this ceremony of the tree. Yet another thing he didn’t know about his own estate. Not for the first time, he heartily wished himself back in India. Among other things, in India, he wouldn’t be freezing in the January cold, shooting at a tree.
“Coming, Dovedale?” tossed off Innes over his shoulder. “It is your tree.”
Medmenham was heading to the exit with the rest, holding an elegant pistol with silver chasing and mother-of-pearl inlay as though he knew exactly what to do with it. Robert looked down at Charlotte’s golden head. She didn’t seem the least bit alarmed at being surrounded by an inebriated mob of heavily armed men, although whether that was the result of a country upbringing or because her imagination transmuted them all to dashing cavaliers, he wasn’t quite sure.
At least if Medmenham was outside shooting at a tree, he wouldn’t be inside with Charlotte.
“Sweet dreams, cousin.” Robert squeezed her hand in what he hoped was a cousinly way, adding with all the emphasis he could muster, “Stay inside.”
“Of course,” said Charlotte, blinking up at him in complete and happy obliviousness. “I wouldn’t dream of trespassing. It might ruin the ritual.”
“I was thinking more of stray bullets,” Robert lied.
“I believe the general practice is to fire up,” said Charlotte thoughtfully. “But I’ve never actually seen it.”
“I wish I could say the same. It’s bloo—er, ridiculously cold out there.”
“You’ve spent too much time in India,” teased Charlotte. “This is nothing more than a stiff breeze.”
“Dovedale!” hollered Lord Henry.
Robert sighed. “Duty calls.”
Charlotte flapped a hand at him in farewell. “Enjoy your tree.”
Robert cast a comic look of disgruntlement over his shoulder as he followed after the other tree-hunters.
“Well!” said Henrietta, grabbing Charlotte by the crook of the arm and dragging her towards the nearest alcove. “That was interesting.”
“Define that,” said Charlotte breathlessly, trotting along in her friend’s wake.
Henrietta dropped her arm and gestured broadly. “Him. You. That.”
She peeked around the corner of the ice blue brocade screening the alcove and, finding it unoccupied, waved at Charlotte to precede her in. Dragging the drape shut behind them, she dropped onto the cushioned bench.
“That look. And you were out of the ballroom together for the longest time. You were together, weren’t you?”
“Yes, we were,” admitted Charlotte. A dimple appeared in her left cheek. “Tête-à-tête, even.”
Henrietta’s hazel eyes gleamed. “Tête-à-tête? Or TÊTE-À-TÊTE tête-à-tête?”
On a sudden impulse, Charlotte reached out and squeezed her friend’s hand. “Oh, Hen, I am glad you’re here. You don’t know how much I’ve missed you these past few days.”
Henrietta beamed. “I’ve missed you, too. But you still haven’t answered my question.”
Charlotte considered the question. “Somewhere in between, I think. I don’t believe it was initially intended as a tête-à-tête, but it became . . . somewhat tête-à-tête-y along the way.”
“And by that, you mean . . . ?”
Charlotte thought back over those few minutes in the chapel anteroom. It was already becoming hazy in memory, filmed with a heavy layer of wishful thinking. “I wish I knew.”
“Charlotte!”
“There’s not terribly much to tell. He was very insistent that I should stay away from Sir Francis Medmenham—”
“Jealous!” crowed Henrietta. “He’s jealous!”
“Or just being protective,” corrected Charlotte, in the interest of fairness. “Sir Francis’s reputation isn’t the best. And Robert is the head of the family, no matter how long he’s been away. It’s his responsibility to look out for me.”
Amazing what a lowering word “responsibility” could be. Charlotte approved of responsibility in principle, just not as directed towards her.
Henrietta waved that aside. “Protective, jealous. They’re both sides of the same coin. Just ask Miles.” A satisfied smile spread across her face. “He was delightfully cranky about Lord Vaughn.”
“So was your mother.”
“Not in the same way,” said Henrietta definitely.
Charlotte decided it was better not to go into that one. Lady Uppington, like Henrietta, was a woman of strong opinions and not afraid to voice them. Charlotte wondered what Lady Uppington would think of Robert. . . . With an effort, Charlotte wrenched her attention back from that fascinating line of speculation.
“So?” demanded Henrietta. “What happened after he warned you off of Medmenham?”
“Well . . .” Charlotte bit down on her lower lip. “We were standing in the chapel anteroom, and I thought, for a moment—”
“Yes?”
The color rose in Charlotte’s cheeks as she fiddled with one of the pearl buttons on her glove. “I thought for a moment he was going to kiss me. But he didn’t,” she added hastily, before Henrietta could say whatever it was she was obviously bursting to say. “So I must have been imagining things. As I am wont to do.” She sighed.
Sometimes, having an overactive imagination could be a distinct liability. The daydreams were lovely, but it was always so disappointing when they turned out to have no relation to reality. Her debut three years ago had been a case in point.
Henrietta, on the other hand, saw nothing to be disappointed about. She sat bolt upright and jabbed a finger into the air. “Ah! An almost kiss!”
Charlotte wrinkled her nose at her dearest friend. “I didn’t know there could be an almost about a kiss. It seems like the sort of thing that either happens or it doesn’t.”
“Oh, no,” said Henrietta, with the worldly wise air of someone who had been married for a whole six months. “There’s an entire universe of near misses out there, kisses that almost were, but weren’t.”
“How very sad,” said Charlotte. “Can’t you just picture it? The Land of Lost Kisses. All the loves that might have been but weren’t.”
Henrietta’s chin lifted with an expression of pure determination that Charlotte recognized all too well. “Yours will be. You just need to make almost an actuality.”
It wasn’t as cold as he had feared. That was one of the saving graces with which Robert consoled himself as they tramped across the park towards their designated tree. Like good elves, the ubiquitous staff had been there before them. In their wake, a substantial bonfire burned a safe distance from the tree line, the leaping flames adding a pagan tang to the evening.
The servants had also left a folding table on which rested two rows of rough brown jugs made of a coarse pottery that contrasted strikingly with the snowy cloth of Irish linen that had been laid across the table. Lord Henry Innes made straight for the table, while two of the locals, clearly m
en of substance in the local community with preexisting grudges, began quibbling over which oak was meant to be the Epiphany tree.
Robert didn’t see how the particular tree mattered; once they started shooting off all those pistols, rifles, muskets, and—heaven help them all, was that a blunderbuss?—any evil spirits who had had the poor judgment to roost anywhere within a two-mile radius were sure to be rousted out and set to flight.
Both men tramped over to him, firearms in hand, and poured out their competing theories. Fortunately, Robert managed to refrain from asking why in the devil they were chewing his ear off. He had nearly forgotten. He was meant to be the Duke, and thus expected to settle this sort of dispute. He might not know about trees, but he did know about quarreling men.
Robert picked a third tree at random.
“This one,” he said as the flames cast grotesque shadows across their expectant faces. “It’s clearly the biggest of the lot.”
“How positively Solomonic,” murmured Medmenham. It didn’t sound like a compliment. Strolling to the other side of the tree, he tapped it lightly with one knuckle. “Crammed full of evil spirits, too, I warrant.”
Robert suspected any evil spirits were outside rather than inside the tree. But since they were holding firearms, it didn’t seem like a good time to press the point.
Instead, he said mildly, “Shall we get on?”
Turnip Fitzhugh warily circled the tree, as though expecting it to engage in a preemptive strike. “I say, are we meant to shoot at the tree or away from it?”
“At it, I should think,” replied Lord Freddy Staines, polishing the stock of his pistol to bring out its pretty sheen. His initials were tooled onto the stock in shiny silver filigree, all extravagant curlicues and improbable flourishes. “How else are we to kill the evil spirits?”
Fitzhugh nodded as though that made perfect sense to him.
Robert gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to bang someone’s head against the tree, preferably Staines’s. He had seen Staines’s type time and again in the army, pampered aristocrats, confident to the point of obtuseness, who barely knew one end of a gun from the other but had no scruples about sending whole regiments of men far more seasoned than they to their deaths in battle plans so ridiculous that even a five-year-old child could have seen the flaws.
Pink Carnation 05 - The Temptation of the Night Jasmine Page 10