Even bloated with claret, there was something undeniably winning about Staines’s smile. His were classic British good looks, ruddy cheeked, with that unique dark blond shade of hair peculiar to the British Isles. “Can’t a gentleman have a drink?”
“Not if he can’t hold it without being foxed,” said Penelope rudely.
Staines caught her around the waist. His color was high as he yanked her close in a grasp too intimate for a public place. “A fine thing for my affianced bride to say.”
Penelope gave him a light shove. “We’re not married yet.”
“Are you promising to descend into docility once that blessed day arrives, Miss Deveraux?” drawled Medmenham, baring his teeth at Penelope as though she were the star attraction in a bear baiting. His tone was as gently needling as a pointy stick.
“I shall mend my ways,” said Penelope sweetly, “when Freddy mends his.”
Medmenham affected a bow. “A very pattern for matrimony.”
Not liking the way the conversation was going, or the dangerous glint in Penelope’s eye, Charlotte asked hastily, “When do you leave for India?”
“A week Thursday.” If Penelope had any trepidation about traveling halfway around the world, she certainly didn’t show it. She might have been referring to a trip to Almack’s. “Two days after the wedding.”
“I wish I could come,” Charlotte said wistfully. “You’ll have to be sure to write regularly.”
For a moment, Penelope’s face softened. “By every packet,” she promised. “You can bring them to Henrietta and laugh over my misadventures.”
“Or exult over your triumphs,” Charlotte amended gently. “I’m sure you’ll have maharajas bringing you rubies as big as your palm and besotted British officers leaving leopard skins at your feet.”
“I should hope not,” scoffed Penelope. “The skins would probably smell.”
Charlotte squeezed her hands. “It will be an adventure,” she said softly. “You’ll see.”
Penelope shrugged. “Perhaps.”
Her own troubles momentarily paled into insignificance beside Penelope, off to a strange continent with no one for comfort but her husband. No matter how well Penelope hid it, she had to be nervous. Charlotte knew she would be.
It might, thought Charlotte hopefully, be the making of Penelope’s marriage. Charlotte glanced back over her shoulder to where Freddy Staines was passing a silver flask back and forth with Henry Innes. Penelope had noticed, too. Her eyes were narrowed in an expression of mingled condescension and irritation.
Maybe not.
“I could come with you,” Charlotte suggested, only half joking. “You could be my chaperone.”
Penelope laughed raggedly. “And ruin you, too? I don’t think so. But—thank you.”
Before Charlotte could say anything else, Penelope swept up the train of her skirt, a catlike smile curving the corners of her lips. “I’d best be removing myself,” she said meaningfully. “You’ll have company enough without me.”
“Pen?” Charlotte rose to follow her and bumped smack into a dark suit of evening clothes.
There was a man within the evening clothes, a man tall enough that her eyes were on a level with the stickpin in his cravat. There were no pearls or diamonds or rubies for him, none of the ostentatious decoration affected by the other gentlemen in the box. The stickpin was a plain gold oval, a familiar family crest incised into the metal. The lines of the crest were worn with age, but Charlotte would have known it anywhere: a dove in flight with a sprig of rosemary in its mouth. Rosemary for remembrance. Charlotte had never been entirely sure whether the dove was flying towards home or away.
Charlotte backed up a few paces, catching at the railing of the balcony before she found herself flying into the pit. In the light of the thousand chandeliers, his face seemed as bright as the golden oval, but it was considerably harder to read.
What had become of his promise not to come until she called? Perversely, she was more pleased than not that he had disobeyed.
Charlotte abruptly squashed down that thought. There was no future there. That dove had flown.
“Robert,” said Charlotte, struggling to keep her tone light. “I hadn’t thought to see you here.”
“I could disappear again,” he offered.
“Yes, you do that very well,” said Charlotte without thinking. Flushing, she amended, “I didn’t mean—”
“Of course, you did,” said Robert lightly, as though they were talking about nothing more meaningful than the movements on the stage. He bared his teeth in a polished social smile. “And I deserved it.”
Charlotte pleated the folds of her fan. “Most of it,” she mumbled. “You were not entirely without assistance.”
Looking up from her fan, she found him watching her, his expression intent and curiously vulnerable.
Shifting from one foot to the other, he said in a rapid undertone, “If I were to call on you tomorrow afternoon, would you receive me?”
Charlotte didn’t know what to say. There was a tightening in the back of her throat, not of anticipation, but of dread.
“It is your choice,” he added levelly. “If you tell me to stay away, I will. Although I very much hope you won’t. I should like—well, to talk to you.”
That could only mean one thing.
Charlotte let her gaze drop to her mangled fan. What a fool she was. She should be glad that he wanted to make amends, to be—oh, what a lackluster word!—friends. They could put all of her silliness and all of his missteps behind them and start over again, as they should have in the first place.
It was all for the best, she assured herself. But right now she wasn’t sure she wanted to sit through an explanation of what a lovely person she was and how very sorry he was to have kissed her. The very thought of it made her chest tighten in silent protest.
“If I’m not at the Palace,” she prevaricated.
He didn’t seem all that thrilled with her response, but he accepted it as a deserved rebuke. “I will await your pleasure,” he said quietly.
It was an exceedingly unfortunate choice of phrase. Charlotte experienced an intense urge to stamp her foot and shout, It’s not my pleasure! But ladies didn’t do that sort of thing, especially not Lansdowne ones, so instead, she inclined her head in a genteel nod, while her insides churned in silent rebellion.
Was he really that thick? Didn’t he realize there were few conversations she would less rather have? That no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise, she was still ridiculously, childishly infatuated with the very idea of him?
And not just the idea—it would be easier if it were just the idea of him. She was ridiculously, childishly infatuated with the actuality of him, too. It was there in the way he leaned just that little bit forwards when he spoke to her; the way his lips turned up on one side and not the other when he smiled; the way he was looking at her right now, as though he actually cared what she thought or felt. It was absurd that in a theatre loud with the din of singing, dancing, and talking, she could hear the rustle of his sleeve as he stirred; that in the midst of burning beeswax, orange peel, gingerbread, and a dozen different perfumes, she could still distinguish the particular smell of him, all clean linen and sandalwood and just a hint of saddle leather. There was no play, no party, no pit below. The entire world was narrowed to the span between her body and his, bounded by the curve of his arm on the balcony.
“Dovedale!” The word careened into their kingdom like a cannon-ball, shattering the strange silence that bound her to Robert.
Sir Francis Medmenham strolled over like Charles II favoring a pair of fortunate courtiers with his presence. Charlotte practically expected to see spaniels nipping at his heels, instead of just Frobisher and Innes.
“Do stop monopolizing your little cousin, Dovedale,” he casually commanded. “It’s unfair on the rest of company.”
And then Robert did something very curious.
Instead of standing aside to al
low Medmenham to pass, he turned so that his body was ranged between Charlotte and Medmenham, and said, very deliberately, “We are scarcely cousins. The connection is a very distant one. Isn’t it, Charlotte?”
“Through half siblings more than a hundred years ago,” Charlotte confirmed. “You see, our great-great-grandfather married six times,” she began, but Medmenham did not seem to be paying attention to the intricacies of the Lansdowne family tree. Which was a pity, because Charlotte had always found the story of their great-great-grandfather and his multiple marital misfortunes a singularly diverting one.
Smiling charmingly, Medmenham said, “In that case, Dovedale, all the more reason for you to step aside.”
Robert drew himself up in a way that made Charlotte think of knights and gauntlets and the clash of swords on shields. She could practically hear the trumpets sounding in the background. The two men were roughly of a height, but Robert was broader, his muscles honed with years of marches and physical work, while Medmenham was as lean and rangy as a kitchen cat.
“I still have a responsibility as the head of my house,” Robert said pleasantly, but there was a bite beneath it.
Beneath his genial mask, Charlotte was suddenly quite, quite sure that Robert’s feelings for Medmenham were anything but cordial. Then why was he playing at being his friend?
Medmenham had games of his own to play. “Are you sure that’s all it is, Dovedale?” he asked, smiling faintly as though there was something he knew that Robert didn’t. Whatever it was, it pleased him mightily. He looked like Penelope right after a jaunt to a balcony.
“And what would that be to you, Medmenham?”
“That,” said Medmenham lightly, “remains to be seen.”
“I don’t believe that there is anything more for you to see here.”
“Certainly not the play,” Charlotte burst out. “I don’t believe anyone is even making a pretense of watching it.”
Deliberately cutting Robert out of the conversation, Sir Francis smiled intimately at her. “Why would they? I’ve seen better acting from the inhabitants of Bedlam.”
It was a rather odd metaphor to pick. It was, Charlotte remembered, Sir Francis who had recommended Dr. Simmons to the Prince of Wales. The real Dr. Simmons, or the false one?
Charlotte was very aware of Robert’s eyes on her as she said, with forced gaiety, “Do you habitually frequent mad hospitals, Sir Francis?”
“Why would I need to when I can find the same entertainment closer to home?” Sir Francis’s gesture encompassed the entirety of their party, saving only Robert, who stood tight-lipped beside them as though unsure whether to intervene.
It might not be so very bad for Robert to have to play chaperone to her and Sir Francis, thought Charlotte, with a pleasure not without malice. Now that they were to be friends. It was all for the good of the King, after all, she reminded herself piously.
“As you know,” said Charlotte, batting her eyes at Sir Francis over her fan, “the taint of madness runs in some of our best families.”
“Some more than others,” contributed Robert flatly, looking straight at Medmenham.
Medmenham acknowledged the point with admirable sangfroid, leaning one elbow on the wrought iron balcony that edged the box. “Do you refer to my cousin or my aunt?”
It had been Medmenham’s aunt, according to Innes, who had employed the services of Dr. Simmons. If Medmenham did have an aunt who had run mad, wouldn’t that imply that Medmenham had meant to recommend the genuine Dr. Simmons? On the other hand, if it was Medmenham who supplied Innes with the story, nothing Medmenham said proved anything at all.
“I believe I may have heard of your aunt . . . ,” hedged Charlotte.
Medmenham smiled lazily. “You would be unusual if you hadn’t.”
“I haven’t,” said Robert tightly.
The others both ignored him. “And your cousin?” Charlotte asked prettily, more to annoy Robert than anything else.
Medmenham’s lips curled with unholy amusement. “There your esteemed kinsman may have a little more knowledge. My cousin was a noted eccentric of his day—and he was good enough to leave me his house.”
Robert made an abrupt movement, but Charlotte rushed in first. “Of course! You mentioned before that you have a very well-known house. Is it anything like Sir Horace Walpole’s Strawberry Hill?” she asked, referring to the famous monument to the Gothic style the author of The Castle of Otranto had erected.
“It has something of the Gothic to it,” drawled Sir Francis. “Wouldn’t you agree, Dovedale?”
“I would not presume to judge,” Robert said stiffly. “My knowledge of . . . architecture is limited.”
“But growing,” said Sir Francis genially. “Under my careful tutelage. I am sure there are many among your friends who would be glad to give a good report to Lady Charlotte of your architectural education.”
Robert’s went as stiff as though Medmenham had threatened rather than complimented him. What were they talking about?
Well pleased with the effect of his words, Medmenham turned back to Charlotte. “Have you ever considered taking up the study of architecture?” he asked caressingly. “I should think that you would have a taste for the . . . picturesque.”
Something in the way he pronounced the last word made Charlotte squirm in her seat. The trail of innuendo beneath his words made her feel vaguely unclean and more than a little bit indignant.
“I have every admiration for a pretty prospect,” said Charlotte, choosing her words carefully. “But not all follies appeal to me. Some are too decadent in their design.”
“You shouldn’t dismiss them until you have sampled them,” Sir Francis said condescendingly. “Although some say one must go to the Continent for a true education, you would be surprised at the number of places of interest buried away in our own English countryside.”
“With Girdings to hand,” said Robert firmly, “I don’t believe Lady Charlotte need look any farther.”
Charlotte had reached the limits of her patience with both of them. While she had no desire to accede to whatever it was that Sir Francis appeared to be offering, she certainly didn’t intend to be cloistered at Girdings merely because the man who repented kissing her decreed it so.
“But Girdings is yours, Cousin Robert,” she said sweetly. “I shall have to look elsewhere eventually.”
Let Robert grapple with that one, she thought defiantly. He and Medmenham weren’t the only ones who could speak in double entendres.
Sir Francis bowed low over Charlotte’s hand. “A loss to Girdings but a gain to the rest of us. I think you should find Medmenham Abbey greatly enlightening, Lady Charlotte, should you care to honor it with your presence.”
“I am quite sure I should,” she murmured demurely.
“If,” said Robert pointedly, “your attendance on the Queen permits it. Since it has such a dampening effect on your social engagements.”
Charlotte lifted her chin, looking him straight in the eye. “That depends on the engagement.”
With the conversation no longer centered on him, Sir Francis Medmenham had had quite enough. “I am afraid,” interjected Medmenham smoothly, “that we have another engagement this evening. Haven’t we, Dovedale?”
Robert twisted abruptly away from Charlotte. “For my sins,” he said, and the words seemed to mean something more to Medmenham than to Charlotte, because he laughed as if at a private joke.
“Not just yours,” he said. “Lady Charlotte.” With a final bow, Medmenham took his leave as carelessly as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. And perhaps it hadn’t.
Charlotte looked to Robert. He was frowning, two lines incised into the space between his eyebrows.
“Tomorrow,” he said heavily, and turned on his heel as though he didn’t trust himself to say anything more. The click of his heels echoed through Charlotte’s ears.
The rest of the party were also taking their leave. Penelope had already been returned to
her parents. In the corridor, Charlotte could see Penelope’s mother’s mouth open in one of her endless reproaches, while Penelope yawned behind a hand that emphasized more than concealed the gesture of disrespect.
“Well!” said Henrietta, coming up beside Charlotte on the balcony. “I thought I was going to have to intervene before they went for their pistols.”
“I don’t think they had pistols,” said Charlotte.
“Chairs, then,” said Henrietta, dismissing the choice of weapon as irrelevant. “You always did say you wanted men to duel over you.”
“Not with furniture.” Charlotte regarded her best friend with troubled eyes. “And it would be somewhat more flattering if I were quite sure they were squabbling over me.”
“What else?” asked Henrietta.
Charlotte stared out over the balcony, down over the restless sprinkling of humanity below. The Drury Lane had been waning in popularity ever since the new building had been constructed ten years before; last year, even Mrs. Siddons and the Kembles had deserted the theatre for the more hospitable Covent Garden theatre and no number of ingenious spectacles had contrived to recapture the crowds the theatre had once known. The pit was all but deserted.
“I wish I knew,” Charlotte said, watching an orange seller attempt to wheedle a sale from an unresponsive patron. “It was all very oblique.”
Henrietta’s eyes lit up. “Could it have something to do with the King? If Medmenham was involved in hiring the false doctor . . .”
Charlotte looked up at her in surprise. “How could it? Robert has nothing to do with any of that.”
“Unless,” said Henrietta dramatically, “he does. That would explain why he has spent so much time with that lot,” she said excitedly, warming to her own theory. “What if Dovedale was sent to investigate Medmenham?”
“By whom?” demanded Charlotte. “And all the way from India? No.”
Fortunately, she was spared further protests by Miles, who loomed up over Henrietta’s shoulder like a very large jack-in-the-box. He tapped Henrietta’s shoulder.
“Do you mind if I leave you here?” he asked, all in one breath. He belatedly added, by way of explanation, “Card game.”
Pink Carnation 05 - The Temptation of the Night Jasmine Page 28