Nick tapped Charlotte on the arm and pointed out a swatch of sky blue.
“Mmmm. Yes, yes, I think you may have something there. Sky blue with the skirting boards painted in cream?”
“I hasten to remind your ladyship of the episode occurring just this morning in the park. If you recall, the hounds, when your ladyship was approached by the street hawker, dragged you a considerable distance to escape contact with the individual.”
“Then again, Gillian could go with a nice striped wallpaper.”
Gillian snorted in a very unladylike manner. “As I said, they were protecting me by removing me from what they thought was a threat to my safety.”
“I like this one with the honeysuckle border. It’s quite classical.”
“I beg your pardon again, my lady, but I don’t believe the hounds were attempting to remove you from a threatening person as much as they were attempting to remove themselves from a threatening person.”
Nick pointed to a busy pattern of leaves and flowers.
Charlotte looked at it thoughtfully. “Hmmm. Hedgerow. Nice, Nick, but I don’t think it would suit for the drawing room. A sitting room, perhaps, don’t you think?”
“Are you calling my dogs cowards, Tremayne?”
“What do you think of this one—Kingston Market? I like the blues and reds in it.” Charlotte held up a swatch.
Nick shook his head.
“Mayhap coward is too harsh a word, madam. Careful, perhaps? Cautious? Judicious in placing their trust in the kindness of strangers?”
Gillian glared at the servant even as Charlotte tossed aside another swatch, saying as she did so, “I don’t like this Swakely one at all, though. Much too busy, and it has yellow as a background. It wouldn’t do at all.”
“Cowards, Tremayne?” Gillian demanded.
“This leaf foil is pretty though. It has some nice shades of green in it.”
Tremayne sighed. “Cowards, madam. If I might be so bold as to offer your ladyship a suggestion, his lordship did mention in passing that he had instructed Crouch to attend your ladyship on all your outings. I would be happy to inform Crouch that you desire his presence.”
Gillian had hoped to escape without Crouch, who had voiced considerable opinions the day before about the wisdom of her paying a call on Lord Carlisle. She had finally extracted a promise from him that he would not tattle on her to Noble by agreeing that she wouldn’t visit Carlisle unaccompanied. That was what Charlotte was for.
“What am I for?” Her cousin looked up questioningly.
“Nothing, it matters not. Fine, Tremayne, tell Crouch we’ll be going out.”
“Well, that was fun,” Charlotte said, pushing the samples off her lap. “I think you’ll like our choices. Nick has a good eye for colors. Are we ready to leave? I made a list of things for you to ask Lord Carlisle, Gilly.”
“What sorts of things?”
“Here’s the list.” She handed Gillian a folded-up sheet of paper, then peered over her shoulder at it. “You’ll note the first item on the list is learning the names of Lord Weston’s mistresses.”
“Ladybuds,” Gillian said with a quick look at Nick.
“Ladybirds. Honestly, Gillian! The way you manacle the language is just disgraceful! Now, I’m not certain Lord Carlisle will know all their names, but you know how gentlemen are—they’re worse gossips than we women.”
“Exactly. Um…you have Lady Weston written down here next.”
“Yes, you said he made vague threats about Elizabeth, so he must have known her. Two birds with one bush.”
Gillian blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re killing two birds with one bush. It’s an expression. Haven’t you ever heard it? It means that you are taking care of two things at the same time. I would have thought that even in the Colonies such a common expression was used.”
Gillian opened her mouth to correct her cousin, then decided against it. “Mmmm…Income.” She looked up. “Why am I asking him about Noble’s income?”
“Not Lord Weston’s income, his income.”
“Why am I asking Lord Carlisle about his income?”
“Because he’s an earl, silly, and as everyone knows, an earl in the hand is worth…well, something. The point is that Mama would never forgive me if I was to let a perfectly good earl slip through my fingers because you were too obstinate to ask him what he’s worth.”
“Charlotte, the man may well be the one who is behind the attack on Noble! Would you want to marry someone with such a malformed and ill-natured character?”
“Oh, pooh, it’s nothing that I couldn’t take care of.”
Gillian rolled her eyes and looked back at the list again.
“Does this mean what I think it means?”
Charlotte looked over her shoulder again. “Padded? Well, of course it does! You wouldn’t want me marrying a man who pads his shoulders and calves, would you?”
“Well, of course not, whatever was I thinking?”
“Selfish, that’s what you’ve become since you’ve been married—very, very selfish, thinking only of yourself. Now then, is there anything else you think we should ask this Lord Carlisle?”
Gillian chewed on her lower lip as she thought. “I would like to know the nature of his argument with Noble, but I’m not sure how forthcoming he would be about that.”
Charlotte smiled a wicked smile, then suddenly the expression was gone, replaced by one of innocence so pure and sweet it would make an angel weep.
“Oh, you’re good,” Gillian said with a rueful smile. “You should really be on the stage, Char. Do you think it would work on him?”
Charlotte maintained the dewy-eyed, sweet expression for a few more seconds, then dimpled at her cousin. “Practice, my dear, it’s all practice. I will be happy to show you how to do it on the way to Lord Carlisle’s. It’s just a matter of projecting innocence, if you will…”
“Some other time, perhaps.” Gillian waved her cousin toward the door and turned to hurry Nick along. She was rewarded by the sight of a nine-year-old boy frozen in a pose of humble meekness and submission. He gazed at her with an expression so pure of heart it positively radiated ingenuity and artlessness. He batted his long dark lashes slowly over his silver-gray eyes, then peeked out from beneath them to see her reaction. Gillian laughed and kissed his rosy, cherub’s cheek. “Yes, yes, I can see you too should be on the stage. Come along, Mr. Kean. Your audience is impatiently awaiting your next performance.”
***
“Is it absolutely necessary,” Charlotte asked some minutes later, squirming in the seat and managing to poke her elbow into Gillian’s ribs, “that we bring those hounds? And your pirate? And three footmen? I feel as if I’m in the Lord Mayor’s parade.”
Gillian tried to expand her lungs enough to breathe a sigh, but was crammed in too tightly and had to make do with a tsk instead.
“Tsk, Charlotte! I tried to tell Crouch that it wasn’t necessary to bring three footmen with us, but he muttered something about Noble leaving orders that Nick and I not go out without ample protection, and this is Crouch’s idea of ample protection. I sincerely hope the carriage doesn’t collapse under our combined weight. It seems a little frail.”
Nick squirmed alongside her, flailed his arms and legs for a moment, then shot forward, gasping for air.
“Oh, dear, Nick, I’m so sorry. Could you not breathe? Are you all right now? It’s this tiny old carriage—the landau would have to take this day to have a faulty wheel.”
Charlotte pulled her head in from the window. “What?”
“Nothing. I was just explaining to Nick about the carriage, and why we have so much protection, although honestly, I would have thought that Piddle and Erp would be enough.”
“They are outside of enough,” her cousin replied, glaring at the seat opp
osite, where the two hounds were stuffed together, and with a sniff pushed the window open even wider. “This is ridiculous. I would have kept Papa’s carriage if I had known you were going to squish me into this minuscule little box with those two beasts. What will Lord Carlisle think when he sees how wrinkled my gown is?”
“I believe he will have more important things to notice, Char.”
Charlotte looked at her in horror. “More important than my gown? I think not!”
“Don’t be so self-centered. Gentlemen like Lord Carlisle have other things on their mind than concerning themselves with the state—wrinkled or unwrinkled—of gowns.”
“The gentlemen you know may have other things on their minds, but the gentlemen I know pay particular attention to a lady’s gown.”
“The gentlemen you know are fops.”
“Gillian!”
Gillian didn’t have the energy, or lung capacity, to argue the point any further, so she contented herself with running over the list of items she wished to discuss with the Scottish speeler earl.
***
The earl was just stepping into his carriage when they arrived. He paused, one hand on the carriage and a look of surprise on his face as it pulled up before him. He counted the liveried footmen clinging to the upper seats of the approaching carriage and almost bolted once he got a look at the behemoth who dangled from the rear.
“Crotch,” he spat at his coachman and stepped back down onto the pavement. The coachman promptly pawed at himself in an attempt to make sure nothing untoward was showing.
“No, you fool, not yours, that one. That giant one clinging to the rear of that blasted carriage. It’s Crotch, Weston’s thug of a butler. What the devil is he doing here?”
There was a slight commotion as the carriage came to a halt. Several footmen leaped off the vehicle and surrounded it in a protective manner. The carriage swayed alarmingly from side to side, then a familiar red head popped out of the window.
“Lord Carlisle, how opportune our arrival was. Might I beg a few moments of your time?”
Carlisle blinked at the image before his eyes. She had escaped Weston’s clutches? A warm sense of satisfaction, coupled with a curiosity about her request, made him reconsider his morning’s plans.
“My time is yours, madam,” he replied with a courtly bow that was sadly lost on its recipient, her head having been retracted back into the carriage.
One of the footmen stood rattling the door to her carriage, and requested that the occupants unlock it. The carriage rocked violently back and forth, emitting periodic oaths and half-shouted exclamations that surprised Carlisle. What the devil was in that carriage? A bull? An elephant? Several elephants? The footman repeated his request, but it was lost in the cacophony from within. Curiosity drove him closer.
“If you would just move your leg, cousin…”
“Well, I’m trying, Char, but you’re on my gown and I can’t move. Argh!”
“Sorry, my elbow slipped…”
“Nick, darling, would you climb over…ow! Charlotte!…would you climb over Erp and slither through the window? I believe…Charlotte, if you poke me once again, I swear I’ll…”
“Bloody hell!”
“Charlotte!”
“Well, you’d swear too if your lovely blond lace just ripped off your sleeve.”
“Nick, you’re standing on my hand…ah, thank you. If you would try the window…oh, dear. Dickon, will you stop shouting at us, we’re trying. The door seems to be stuck! Blast!”
“Gillian!”
“Oh, don’t Gillian me in that tone; you’re the one who swore first. Will you kindly remove your elbow from my kidney, cousin?”
“Here, Nick, let me give you a little boost through the window, shall I?”
“Charlotte, if you hurt my child…”
“I shan’t hurt…that was my hair!”
“Sorry. My hand slipped.”
“I shan’t hurt him, but I will push the little blighter through since you seem to be incapable of it.”
“Ow! Was that absolutely necessary?”
“My hand slipped.”
“Ha!”
Half of a small boy suddenly emerged from the carriage window. Lord Carlisle, watching with the same sort of fascination that sweeps over those who pass by hangings, accidents, and other gruesome sights, stood mesmerized. How many people were in there? And what was an Erp? Was the child alive, or had he been ejected for other purposes? It was difficult to tell whether he was flailing his arms of his own accord, or if the footman, attempting to assist, was bobbing the lad around.
“Nick, darling, if you could push all the way through, I would be most appreciative. It’s not easy dodging your feet.”
“Ow!”
“You see, dearest? You just clipped your cousin Charlotte on the chin.”
“That little rotter! He did it on purpose! Scoot over, I’ll push him through the bloody window.”
“Charlotte, if you lay one finger on him…oh, dear God.”
The carriage suddenly stopped rocking. Carlisle leaned forward, a chill running down his spine upon hearing the dread in Lady Weston’s voice. What had happened? A sudden illness? Had the boy, who, if the footman’s unsuccessful attempts to tug him through the window were any indication, was stuck, collapsed? Had something happened to the lady named Charlotte, the one with the torn blond lace? Only a calamity of the most heinous kind could be responsible for the tones of horror echoed in Lady Weston’s voice.
“Dickon? Crouch? Will someone get the bloody door open right now? I think Piddle is going to be sick!”
The hairs on Lord Carlisle’s neck stood on end at the bloodcurdling scream that rent the air at Lady Weston’s pronouncement, but in the end, its owner was responsible for the resolution of the situation. After several loud wallops to the side of the carriage—Lord Carlisle assumed the lady Charlotte was kicking down the door—it popped open, and only the quick action of the footman named Dickon saved the small boy from crashing into the side of the carriage. Moments later the boy was pushed backward through the window, and two large, slobbering dogs shot out of the carriage, followed immediately by Lady Weston and a woman with, he couldn’t help noticing, an extremely wrinkled gown.
“Lord Carlisle.” Gillian bobbed a curtsy and tried to ignore Piddle, who was being noisily sick on the pavement next to her. “How delightful to see you again. Have you made the acquaintance of my cousin, Lady Charlotte Collins?”
“Lord Carlisle.” Charlotte curtsied. “You must forgive my appearance. I seldom go out in public, my Mama being protective of my delicate sensibilities and naturally shy nature, but my dearest cousin begged me in such a manner that I was unable to refuse her request.”
“You will notice how modest and retiring she is,” Gillian said helpfully, unable to resist laughing at her cousin’s expression of innocence and shy maidenhood. Charlotte had told her that particular combination of expressions had garnered her three proposals of marriage.
“Er…of course. Most modest and retiring. Perhaps we might continue this fascinating discussion inside? Is your…uh…dog finished there? Yes? Perhaps Crotch would take them around back to the stables.”
“I beg your pardon?” Gillian didn’t think she had heard the earl correctly.
“Crotch,” he said, flapping his hands at the dogs, who had ambled over to him to conduct a quick gender check on this new person.
Charlotte let out an innocent, maidenly sort of gasp and fanned herself in a manner most becoming to a modest, retiring person.
A blush burned up Gillian’s face. God’s spleen, would she never be able to go anywhere with her dogs? “Oh, yes, of course, crotch. Lord Carlisle, I’m so embarrassed. They always do that. Piddle! Erp! Naughty dogs! I hope they didn’t…er…hurt you in their investigations. They like to smell people, you see, and try
as I might I’m not able to break them of the habit of sniffing…er…of sniffing.”
The earl narrowed his eyes at her.
“What the devil are you talking about?”
Charlotte clutched her arm and hissed a warning not to pursue the conversation. Gillian ignored it. “Your crotch, of course.”
“My what?” The earl’s voice rose as Erp decided to investigate again. “Down, sir! Down!”
“Erp! Bad dog! Nick, darling, grab Erp and keep him from doing that. I do apologize again, Lord Carlisle,” Gillian said, holding on to Piddle’s collar. “But as we’ve settled the question of your crotch, might we go inside?”
The earl stared for a moment, then closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them up again, she was still standing there, still smiling that charming, lovely, completely misleading smile. He began to feel sorry for the wife-killer Weston. He had a suspicion that this time the Black Earl had met his match.
***
The Black Earl was beginning to believe the very same thing. He emerged from his consultation with John Stafford, the chief clerk for the Bow Street Runners, and was assured of help gathering proof that the bastard McGregor was behind the threats to himself and Gillian, and the attack of a few evenings past.
“Are you sure it’s Lord Carlisle who is behind these letters?” Stafford asked.
“As sure as I can be without having his admission of the fact,” Noble replied. “The man is a heartless devil who preys on women. He is responsible for the death of my late wife, and holds great animosity for me.”
“I’m sure that is the case, my lord, but I must investigate the situation fully. Are you certain there are no other individuals who would wish to see you come to harm?”
“Any number, I’m certain,” Noble replied with a wry twist to his mouth. “Half the ton believes I murdered my wife, the other half believes I’m a notorious rake. None of them, however, are privy to the information that is contained within the threatening letters.”
“You will, of course, refuse to pay the blackmail sum demanded?”
“That goes without saying.”
Stafford nodded his head and glanced down at the most recent letter Noble had received. “I can give you three men, my lord.”
Noble Intentions Page 17