But either way, William wasn’t wild about the man’s interest in her. He didn’t like Pemberton, found him to be insincere, overly fawning toward those whose acquaintance he hoped would further his interests, and although William had never caught him in a lie, rumors of being less than honest followed the man.
After playing several hands, William tired of vingt-et-un and moved on to join a piquet game. He still had time to kill before he could rejoin Charlotte and claim his dance. He played a few rounds of piquet, before deciding to try his hand at whist. He joined a table of players, Townshend among them, and they were halfway through a game when Pemberton strolled into the card room. He didn’t join in any of the play, just ambled from table to table watching the games, finally making his way over to William’s table.
William acknowledged the man’s presence with a brief nod, then turned his attention back to the cards. He could feel the man’s stare on him but pretended to be unaware of it.
“Met your lovely lady, Norwood,” Pemberton said at last. “Charming girl.”
William played a card. “I think so.”
Pemberton’s fake-sounding laugh grated on William. “One would hope, given that you’re about to be leg-shackled to her.”
William flicked him a cool look before giving his attention to the card game once more.
“So when is the wedding?” Pemberton said. He smiled, but it came off more like a grimace. The man clearly wanted to draw William into a conversation about his engagement, and wasn’t pleased by his short answers.
“We haven’t set a date. There’s a great deal of prewedding folderol to see to, but we’ll be sure to insert a notice in the Times once it’s taken place.”
Pemberton’s grimace-like smile was still plastered on his face. Whether he’d done it or not, William mused, he looked capable of villainy.
“Yes, she seems a busy lady by all accounts,” Pemberton drawled. “Apparently, she’s begun to help Lady Serena and her fellow do-gooders on their current project.” William saw that Pemberton’s comment had attracted Townshend’s attention, who looked up at the mention of Serena.
“Oh?” William said indifferently, tossing a ten of hearts onto the eight of hearts Townshend had just played. “Did you speak with her about it?”
“No,” Pemberton replied. “I saw her with Lady Serena in Bloomsbury visiting that house Beasley owned. It wasn’t hard to figure out it must be related to another of Lady Serena’s crusades.” His nostrils flared and his mouth bent into an expression of distaste. “You might want to warn her about the company she keeps, Norwood.”
Charles Townshend shot to his feet. “What are you saying, Pemberton?”
Pemberton took a step back. “Nothing to get upset about. Just that Bloomsbury isn’t Mayfair, and it would behoove the ladies to remember that.”
William pushed back his chair and stood. He sent Townshend a warning glance. Creating a scene would only play into Pemberton’s hands.
“It might behoove you to remember Lady Serena’s father is a good friend of Liverpool’s before you so publicly criticize his daughter’s behavior,” William said in a low voice. “Or are you no longer interested in heading that reforms commission? Last I heard, yours was one of the names being bandied about as a candidate for the post.”
Pemberton directed an angry glare at William. “Of course I am. Especially since some in the running are apparently prepared to do anything to get it.”
He had to be referring to William’s betrothal to Charlotte. William took a step toward the man. “I find that statement very ironic coming from you.” He gave the man a look of implacable warning before turning back to the card table. “Gentlemen, you must excuse me. I should be getting back to the ballroom.” Townshend joined him as he left the room.
“I don’t trust that man,” Townshend said. “And I definitely don’t like him. You heard the disdain in his voice when he mentioned Serena. That he was right about her careless regard for propriety is just that much more galling. While I don’t approve of everything she does, I admire that she tries.”
“Someone should marry the girl,” William said, giving Townshend a pointed look.
The other man snorted. “As if that would temper her actions.”
“It wouldn’t,” William agreed. “But I’d worry about her less if she had a husband working alongside her.”
Townshend didn’t rise to the bait. “I’ve heard Pemberton has made unflattering comments about her in the past.” His jaw tightened. “I know it’s not my place, and she wouldn’t welcome my interference, but someone ought to deal with him before he causes trouble for her.”
“Do you think he intends something specific or…?”
Townshend shook his head slowly. “I don’t know, but there’s something about his manner that makes my skin crawl.”
“I’d say your instincts match mine. I didn’t much care for his tone when he was speaking of Miss Hurst just now.”
They re-entered the ballroom. William spied Charlotte dancing with Farrars again. He was so busy watching her that he didn’t notice when Townshend’s path diverged from his. He spotted Lydia and Chatworth talking with the Duchess of Rochester, and headed in their direction. It seemed likely this would be where Farrars would deliver Charlotte when the dance ended.
“Norwood,” the duchess said. “I’ve been getting better acquainted with your fiancée this evening. She’s truly a delightful girl.”
William smiled and inclined his head. “I find her so.”
“I gathered as much,” the duchess replied, “I knew you were smitten when I heard she was driving your curricle. Any man can give a lady flowers; very few will hand over the reins to such a dashing vehicle.” Her gaze was archly perceptive.
“Very true, Duchess. And I can honestly say I wouldn’t have done so for any other lady.” He gave his sister a rueful smile. “Sorry, Lydia.”
She pretended to swat his arm with her fan, but he knew she wasn’t really offended.
“You’re fomenting rebellion within the petticoat ranks, Norwood,” Chatworth said, with a nod in his wife’s direction. “Guess who wants to learn to drive a high-perch phaeton now?”
“You should have taught me sooner, James,” Lydia said, giving her husband a pert glance. “It’s time for you gentlemen to stop hogging all the fun for yourselves, and if it takes a few petticoat rebellions to achieve that, then so be it.”
William felt his brows shoot up in surprise. He wouldn’t have been shocked to hear Libby voice a similar sentiment, but Lydia? That he hadn’t anticipated.
Lydia twined her arm around her husband’s. “Come along, James. I’m positively famished. Let’s visit the refreshments table.”
After they departed, the duchess turned to William with a questioning look. “Is she?”
Perplexed, he asked, “Is she what?”
The duchess pressed her lips into a wry half-smile. “I think your sister and her husband are anticipating a blessed event in a few months. She has a certain look about her. Although I could be wrong. Perhaps she’s just peckish.”
Surprised for the second time in as many minutes, William said, “No, I expect you may be on to something. They’ve been married several months now.”
“If I’m right, I’m sure you’ll be hearing the news soon.”
Farrars and Charlotte returned just then, cutting off any further speculation regarding the possibility of Lydia being pregnant. Farrars didn’t hang around, probably sensing that William was in no mood to share Charlotte’s attention with another man, and the duchess wandered off soon after.
“Card room lose its charm already?” Charlotte asked, her smile teasing. “It’s not time for the supper dance yet.”
“Something like that.” He wasn’t going to tell her about his run-in with Pemberton. He didn’t wish to let thoughts of Pemberton intrude on his time with Charlotte. Instead, he offered her his arm. “Let’s visit the refreshment table. There’s a gentleman approaching who looks
intent on asking you to dance.” He hesitated. “Unless, that is, you’d prefer to stay and dance with him.”
“I am thirsty.” She slipped a hand around his arm, then glanced at him coyly. “And if you like, perhaps we could linger over lemonade long enough to kill time until the supper dance.”
He smiled down at her. “That I would like very much.”
Chapter Fifteen
At half past ten on the morning after the Vandevere ball, Hopkins informed Charlotte that a young woman had arrived to interview for the position of upstairs maid.
“Good gracious, is it that late already?” Charlotte said, coming to her feet. She’d been kneeling down to rummage through the lower shelves of the linen cupboard, looking for items she could donate to help supply the house on Red Lion Square. She turned to the housekeeper, Mrs. Bridwell, who’d been helping with the task. “I’ll leave you to finish up here, and if the girl seems right for the job, I’ll let you acquaint her with the house and her duties.”
“Very good, miss,” the housekeeper said as Charlotte dusted off her hands.
“I put her in the small drawing room,” Hopkins said.
Charlotte thanked him, took a moment to glance in the hall mirror to ensure she hadn’t become disheveled digging through the household linens, then proceeded to the drawing room.
Waiting for her was a slip of a girl with a pair of large brown eyes set in a slender, pretty face. She sat ramrod-straight on a chair, her hands folded tightly in her lap, wearing an immaculate, but well-worn navy dress. The cracked tips of her leather shoes peeked from beneath her skirt, while a cheap straw bonnet completed the ensemble. She looked so earnest and nervous that Charlotte was tempted to give the girl’s hand a reassuring squeeze to set her at ease. She refrained only because such a gesture wouldn’t be entirely appropriate if the girl joined the household staff.
Instead, she directed a warm smile at the girl. “I hope you didn’t have any trouble getting here.” Maybe a bit of small talk would chase away some of the girl’s unease.
“Not at all, my lady. Lady Serena gives us hackney fare to go to and from the interviews, and the driver delivered me to the address right enough.” She smiled shyly. “It was tremendous to ride through the town in one. A real treat I won’t forget anytime soon.” Her eyes widened and one hand flew briefly to her mouth before dropping back onto her lap. “I do beg pardon if I’m talking too much, my lady.”
Charlotte gave her a reassuring smile. “Of course you’re not. I’m delighted you enjoyed the ride.”
The girl nodded, but she held her lips pressed together, and Charlotte wondered if she still feared “talking too much.”
“Before we discuss the position, perhaps you could tell me about yourself.”
The girl blinked. “What would you like to know, my lady?” she asked cautiously, almost as if Charlotte had asked her to spill her secrets.
“Let’s start with your name.”
“Oh.” She looked relieved. “I’m Rose Moore, my lady.”
Charlotte suppressed a smile at this frequent use of “my lady,” guessing it had been drummed into her at a former position. “Just so you know, I’m more often referred to as ‘miss’ or ‘Miss Hurst’ by our servants.” At Rose’s stricken look, she added, “Not that it’s incorrect to call me ‘my lady,’ just that it’s not my preference.”
“Of course, my lady.” She winced, then drew in a breath. “I’m sorry. I mean, Miss Hurst.”
“No need to apologize,” Charlotte assured her.
She continued to draw out some details about the girl. She found out that Rose was only nineteen, hailed from a small town in the Midlands, and had worked as a maid at a posting inn since her husband’s death. The work, however, had been intermittent and, at times, nonexistent during the winter when weather conditions often prevented travel. Additionally, the wages Charlotte was willing to pay were roughly triple what Rose said she’d made at the inn. It was no wonder then, that these women were willing to leave home and travel to London in search of better opportunities.
There was nothing questionable in her background. Her only family consisted of a younger sister, who also worked as a maid at the same inn that Rose had. However, while she talked about her sister, Charlotte noticed that her hands, which previously had been loosely clasped in her lap, were now clenched together so tightly her knuckles turned white. Something about her sister agitated her.
She asked Rose if she were concerned about leaving her sister behind, but the girl immediately and emphatically denied that she was. However, the combination of the white knuckles and vigorous denial struck Charlotte as a bit similar to “the lady doth protest too much” line from Hamlet.
But then again maybe Rose was afraid to admit to worrying because Charlotte might think it would distract her from doing her job. It had been obvious so far during the interview that she’d pinned her hopes on getting the position.
“Well,” Charlotte said at last. “I’m willing to hire you on a trial basis, say for two weeks. At which point, if your work is satisfactory, and you’re happy here, we can make it permanent.”
“Oh, thank you, my lady.” Rose clasped her hands in front of her chest ecstatically. “I mean, my miss.” She closed her mouth, took a slow deliberate breath, then said, “I mean, Miss Hurst.”
Charlotte came to her feet. “Let me introduce you to our housekeeper, Mrs. Bridwell. If you have any questions concerning your duties, she can answer them, so don’t hesitate to ask if anything is unclear to you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rose said, her relief at securing the job evident in her broad grin.
Charlotte turned her over to Mrs. Bridwell, who promised to show her the workings of the household and instruct her on the duties assigned to an upstairs maid.
She returned to the linen cupboard, where Mrs. Bridwell had left a stack of neatly folded sheets, towels, and tablecloths for donation. Charlotte tied them together in bundles, then went to her writing desk to compose a note to be delivered with the items. She called a footman and instructed him to see that they were delivered to the house at 6 Red Lion Square, and while she was at it, she wrote a note to the housekeeper at Chartwell, Phillip’s country estate, instructing her to cull the household items there.
The soon-to-be-leased property that Serena had mentioned yesterday would need items to make it habitable, and the attics at Chartwell, like the attics of many estates, were stuffed with no-longer-used furniture, draperies, and other household items that might as well be put back in circulation. She’d check with Phillip, of course, to see if he had any objections, but she doubted that he would. He was more than happy to let her handle the household decisions.
Done with these tasks, she rang for a pot of tea, and when it arrived, fixed herself a cup and settled into a comfortable armchair with her feet propped up on a footstool. It felt heavenly to sip tea and rest a moment. Her thoughts drifted back to Rose, and she wondered how she and Mrs. Bridwell were getting on. Charlotte liked the girl and hoped she would fit in well here.
Offering the girl a position was a mere drop in the sea of problems facing the country in the aftermath of the Napoleonic Wars, but it was something nonetheless, and now that she was aware of their plight, she intended to do more to help women like Rose. Serena had opened her eyes and awakened her to the possibility of ladies effecting social change in their own way.
Not that she’d been entirely slack in that regard. She was sensitive to the needs of the tenant families around Chartwell, and always participated in local charity events, but she’d been blind to the needs of those outside her little sphere of orbit. Or if not blind precisely, had failed to see what she, Charlotte Hurst, spinster and bluestocking and no one of particular consequence, could do. But from now on, she was determined she would always, always do whatever she could.
After she rested a few minutes, she’d head up to the attic. She thought she remembered seeing some old carpets rolled and stacked up there. Surely those could be
put to good use, either at the house at Red Lion Square or the new property Serena was leasing. As soon as she finished her tea, she’d go up and see what sort of shape they were in, and if they weren’t moth-eaten from years in storage, have them brought downstairs.
She sighed, thinking she oughtn’t to have sat down. Even though she hadn’t gotten home from the Vandevere ball until the wee hours of the morning, she’d risen at seven o’clock and had been working steadily since eight. Her tiredness was catching up to her. She closed her eyes. Just a few more moments of rest and she’d get back to work.
She dozed off, and when she awoke there were two notes propped against the teapot where she’d be sure to see them. One was from William. With one finger she traced the now familiar handwriting that spelled out her name, imagining his lean fingers gripping the pen as he wrote out Miss Charlotte Hurst.
Her breathing quickened as her mind started imagining those lean fingers of his doing other things: sliding into her hair as he kissed her, tracing the curve of her jaw, following a trail along the line of her bodice, teasing her with a hint of naughtiness before slipping beneath the fabric to— She blinked away the mental image. He’d never behaved so improperly before, never taken such liberties. What was she doing harboring these thoughts? Acting like a complete ninnyhammer, she muttered to herself. Wanting to savor the anticipation of reading his note a bit longer, she set it aside. She’d open it last.
She reached for the other note. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but definitely feminine. She broke the seal and read:
Dear Charlotte,
If you’re free tomorrow morning, why don’t you come with me to the new property I told you about? I’m meeting Papa’s solicitor there, along with the property owner at ten o’clock to finalize the deal. Mr. Drysdale will want to be on his way before the ink is dry, but I want to stay and give it a thorough looking over, poke about in the corners and knock on the walls. Well, perhaps, not literally, but you know what I mean. I want to imagine the possibilities. And it would be much more fun to have some company. I do hope you can come. I’d love to show you around. I saw the way your eyes lit up yesterday when we talked about helping these women and their families. I think we’re true kindred spirits when it comes to extending a helping hand to those who need it.
Not the Kind of Earl You Marry Page 21